My Own Worst Enemy

Have you ever had one of those days?



Yesterday I got an invitation to be in Dark Moon Books' brand new 'Horror Writers Directory', and I was all excited to be included. It's kind of silly, since they only invited me because I have a story published with them, but it's also my only story in hard print as yet. I'm hardly a sought-after author, known far and wide! But today I was trying to get together the information for my Author's Page in the directory.
One of the things they ask for is 'Contact Info'. Now, people can get in touch with me through my website without having my email address. The same with this blog. But I wanted to give them an email address as well, something so that other writers in the Directory, if they felt so inclined, could get in touch with me easily, without the added step of coming here or to my website.
When I began writing seriously I read about what to do nowadays to be a writer, and one of the things they said was to get a professional sounding email address. It's hard for a publisher or editor to take you seriously if they are seeing your submissions coming from Sexxybunny@Hotmail.com or something like that. They suggested buying a .com so you could have an email like [your name]@[your name].com. An alternative, they suggested, was to get a [your name]@Gmail.com, as that is free but still looks more professional than many of the Hotmail nicknames out there.

Eventually I plan to buy my own .com, but for now if its free, its for me. So I sat down today and tried to get [my name]@Gmail.com. When I checked to see if it was available, it was a no-go. I tried different combinations: first name first, last name first, with a middle initial, with my middle name... all got the same answer. 'Not Available'.  I checked my email Contact Book and discovered that my grandfather had taken a Gmail address with our 1st two initials and the last name (yes, I am 'Rob the Third', which sounds grand, a little like 'Thurston Howel the Third', until you see my bank account. Then, not so much.).

Well, I thought. That's it, that has to be the problem! That so-and-so got an email address too much like what I want and I can't get mine now!
It made no sense, though. When I suggested my full name, all spelled out, it refused that but suggested back my full name with a 3 after it.
What the %$#? The whole thing spelled out isn't different enough from just the first two initials, but you add a 3 and it's all good? That's just stupid!
I came to the conclusion that the second Rob, the Rob-as-yet-unaccounted-for (this would be my Dad, for those of you playing along at home), had registered the full name as his email address. I checked the Contact Book again, but there was no sign of an email like that in his information.
Son of a %$#!! One of them must have registered the full name in some form with Gmail.com and just never used it!
I tried different combinations, I tried every combo I could think of, but to no avail. My only option was to throw numbers into the address, like [My Name13]@Gmail.com, but every time I did that it looked more and more like one of those MooseDangle6969@Hotmail addresses. I kept coming back to some so-and-so registering the address and never even using it. Curses were muttered, then spoken aloud. Horrible words like poop, and crap, and son-of-a-gun!





(Hey, Handsome read yesterday's entry because it was about him. He might read this one too, so work with me on this, okay?)


I looked at the web page in front of me, and noticed for the first time that right next to my proposed email address there was a button for 'Can't Remember Pasword?' I clicked on it just for the hell of it. I was informed that an email was being sent to my alternate email address, sending me a link that would allow me to change the password on this address.
Okay, I thought. At least the #$%* who took this name from me will be notified that someone tried to change his password. Maybe I'll find out which one it was!


Suddenly, my email popper went off, informing me that I had a new email in my box.
I stared at it.
I opened my email program, and there, in my inbox, was an email from Gmail.com. Apparently someone was trying to change the password to my Gmail address, [My name with middle initial] @Gmail.com.
Well.
Apparently, the #$%* who registered the address I wanted and just never even used it was... me.
I changed the password and logged into the name in Gmail. Yup, there it was, all new and shiny and mine. I added it into the information for the Horror Writers Directory, and soon I'll be using it sort of professionally for writing.


So, this afternoon I spent almost 90 minutes finding out that I am a $#!+head.



Have you ever had one of those days?

Talk to you later!

Yes, Handsome, But Is It Fair?

 I took Handsome to the Topsfield Fair today. It's America's oldest fair, founded in 1818 and still running for 10 days every October. I walked in with $90 in my pocket (after paying $10 to park in a muddy field), and Handsome wanted to go right to the Midway. Alright, I thought, no problem. I gave him $20 and told him it was his game money, and we strolled around a bit until one of the hawkers caught his ear.
"Step right up! Throw a dart, win a prize! Kids win every time," shouted the wiry tattooed man from behind his sunglasses.
Handsome heard the 'kids win every time' part, saw the size of the prizes hanging from the booth and was enthralled. He stepped up, paid his money and threw a dart. A balloon popped and he pumped his fist, flushed with the excitement of winning. Smiling, the booth proprietor reached below the counter and brought out an array of small stuffed animals, each about the size you might find stuffed into a Happy Meal. Looking puzzled and slightly let down, my son pointed to the giant stuffed prizes hung about the edge of the booth roof.
"Oh, to get those you have to play again. Each time you play you move up a prize level."
He pointed out level after level in the prize system, and I watched as handsome put down more money. Played again, put down more money, again and again until he lacked sufficient funds to play any more. Heartbroken, fixated on getting one of the largest prizes, Handsome turned to me. I shook my head. The hawker offered me a deal, skipping a couple of prize levels in return for buying two more throws.
"Please, Dad? Please?"
I had done the math, and I figured it might teach Handsome a little lesson, so I coughed up the money and he had his two throws. He walked away from the booth with a giant smile and an even larger pig. As we strolled along I asked Handsome "Now, did you keep track of the money back there?"
I got the big-eyed stare. "Ahh... no. But I got my pig!"
"Yes, you did," I said. "But we walked through the gate with $90 to spend for the afternoon. You want to know how much you just spent on that pig?
He squinched up his face a bit. "How much?"
"Thirty dollars. One third of the money we had to spend."
He was chagrined. He apologized for spending that much on the pig, but I said "Hey, I knew it was happening. I was keeping track of how much it was costing. But I wanted you to see that you need to pay attention to things like that, and try not to lose your head. Now, your game money's all gone, so how about we get some tickets and get on some rides? Sound okay?"
He was okay with that, so I slapped $30 down and got him some tickets. We went on a few rides, and he went on some alone because, as I told him, "The more rides I go on the fewer rides you get to go on, so let's get you on another ride, Handsome!" As we moved from ride to ride, taking turns carrying the pig, Handsome said again and again that he couldn't believe he spent that much to win one game, and apologized a few times more. I was satisfied, figuring that the lesson had been learned and could be pointed out in future times as an example of things to pay attention to.

We had ridden just about all the rides we were going to, when Handsome saw another game. Throw the ball, hit the target, win a prize. Hit 2 targets get the bigger prize, hit all three targets and get the Mondo Big prizes in the top row. Three balls for $3. I was sure that his interest was in the prizes he saw hanging up, and not the pretty blonde running the booth who was not much larger than he was.  Sure it was.
"Can I try this one, Dad? Please?"
I looked at the game. Well, why not?
"Okay, you get one try. This isn't like the other game. You get one try and then we move on, got it?"
"I got it."
So I handed him three ones and he walked up to the gal running the booth. I stepped to the side and rummaged a bit, trying to dig out and turn on the camera while not dropping the Big Pink Pig. I missed the first throw entirely as I was doing this, and only managed to catch the last throw with the camera. I didn't actually see any of them land, but when the last ball left his hand and thudded into a target, an automatic fanfare began and a deep recorded voice bellowed out "You're a WINNER!"

The little @$%& hit all three targets in a row, bing-bang-boom, and won the big prize. As I watched the gal climb up to fetch a huge stuffed dog from the upper reaches of the prize rack I shouted "You mean I have to carry that thing too?"
We actually split the duty, he carrying the dog while I toted the pig about. Eventually an older man who was running another 'pop the balloon and win a prize' dart booth called out and offered us the use of a huge plastic bag for carrying the prizes about.
"You don't want to get those dirty," he said as he held the mouth of a truly gigantic plastic bag wide while we deposited Handsome's new treasures.

So handsome strode through the crowds of the fair carrying his booty slung over one shoulder like a pint-sized Santa with a see-through sack. I walked a few paces behind him, apologizing to people he inadvertently smacked with his over-sized burden and laughing out loud every time I saw a passer-by stare at Handsome as he hiked past, mouthing 'Oh my God!' and 'Look at that kid!'
I laughed a lot.




So,
Letting my son play a game out of control in order to teach him a lesson: $30

Having my son win the next game he played, first try, to the tune of one of the bigger prizes, thus blowing my $30 lesson away like a fart in a windstorm: $3

Getting to see the smile on my son's face as he accepted his huge prize from a pretty gal: Priceless

And just for giggles, here's the video I got of Handsome winning his prize.








Talk to you later!

Mail Bag! 10-5-11

Alright, another month has passed, and the Junk E-mail folder in my Windows Mail program has filled to overflowing once again. Huzzah! I have Junk Mail! I am alive!
So it's time once again for me to choose a few little gems from the list and tell you what I think. I never open these darn things, I just laugh at the Subject lines. Here we go: a few entries from my Junk E-mail folder; I'll give you the Sender and the Subject, and then my first thoughts on the matter. Ready? On we go!

• Handy Toolbox - "A New Toilet That Won't Overflow"

• The toilet I have now doesn't overflow. It sits there as it always has, water in the tank, water in the bowl, gravity doing its 'holding everything down' shtick. No worries. The only worry would be if I did get a toilet that made that claim. I, as you probably know by now, have a 9 year old boy. Little boys are all Evil Geniuses when it comes to slapping around a claim like that - they seem to look upon it as a challenge. I don't want to walk in the house some night to find water just running freely across the floor as Handsome struggles vainly to pull an entire summer wardrobe back out of the clogged toilet, looking at me with big blue eyes steeped in total innocence and saying "I don't know what happened, Dad!"
  
  
• AARP - "Don't miss the opportunity to tell us what interests you"

• I'll tell you what interests me, you simple sons of %&$es, somehow making you guys wait until I am at least close to retirement age before you start circling like vultures! I'm only 42, so please, stay away from my corpse, I'm still using it! Unless you all know something I don't know...?
  
  

• Real Writing Jobs - "URGENT - Looking For Serious People"

• Seriously?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• Oriental Trading Company - "Halloween Sale! Up to 50% off + free shipping"

• Huh? I was under the impression that Halloween was free. I've never done anything before, and it always just showed up! On time, every time. Whoever handles that account has been doing it up right for decades! Beats Hell out of Fed-Ex, UPS and even the Postal Service!
  ... So, who do I make the check out to?
  
  
  
  
• Infinity Shoes - "Booties For Everyday Wear. Ships Free."

• 'Booties'? I'm a 200 lb 42 year old man, and you're offering me booties?
  I'm sorry, that causes me to ask one simple question: Have you lost your mind?
  Work boots? Maybe.
  Motorcycle boots? Sure.
  Hiking boots? Yes, certainly, send them right along. But booties? I think someone needs to stop by your shop and give you a 'bootie' in the @$$!

Well, that's it for now. Highlights from another month's worth of crap people email me that I neither want nor need. What about you? Yes, I'm talking to you. Do you get anything in your Junk E-mail file that makes you blink a couple of times, shake your head and say "What the hell were they thinking?"

I'll bet you do. 

Let's hear it then. Right down there in the "Comments" box, drop me a little description of the most ridiculous thing that wound up in your Junk file in the past month. Something short, just so's we get the gist. After all, I just did five!

I'd love to hear from you. 

Oh, and if you're interested in my fiction at all, and it is quite a bit different from this blog, here's a link to get you to my website - The Storyteller. Just click it here, and read it there.

Talk to you later!

Mrs. Manners

So I delivered a section of someone else's route today. It rained, in case you were unaware of it, one Hell of a lot in Massachusetts this morning. Something like 5 inches of rain fell in about in about 2 hours. The mail on the big trucks was delayed due to washed out roads and flooding, and some of our people couldn't make it in to work this morning, so pretty much everyone that showed up was helping out. I took a section on my friend J.D.'s route.

It was raining on and off all day, so nothing out there was dry. Nothing. So I was pretty much standing in a puddle when I was on the narrow back porch attached to an apartment building, puzzling out the names on the boxes and figuring out who was where. I was still standing in that puddle when the door to my left opened and a woman came out.

Big bleach blonde hair. Makeup applied with something like a trowel, but there was the possibility that what was on her face actually was Spackle. Definitely older than me but dressed like a High-Schooler, she stepped through the door in knee-high rubber boots, a short skirt with spandex pants under it (a look I will never understand) and a short, useless little rain jacket. As the door closed behind her she took one last long drag on her cigarette, one massively mascaraed eye squinting shut as some last squibs of smoke wreathed her face. She gave it a Danny Zuko flick, sending it flying out into the yard. It was a move well worthy of the movie “Grease”, and I have to admit I had chills. They were multiplying, but it didn't have the same feel as the song.

The aging Pink Lady wannabe looked at me, since I was blocking her path along the narrow porch, and I, being a gentleman, stepped back and motioned her through. Without hesitation, or even acknowledging my manners, she started forward. Three things happened in rapid succession.

First, my backside came in contact with the wet wrought iron railing behind me, the ice-cold water there instantly soaking through my summer weight shorts and giving me a double-cheek-chill, causing me to gasp and almost start forward.

Almost simultaneously, Greased Lightning's rubber-shod foot landed squarely in the puddle I had just backed out of, splashing the aforementioned icy water up my legs to the thighs. This caused my gasp to deepen, becoming the kind of inhale your doctor is always asking for when they pick up the stethoscope (also ice cold, but that's another story): a good, deep breath.

Right on the heels of all this, just as my inhale was starting in earnest, Splashy the Fashion Don't said “Thanks,” in a rough, rumbling smoker's voice, expelling that long last drag directly into my face. Honestly, except for the fact that she never actually made contact with me it was like CPR in Hell.

The used smoke slammed into my lungs like a sledgehammer on fire, causing me to choke and cough as I bounced my wet and freezing tail off the railing, stumbling and almost falling in the puddle I was already wearing. By the time I had gotten my diaphragm under control and the coughing was down to a minimum, I looked in the direction she had gone, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“You're welcome,” I croaked, in the voice of a junior high kid who just tried his first cigarette and has been reduced to being happy he didn't throw up in front of the cool kids.

What a woman!

Talk to you later!

Pahched!

Have you ever been driving, right, just driving along, and you decide that you are really thirsty? It's possible that you might, I repeat might have just purchased two bottled drinks and tossed them in the backseat when you were getting in the car. It could happen, right? Sudden thirst, two cold drinks just happen to be within an arm's reach, but not where you can see them. But, hey, you're driving, and how hard could it be to find one or two bottles of water that you put on the seat right behind you?
So you lean to the side and crank one arm around your seat back into the space directly behind you. The place within the car that you have the least chance of seeing a damn thing. You feel around. You try to identify stuff from the feel of it.
"Shopping bag with food, but no water ... my backpack ... Handsome's weekend bag ... Handsome's computer ... Aha! Shopping bag with wa- no, no, my bad, it's the one with food in it again ..."
You feel about, and you move stuff, and you keep the car going straight in its lane. For the most part. No one was in that parked car, so no one will ever know just how close you came to hitting - "wait, I have  ... no, it's that damn food bag again!"
Eventually you get pretty frustrated, not to mention parched. Or, as we say in Boston, pahched. You're leaned pretty far over and flailing around in that backseat like a circa 1958 father who, after asking those damn kids in the backseat 'do you want me to pull this car over?' has decided to just lay a little smackdown justice on the little pains in the ass without even bothering to touch the brake. The car tends to swerve a little, you tend to swear a lot, and do you know what can make this situation even more aggravating?

I'll tell you.

Someone sitting in the passenger's seat who is just watching and laughing. Not helping, not reaching right over to the bottles they can plainly see from their passenger's seat vantage point, not even when you ask them to. Especially when you ask them to. They are too busy laughing and enjoying the show, just hoping you will slip up and one of those curses you are mumbling under your breath will really fly!

CLICK HERE

Enter my son, Handsome.

One day, I will have my revenge. Oh it may be years from now, but I will have my revenge...

Talk to you later!

It's Just Natural

This afternoon I noticed something about Handsome. It was an odor, one both unpleasant and familiar.
"Buddy," I said, "I think we're going to have to look into some deodorant for you."


He responded with a whole lot of 'no', which I basically ignored. I brought it up again on the ride as I was bringing him home. He whined a little.

"But why?"
"Well, it's nothing bad, Handsome, nothing to be ashamed of or anything. It just means you're growing up and your body chemistry is changing."

I kept driving, but I kept talking too.

"There are some people who don't use anti-perspirant or deodorant because they say it's not 'natural' and that a man should smell like a man. I think that's fine, just as long as you don't smell like a stinky man."

I raised my voice a a bit.
"If those guys want to be all 'natural', they should get rid of their houses. Living in trees and caves, that's natural! Running water should be found in streams and brooks, not coming out of the pipes that carry it to your unnatural house every time you turn the taps! And heat? Go chop some wood and hope for lightning, there's your heat!"

Handsome was laughing in the seat beside me.

"And television," I shouted.  "Cable and satellite, all of it, it all has to go! And computers, the internet, the whole deal, even radio, that's unnatural too! You don't see those guys who want to be all 'natural' chucking their wide-screens into the street, do you? Of course not, 'cuz then for entertainment they'd have to resort to talking to people. Face-to-face, not on their 'unnatural' call phones!"

Handsome was pretty helpless by then, sprawled in the passenger's seat gasping for breath but still laughing.

"And this Jeep!" I was bellowing now. "This Jeep is pretty darn 'unnatural'! If you want to be one of those 'natural' guys, you better hop out here and hoof it the rest of the way home! Lucky for you you've never broken a bone or anything, since without the benefit of 'unnatural' medicine you'd have a hard time of it! Break you leg and you just have to hope to God it heals straight, because if it doesn't you're gonna wind up with a bit  of a twist to it, maybe have one leg wind up shorter than the other and then you'll never make it home because all you'll be doing is walking in a circle all day!"

I was breathing a little hard after all this, and Handsome was curled up in his seat trying not to wet his pants.

I drove on.

Eventually he managed to sit up and look at me, still trying to catch his breath.
"Fine. I'll try the deodorant."
"Thank you," I said, pleased as punch. "Now, was that so hard?"

He just stared.

* * * * * 

Don't forget, if you're interested in my fiction at all there's a link to my new website in the upper right corner of the page. It's called "The Storyteller", and it's a place for me to share some of my stories. The ones that come out of my head, not out of my life. Some of them even get published!

Talk to you later!

Website, Ho!!

Hi.

I'm tired.

I spent last night, into the early hours of the morning, creating a website where I can handle my fiction and showcase some of it. There's a button in the upper right of your screen that will bring you right to it. You can see what I dream up, rather than what I live.

No trip, no directions, no maps. There won't even be time for the men to get lost and the women to get all disgusted with the men for not wanting to stop and ask for directions.

Not to worry, I'm sure we'll give them something else to be disgusted with us about.

You saw my 2-parter on Male/Female bathroom etiquette? I rest my case.

Anyway, I'm tired. The site's not really done, might never be done, but there are a couple of stories there already, and information about finding more. It is now, and will forever be, a work in progress.

Just like me. 

I was going to write a blog today.  I swear I was.

I was going to work on my current story, a tale of sci-fi /horror. I swear I was.

I did not.

Instead I worked on pages, links, pictures (well, one picture), a little bit of content, and figuring out just how all that crap works. In fact, I vgbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb

Oh crap! Sorry about that. Well, at least I now know that when I doze off in front of the laptop my nose lands squarely on the "B". Funny the things you find out on less than 3 hours of sleep.

Maybe I need caffeine.

Oh well.

Talk to you labbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb