Risky Research

(Note: The scenario below took place only in my own imagination. So far. Really, this couldn't happen. Right???)

Heading out to the garage I am, as usual, blissfully unaware of my surroundings. I know this isn't very street-smart. Experts are always saying that people should be especially alert while going to and from their cars, whether at home or in a public lot. But there's way too much going on in my head, so I'm generally busy up there pondering imponderables and composing future blogs, which is also one of the primary reasons I fall down so much. That, and the drinking, which isn't a factor at this particular moment.

Approaching the corner of the garage, the lid of one of the trash cans raises up a few inches, and I see a pair of shifty eyes and hear, "Psssssst. Hey, over here." Realizing that it's unlikely that Oscar the Grouch has taken up residence in my trash can, I am somewhat suspicious. Most people I know don't lurk about in trash cans.

Clutching my keys, which experts also claim can be an effective self-defense weapon, I ask, "Who are you, and what do you want?" Because if there's somebody hiding in your trash can, these are things you need to know.

"I'm Blaster625, from the Anarchist website. I hear you have some questions about incendiary devices."

"Wait, how do you know that???"

"I have my sources."

"I was doing a lot of research yesterday, and visited a lot of websites. Some of which, I must say, were more than a little disturbing. Are you from one of them?"

"Maybe. So, I hear you need to blow up a bus."

"No, Blaster, I most certainly do not need to blow up a bus. I'm doing research for a book I'm writing, and my bad guy is going to try to kill someone by blowing up his bunk in a tour bus."

"Yeah, sure, right, whatever. About blowing up this bus, though..."

"I do not want to blow up a bus. It's for a book."

"Look, if you're going to keep saying ridiculous shit like that, I can't help you."

"Fine! I don't want help from some wacko anarchist who hides in trash cans and says corny stuff like 'psssst.' And what are you, about 15? Shouldn't you be in school or at the dermatologist or something?"

"No school today. It's an in-service day for the teachers. I mean, the establishment."

With that, I stalk back into the house, telling Mr. Blaster that he'd better be gone when I come back. I'm thinking I need to get the mat-splitter from the dogs' grooming utensil basket, as it is the closest thing to a deadly weapon that I own. I haven't read any expert opinions on the viability of a mat-splitter being used in this manner, but it seems like a safe bet.

Making my way back to the garage, mat-splitter tucked in my coat pocket, I'm much more aware of my surroundings than I had been earlier. I notice a brief flash of movement by the garage.

"Look, Blaster, I thought I told you to get lost."

Suddenly, I am blindsided and find myself sprawled on my back in the icy driveway, a large masculine figure pinning my arms to the ground. Ordinarily, being pinned under a large masculine figure has the potential to be of significant interest, but in this case the black body armor is spoiling the mood.

A second riot-gear-clad form steps from behind the garage and says, "Good work, Corporal. Search her for weapons."

Hauling me to my feet, the Corporal quickly locates my mat-splitter and confiscates it. "What's this?" he asks. "Some sort of torture device?"

"My dogs think so," I reply.

"Should've known. You anarchists are all sick and twisted individuals."

"It's for getting mats out of the dogs' undercoat, you moron."

"A likely story. Should I bag it as evidence, Captain?"

The Captain considers this for a moment and says, "Sure. Can never have too much evidence against anarchists and terrorists, I always say."

I snatch my purse off the ground and whip out my cell phone. The Corporal slams me back against the garage and grabs it from my hand. "Won't do you any good, sister. We froze your service."

"What the hell??? Are you people out of your fucking minds? I'm trying to go to work, here."

The Captain stomps over to me and leans way too far into my personal space. "We know what you're up to, lady, and you're not going to get away with it." He hasn't actually pulled the assault rifle from the holster over his shoulder, but he looks like he's thinking about it.

"What I'm up to? Trying to get in my car and go to work?"

"Do you deny that you just met with a member of an anarchist group known as Blaster625?"

"That kid? Well, he was hiding in my trash can when I came out here a few minutes ago. I told him to get lost."

"Was that before or after he gave you the instructions for building a pipe bomb to blow up a tour bus?"

"He didn't give me any plans. I don't want any plans!"

"Uh huh. Then why were you visiting all those bomb-building websites yesterday?"

"As I explained to Blaster-Boy, I am writing a book, and my bad guy is going to try to off my lead male character using an explosive device planted in a tour bus."

"That's what all the terrorists say."

"I think I'm going to have to ask to contact a lawyer."

"Suspected terrorists don't get lawyers. We just send you to Gitmo."

"No you don't. George isn't president anymore. They're shutting that place down."

"Well, I haven't gotten a memo about that yet, so I'm still going with 'lock 'em up and throw away the key' till I hear different."

"This is ridiculous! I swear, if Ashton Kutcher climbs out of my trunk and even whispers the word 'Punk'd,' we're going to discover just how effective mat-splitters are as an instrument of torture. I can't stand him anyway, except for when he's playing Kelso. All I did was Google some sites so I could make the bomb part of my plot sound plausible."

"You did do that, and you also wrote to a couple of bomb squads and asked them about jurisdictions and investigative process, as well as how to blow up a bus."

"I never asked how to blow up a bus!"

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Jesus H. Fucking Roosevelt Christ on a Crutch, what is wrong with you people??? I never asked how to blow up a bus."

"Did too."

"Arrrrrggggh. Look, do you want to search my house? You will find nothing there even remotely incriminating."

"Already did."

"You did? When? How? How did you get past the dogs?"

"Last night, and your dogs are real nice. Probably not terrorists. They like cookies."

"Might've been the last cookies they ever see. So if you didn't find anything, why are you here?"

"Can't be too careful."

"Look, do you want to see the novel I'm writing? Would that help at all?"

"I don't know. Maybe. What's it about?"

"What difference does that make?" Sigh. Blank looks from the Corporal and the Captain. "Fine. The male lead is a musician, and someone is trying to do away with him, and so the male and female leads have to figure out who it is so they can live happily ever after."

"Sounds like a romance. I don't read them girly-books." This, from the Captain.

"Oh, for crying out loud! You don't have to read it, you asshat! I'm just trying to prove to you that I am really writing a book."

"Well, OK. Are we going inside so I can visit with the doggies again? That little gold one is real cute. He drools kind of a lot, though."

"No, I am going to get my laptop out of the car and show it to you."

"I kinda wanted to go inside. It's cold, and I have a couple more cookies for the dogs."

"We are not going inside."

"Fine."

I approach the car, with the Corporal hovering over my shoulder, and retrieve my laptop from the backseat.

The Captain says, "Corporal, I want you to open up the computer. Don't want to give her any chances to try something funny."

The Corporal looks worried. "What if it blows up? I don't want to get exploded."

"That's the kind of funny stuff I'm talking about. Not that it'd be funny. No, not funny at all, blowing up a federal officer."

"I really don't want to open it."

"Oh, just open it, you big baby. You're wearing body armor and that Darth Vader mask thing. You'll probably be fine."

The Corporal doesn't look reassured, but does as the Captain ordered.

Nobody gets exploded, and in a few minutes, they are perusing my novel-in-progress.

"I was right," says the Captain. "This is a girly-book."

"Yes, it is. I am a girl," I point out.

"Kinda hard to tell in that coat."

"Go to hell."

"Now, that's not nice. We're just protecting America, you know."

The Corporal has been reading avidly, scrolling down at considerable velocity. "Are they going to have sex? 'Cause it sure sounds like they want to."

"Yes, they are," I say. "But I'm not up to that part yet. I'm still working on the bomb thing."

"When you get to the sex part, can I read it?"

"No, not unless it's published and you fork over full retail price. Now, are you two going to go away? I'm going to be late for work. And give me back my mat-splitter. Darwin's been running in the mud, and his britches are becoming a mess."

The Captain gives this some thought, reluctantly hands back my canine torture device, then says, "I guess we're done here. You don't seem to be an imminent threat. But we're watching you."

I sigh. I'm free to go about my business, but now I'm on some sort of Federal Watch List or something. I'm disconcerted to learn that my home, cell phone, computer, and - apparently - my dogs can be compromised so easily just because I clicked on a few web links and sent a couple of emails.

I'm starting to think I should just write porn and leave the suspense/thriller genre to the terrorists.

Best Behavior, FFFans!

I have it on good authority - namely a personal email reply! - that the one and only Jen Lancaster may soon be paying a visit to Fermented Fur! (Herald of trumpets. You'll have to use your imaginations, because I don't know how to upload an audio file. Sorry.)

If any of you live in a cave and don't know who Jen is, see my link to Jennsylvania.

Jen wrote Bitter is the New Black, and when I read it around Christmas of 2007, that is what inspired me to start Fermented Fur. Lots of "experts" (idiots) had been criticizing my writing attempts, trying to be "helpful," (idiots) but mostly they were just telling me how I had to do things according to some stupid rules. Then I read Jen and realized I could write in my own style and still be awesome. Because she does, and she is.

Jen was a dot-com executive when she became suddenly and catastrophically unemployed. She'd been an egotistical, condescending, bitchy, outspoken narcissist, and had to learn to live more modestly. She accomplished this financially, but retained all her charmingly, um, direct opinions. She started a blog about being unemployed and bitter, it caught on, a book deal descended from upon high, and her fourth book will be out this spring.

Really, who better to hold up as my literary role model?

Plus, she adores junk food, wine (or other various alcoholic delights), spies on her neighbors, exposes the ignorant, loves dogs, and is super-awesome to her friends and fans... all the while wearing her trademark pearls.

If Jen is stopping by, we totally have to clean up around here. You'll have to do it, though, because (as we well know) I don't do that sort of thing.

Snoring Versus Smothering

I'm sure many of you share your lives with a partner who snores. I also know that you might have a partner who snores at jet-engine decibel levels. That's not precisely my problem, but as with most things in my life, it's stranger than that.

Every night that I don't over-indulge in fermented beverages of the grape variety and crash immediately and prematurely into sleep - which doesn't happen as often as I might make it seem - I read in bed before lights-out. Sometimes it's only ten minutes, or even as long as an hour and a half if what I'm reading is especially good and I don't have to go to work in the morning. I have a reading lamp on the headboard, and Tom even got me a little clip-on book light, because apparently even the reading lamp is too bright.

Not that there's any evidence of that. He's sound asleep within three minutes of his head hitting the pillow.

This, however, is where the strange part comes in.

He never snores until I turn off the reading lamp or book light and try to go to sleep. He just lies there on his side, facing away from me, sleeping soundly, generating vast amounts of body heat, which I appreciate. But the minute I burrow into my blankets and pillows, the racket begins. (If I wake up at any other point in the night, he's sleeping quietly. The snoring only takes place during the "Lori is trying to go to sleep" portion of the night.)

And not only that... he also rolls toward me, placing the snore-producing part of his face as close as possible to my ultra-sensitive snore receptors. And I have highly acute hearing. I can hear the soft pitty-pat of dog paws ascending the deck steps, detect the subtle crackle of plastic wrappers when one of the dogs discovers one that didn't quite make it to the trash, hear a dog-tongue drinking out of the toilet from the other end of the house, and hear the dryer stop running from clear downstairs (not that it motivates me to go fold laundry). Even the softest snore in my ear drives me batshit.

He likes to mix up his snoring repertoire. Sometimes it's the traditional breathing-in rattle - at various volume levels - and other times it's a gurgly exhale sound. Drives me crazy trying to figure out which sound will come out next, and when the program is going to change.

Usually, he sounds like an asthmatic baby bear gargling a bucket of warm honey.

Honestly, I wrote this whole blog just so I could use that line. I loves me a good simile. I liked this one because it denotes a certain level of cuteness, which Tom certainly deserves. However, no matter how cute, there comes a point when I want to smother the gargly baby bear with a pillow.

To avoid having to resort to this, I have several techniques. First, I try just jiggling the bed. A bounce, a wiggle, tossing restlessly to my side, just something to try to rouse him partially from sleep so maybe he'll change position or swallow or something, and give me enough time to get to sleep.

Next, the stealthy "rub his leg with my foot in what might be considered an affectionate manner if he becomes aware of it, but hopefully will have a result similar to that planned for in option #1" technique.

If none of that works, we get to blanket-tugging. This can be done by rolling over and assertively repositioning the blankets, or just giving them a good yank.

Then we start with the kicking and poking. Not hard. Poking sleeping bears, even baby ones, can be hazardous. Just enough to cause him to stir and hopefully alter the snoring pattern, or at least direct it away from my hyper-sensitive ears.

Typically, all of these methods fail. Not always, but usually. Sometimes they merely halt the symphony long enough for me to believe I've succeeded - two or three non-snoring breaths - and then it frustratingly resumes.

This leaves me with only one option, which is to poke him a bit harder, wake him up, and say in my softest, sweetest voice, "Hon, could you please roll over?" (I always say "please.")

Despite my courteous delivery, this never meets with an equally courteous response. Even baby bears are cranky as hell when you wake them up and tell them to roll over. The last time, he snarked something like, "Yeah, and you can turn off your book light," WHICH he'd gotten me because it was an acceptable alternative to the reading lamp, AND which I'd turned off an hour and a half before. Freshly-wakened baby bears are not only cranky, they are also irrational.

But he rolled over. I just felt less pleased about it than I would have if the stealthy foot-rub had worked.

He, on the other paw, complains about my coughing. I've had the same nagging cough since November, and it strikes at night. I have cough drops by the bed, and have to sleep with one in my mouth many nights. And I totally hate how that makes the inside of my mouth feel, all puckered and sticky. Yuck.

The difference, however, should be apparent. When he's snoring, he is blissfully asleep, while I lie there in the dark, tired, watching the clock, and becoming increasingly annoyed. When I'm coughing, and it finally reaches a frequency and volume level to disturb him, I am ALSO awake, and as eager as he is to find a remedy to the problem. So, really, I can't see the comparison in the "who is more inconvenienced" arena. In both cases, I am not getting any sleep.

Also, if my coughing gets too troublesome, I can get up and go out to the living room and beat my lungs into submission with a cigarette. Yeah, unhealthy and seemingly counterintuitive, but it works. However, a sleeping snorer can only get out of bed and take their snores elsewhere if you poke them really hard, and then the leaving is a moot point, because they are awake and no longer snoring.

Oddly - or perhaps predictably - dog snores do not bother me at all, no matter how loud and gurgly. I just think, "Oh, how nice that they're sleeping so soundly and contentedly." If I were a dog, though, I imagine I'd be plotting how to smother my pack-mate with a stuffed hedgehog.

It's kind of like barfing. I can clean up pretty much anything that comes out of the dogs, but this controllable gag reflex doesn't translate to humans.

If I didn't work in the veterinary business with other people with the same idiosyncrasy, I might think there was something wrong with me. At least I don't snore, and don't believe Tom if he says I do.

Imagination Hijacking

Hey, FFFans, want to help jump start my befuddled brain play a game? This game involves taking a fictional scenario, which I shall ever-so-helpfully supply, and you try to come up with ideas that would support the desired outcome.

You see where I'm going with this, don't you?

Here is the scenario:

You are a very angry individual, and the object of your wrath is the lead singer/guitarist for a band, which is currently on tour. I know who my killer is going to be, but I can't really tell you who it is, because I sort of hope you'll want to read the book someday, so if I don't get excited about your suggestion, it may be because it wouldn't fit the villain, not because your idea doesn't rock.

The band is nearing the end of a tour, and it's time to make your move. You want the death to appear to be an accident, or possibly a suicide. (You can see some possible ideas in yesterday's post. Feel free to extrapolate on one of those, as well as come up with sneaky, devious, sinister plots of your own.)

Oh, and the intended victim has just met the awesome love of his life, but hasn't met her yet when the first attempt happens. She'll be around during the second.

Since you're trying to be so stealthy, your first couple of attempts are going to fail. Plus, you've never actually murdered anybody before, so there's probably a pretty steep learning curve involved. (Actually, all of the attempts, even the "screw it, I don't care if it looks like an accident or not, I just want to kill the bastard" one, will fail, because you can't go killing off the hero for any reason. Plus, Abby would die of heartbreak and lack of sex.)

Think drugs. Think poison. Think accidents that might happen while traveling by bus, staying in hotels, being in and out of various clubs and restaurants. But do not think of anything that would be likely to harm other band members or innocent bystanders. You hate Seth's guts, but you don't condone killing people at random. He, however, has pissed you off, and must die.

So, what do you have, FFFans? Help me brainstorm!!!

UPDATE: SETH CANNOT DIE FROM THIS ATTEMPT! He must get sick (like drunk sick), survive, and be ready and able to meet Abby the next day!

Could He Be A Bit Nervous?

I've been using several excellent references as I work on my "romantic suspense." A big part of the plot is going to involve someone trying to kill Seth, my main male character. He's the lead singer in a band, and they're on the road, as usual. I'm using "Murder and Mayhem," and "Forensics and Fiction," both by D.P. Lyle, MD. I have to figure out at least two or three things that my would-be killer (who is a bit inept initially, hoping to pass the death off as an accident or suicide) might try as methods to kill Seth, but fail.

I thought about attempted electrocution via his electric guitar and amplifier, but was told this was pretty much impossible without a lot of convoluted things that would make it very clearly not an accident.

I'm working on a scenario where the killer will try to poison him with some sort of drug in a bottle of bourbon.

Eventually, we'll resort to shooting, but I need something sneakier in the meantime.

Which makes my "thinking out loud" kind of interesting. Or disturbing. Depends on whether you're asking me or Tom.

"Could he swim with a dislocated shoulder? Hmm. Well, maybe a minor gunshot wound."

"Sucking chest wounds are definitely out."

"Oooooh, transdermal poisons!"

"Can you kill somebody with a Tazer? Oh, probably not. Unless he had a pace maker. Which he doesn't."

"Carbon monoxide? Possibly."

"Wonder what kind of bomb you'd need to blow a hole in the side of a bus. Where is the fuel tank, though? I don't want the whole thing to explode."

"Hey, did you know that if you want to kill somebody instantly by stabbing them in the back of the neck with an ice pick, you have to do it between C2 and C5? Wow. Cool." (Said while pointing to very helpful diagram.)

Tom has asked me to stop sitting on the Sofur with these books, looking at him, and going, "Hmmmm."

I wonder why?

Do You Think This Would Help?

Aha. A wine glass that holds an entire bottle! I'd still be Drunky Drunkenstein, but at least I wouldn't be lying when I said I'd only have one. That should count for something, right?

(Thank you, Today Show, for alerting me to the existence of this alcoholism-enabling but conscience-clearing innovation.)

(I'd have to buy several, though, because I can guarantee I'd break them.)

A Big Thank You

You may have noticed the new award logo in the right side bar. A huge thank you to my big sister for taking the time to make it for me!!!

I really need to learn how to use some of the good photo editing programs, but honestly, I don't have that many brain cells to spare.

I am up to about 9600 words on the book, which I need to go back over tomorrow, as I added a huge chunk I'd written before and have to make sure I stayed consistent with point of view and details. Which I'd be doing right now if I weren't at work today.

Also, apparently nobody thought my weekend alcohol story was remotely funny. Guess you had to be there.

Time For A Total Brain Flush

Other than washing a load of towels, I accomplished nothing this weekend. (Hanging my head in shame.) Oh, I was full of plans, but they all got derailed.

I did finally get to go to Red Lobster for a Valentine's Day lunch, which was nice. But then I totally toxified my brain the rest of the day. I believe Tom may have been trying to do away with me, because at one point in the evening when we were down in the family room and I announced that I was going to go upstairs and get us more drinks, he allowed me to go.

Let's recall what tends to happen if I've already had a significant number of drinks and then attempt to negotiate the stairs between kitchen and family room. Do the words "gaping bloody head wound" ring any bells?

The only safe response when I say, "Hey, honey, I'm going to go upstairs and get us some more drinks" (Or "Hmm, gon gmurrr drnk") is "Oh, no, you stay right here safely on this well-padded and already horizontal surface, and I shall navigate the stairs and return with additional beverages, because I am much more likely to achieve this without breaking any glassware or body parts. Look, look! Cody's on the DVD. Stay. Watch TV. Stay!"

On a positive note (sort of), I made it to the kitchen, made two drinks, then forgot all about them, and returned to the family room with a can of Diet Dr. Pepper. I'm sure that was for the best.

One additional (sort of) positive note is that I hardly singed any of my hair. (Smoker + Copious Amounts of Alcohol = Coiffure Conflagration Waiting to Happen)

On a (much) less positive note, I did burn the heck out of my right forearm putting a log in the wood stove. Again, a good intervention-type response would have been, "No, you stay here far far away from incendiary objects and skin-searing cast iron heating devices. Or at least wrap yourself in asbestos first." But, who knows? I must have insisted. Because I'm one of those people who will loudly proclaim that I'm fine, even though I lose my train of thought between "I'm" and "fine".

I then ended up with the world's worst headache, the kind that feels like you have fourteen weasels with flaming Ginsu knives fighting a duel right behind your eyeballs. I laid in bed chanting "headhurts, headhurts, headhurts" for so long that when I finally stopped, Tom decided he'd better check and see if I was still warm (alive). I was, but I didn't want to be.

Which brings us to yesterday. I spent Sunday lying on the Sofur waiting for residual toxins to pass through my poor, tortured kidneys and liver so that I could once again form complete sentences. It is a lengthy process, as I suspect my liver has just about had it with me and isn't trying very hard.

All this meant that I didn't get any writing done. In fact, I didn't even turn on the computer all day yesterday, which almost never happens. Even if I'd felt perkier, I don't know if I could have faced the manuscript right then, because I realized Saturday morning that the 4000 words I have - in first person - are going to have to be rewritten in third person, or I'm losing the ability to really explore my male lead's thought process, and that's too important to leave out.

So that's the plan tomorrow. Re-write, detoxify, and forge ahead!

And stay far, far away from the Liquorette.

I don't know how Hemingway did it. Alcohol and manuscripts are mutually exclusive in my world. I'm probably leaving out something really important like cocaine, but that seems like it's one of those "slippery slope" kinds of things, so I'll pass.

Oh, and I'm also reading the new Christopher Moore book, "Fool," and I am so in awe of his hilarity that I'm afraid to go near my manuscript. Damn genius authors. If I ever discover that he manages to write the way he does, and drink a fifth of bourbon every day, I'm going to be even more depressed, and my liver just isn't up to that challenge.

It's Here!

My Dog Writers Association of America Maxwell Award Medal for the 2008 Best Regular Blog IS HERE!!!!!

It is big.

It is shiny.

It is heavy.

It is also inscribed on the back (and they spelled my name right, which never happens).

It even came with a matching pin, in case I ever feel the medal is too ostentatious to wear (like that's ever going to happen).

Behold!

(So incredibly cool!)

(I was so excited to take the pictures, I didn't de-smudge it first. That's how I'll probably spend the rest of the evening.)

27 Years

I just wanted to share with you all that today marks the 27th anniversary of my first date with Tom! The other day, I was thinking that our first date was a Friday, and I knew it was the 13th, and I thought, "Holy shit, our first date was on Friday the 13th! Wow, that explains just about everything." But then I Googled the calendar for February 1982 and remembered it was a Saturday, which makes sense, because I recall the extensive "getting ready" process. No way could I have managed that after a school day.

Last year, I reported that it was the 27th anniversary, but apparently my mathematic dyslexia was showing, because it was only 26 then.

Did I mention that I remember exactly what I wore? (I have no idea what he wore. Go figure.) It was light brown pleated dress pants, a short-sleeve light brown and cream plaid blouse, and a cream colored corduroy blazer. I also stole - borrowed without exactly asking first - my mom's little diamond cluster ring.

We doubled with another couple, who had a huge fight, and went to a restaurant called Calovini's (which has since burned down. No, I had nothing to do with it, and I'm pretty sure Tom didn't, either). Tom got me a bottle of Riunite wine and a big stuffed smurf. I still have Smurf. I do not still have the wine. I don't even think I still had it by the time we got to Calovini's. (Yes, we were only 17, so the wine wasn't exactly legal, but nobody at Farm Fresh ever cared.)

The next Friday I got his class key (which I later lost while frolicking one day when we sneaked out to my family's camp on Fish Creek), and on Saturday he gave me his class ring (which I still have, along with the painted tape pad that I wore under it). Sweet, no?

So that's it! And the rest, as they say, is history!

(I love you, honey-bunny!!!!!)

Alligators Want To Bite Your Head

I am really, really sure I don’t want to know what this dream says about my mental state.

I was at work in a place with a lot of cubicles, but one side was open to some sort of breezeway. It must have been a zoo, for reasons which shall soon be obvious. As I was sitting at my desk, an alligator wandered by. This has got to be some sort of huge OSHA violation. He came over to where I was sitting, hauled his front half up onto my chair, and bit me on the head.

I was screaming (because an alligator was biting me on the head), but nobody could hear me (because my head was in an alligator’s mouth). For some reason, he wasn’t chomping down hard and popping my head like a ripe tomato, but was just biting and holding.

I couldn’t get free, but there was a camera on my desk, and I picked it up. Holding it at arm’s length, I started taking pictures of the alligator biting my head. Because, really? If an alligator bites your head, you’re going to need photographic documentation.

Eventually, the alligator let go and ambled on its way.

Everyone who worked at the office lived in one apartment complex, sort of like a cult. Or Disney World. We were all on a bus headed back to our apartments, and it was really crowded. I found myself pressed up against the back of a young, nice-looking black guy with dreadlocks. I discovered that he was Barack Obama’s son. (Yes, I know he does not have a twenty-something son, but if he did, this is what he would look like.) Then I realized that he was the owner of the alligator.

Then, Barack was on the bus, dressed in his usual spiffy suit, and I was all, “Hey, President Obama, your son’s alligator bit me on the head!" I showed him the bite marks on both sides of my neck just under my jaw. We thought this was hilarious.

I was going, “You know, I am totally writing about this on my blog, because it’s so freakin’ funny,” and he says, “Oh, yeah, you have to write about it.” We couldn’t stop laughing. (I was having a funny-fest with the leader of the free world!)

Then I said, “I’m going to write about it, but you can’t, like, deport me or anything,” and he promised he wouldn’t. Because he's totally cool and would never promote censorship. I started thinking my blog was going to get about ten billion hits out of this.

I remembered I had pictures of the alligator chewing on my head, and I got off the bus and went back to get them. When I got to my desk, I recalled that I’d also shot a video clip and put it on a disk, so I found the disk, too, because I couldn’t wait to show everybody the action shot of Barak’s son’s alligator trying to bite my head off.

The bus had stopped running, so I had to walk to my apartment. I was almost attacked by a cheetah, but it changed its mind at the last second. Cheetahs are unpredictable that way. Plus, I probably smelled like alligator spit. I was scared to be walking, because now it was dark, but I wasn’t afraid of alligators or cheetahs. I was more worried about being robbed or assaulted.

I got to the apartment complex, and saw a girl I grew up with (also named Lori). She lived with her mom in a really nice apartment with a pink and purple fireplace, which was around the corner from my apartment. I told her she should come over later and I’d show her the video of me almost getting my head getting bitten off by an alligator. She didn’t believe me, so I showed her the bite marks.

At last, I woke up, which is a good thing, because I think I’d gotten all the mileage out of the alligator thing as I was going to get.

Calling Talented FFFans

Time for me to shamelessly beg for a gift. I'm wondering if, among my readers, there might happen to be one who is particularly talented with some sort of graphics program. Because right now, what I really really want, is a banner, sized to fit in my right sidebar, proclaiming my moment of glory. Using any of the graphics below, and adding text like "Fermented Fur, Winner of the 2008 Dog Writers Association of America Maxwell Award for Best Regular Blog".

Kind of wordy, but hey, it needs to be said. And bragged. So, any volunteers?

I Love Shiny Things

There's good news and bad news about winning the 2008 DWAA Maxwell Award in a "regular" category - in my case Best Regular Blog - as opposed to the "special" categories. (If you missed my triumphant announcement earlier today, read it here.) I got shut out in the Dogfessions Personal Dog Memoir Award, which features a $500 prize. The regular categories carry no cash prize. Zero. Zip. Nil. Nada. Zilch. However, I shall receive a shiny gold medal.

Behold!

(It better be shiny, dammit!)

As Teri and I were chatting today, which we did pretty much continually, despite the fact that we were both technically "at work," she mentioned that when she attended a previous year's banquet the medalists wore their medals all evening, like Michael Phelps or Mr. T.

(I've been reading her stuff much of the day, and I must say... fabulous! The Chihuahua column is so good, and I've only read three editions of it so far. I command you all to go forth - or go online - immediately and purchase her books! Fail to do so at your own peril!)

Money is nice. I like money. I need money. Money and I have had only a passing acquaintance for a very long time. Sigh. I miss money. Or I'd miss it if I'd ever had any, so I suppose this is really more of a theoretical condition.

But I do like shiny things. Also, I like stuff that proves my magnificence. My medal will satisfy both. I'll do more than wear it at some lame banquet.

I will wear it to bed. I will wear it in the shower. I will wear it during sloppy, sweaty sex. I will wear it to Wal-Mart. I will wear it to work. I'll even wear it to the Royal Wedding if Rachel will let me, and if I can get it sewn on a really tacky hat like like Aretha Franklin's. I will wear it camping, because squirrels also like shiny things and I want them to be jealous, but if they try to steal my medal I will totally disassemble them and use their fluffy-puffy tails to polish it. I will wear it till the ribbon tatters, then I will demand that they send me a brand new ribbon because a Maxwell Award Medal is forever, dammit.

Teri has been nominated in both regular and special categories in the past, and has won in specials (in 2006, she won the very prestigious Angel on a Leash writing award)... which means she's won money (and did again this year!) but has no medal.

Sniff. I am overwhelmed with pity for poor, medalless Teri. (Not really. She got dollars. She could buy a medal if she really wanted one, Susan Lucci complex notwithstanding.)

It's been a pretty terrific day overall. I won 1/3 of my categories. I prefer not to think of it as winning one of my four entries - because two of my pieces were up against each other in the same category - because it makes my percentage sound better. (33 > 25) Plus, after noticing her logged on the DWAA forums last night, today I got chatting with Teri, and I feel like I've met a new, special, literary cyber-friend!

I win!

Now, someone please send me my medal. Thank you.

But This Can't Be Good

I just missed a call from Tom. I'm still at work, and I don't know where he is, and I have a hunch that I don't want to know.

Have I mentioned the excruciating irony concerning the fact that the day I win Best Regular Blog for the series describing Darwin's mud-bogging is the day we get a warm, rainy, snow-melty day? We haven't seen the ground since November, but it's starting to peek through, in an oozy, viscous, dog-saturating way.

So, Tom left me a message. Or, "Darwin" did. The message says, "Hi, this is Darwin. My bog is ready!"

I should be grateful for Darwin being such an ass pain adorable jokester, but I'm afraid to go home.

And The Winner Is...

... ME! Sort of!

After cyberstalking the Dog Writers Association of America website and forum since about 6:00 last night, I finally got the results!

I was nominated for the Dogfessions Personal Dog Memoir Award for my story of my beloved Ripley, along with my new best bud Teri Wilson (more about her in a minute) and her story about her dog, Angel... and somebody named Jeannie Wagner. Teri and I shall now be hunting down congratulating Ms. Wagner, who beat us out for the award.

(Note to self: Name a character in my book for Ms. Wagner, then kill her off in an imaginative, horrific, excruciating, protracted manner.)

Oh, and by the way... I got chatting with Teri because I noticed that she and I were both logged onto the forums all evening. Obsessive, much? Hey, we're writers. What did you expect???

I was nominated for Best Single Blog (like, I was 2 of the 3 nominees) for Ripley's story, as well as Letter to My Neighbors. I thought I had a really good shot at that one, because one was poignant and one was funny, leading me to believe I had covered all my bases. However, I lost to Christie Keith for her piece "It's the DNA, Stupid" which I must admit I didn't enjoy all that much. (Sorry, Christie, if you're reading this.) (Not really. I so wanted to win that one!) (And really... I didn't like the piece at all. Icky-poo.)

But. Drum roll please...

I was also nominated for Best Regular Blog, and I didn't think I would win that one. BUT I DID WIN IT!!!!!

I had to submit a series of 3 pieces, and I submitted three about Darwin and his mud-bogging. I figured I wouldn't win because my entire blog is only about 30% dog-related, but apparently Darwin's vast appeal won over the judges for me. (Thanks, Dar. Smoochies and treats when I get home!) I submitted Mud-Slinging Darwin Style, Dirty Rotten Scoundrel, and Just Another Muddy Monday.

My new dog-friend, Teri, did win the Pet Sitter International Humor Award for her column "Chihuahuas Are Better Than Facelifts," which I can't wait to read. She's a real writer, like with books and stuff, and I encourage you to go check out her website, and to buy multiple copies of her books. I entered Letter to My Neighbors in that category and didn't even get nominated. This leads me to believe that her column is even funnier than Fermented Fur, which automatically makes her the funniest writer alive.

So, I guess technically I am now an "award winning writer", or at least an "award winning blogger."

Thanks to Tom, who took the postcard reminding members of the contest deadline and stuck it on my keyboard where I couldn't possibly miss it. He's been very encouraging and was almost as bad as I was last night, telling me to go check the DWAA site again to see if I won. And also thanks to Darwin, who provides such a bounty of raw material.

Maybe Tom will take me to dinner, and I can bring home leftovers for D-Dog! (Hint!)

And... we're having a major thaw today. Which means melted snow. On the ground. Being churned to muck under his big, pounding paws. So expect a lot more "raw material" in the very near future.

Now, I'm going to go think about winning stuff, and try to forget about losing stuff. Cheers!

Blogophrenia

This multiple-blog thing is getting confusing. I don't know how people do it. I mean, fine, if you have one about restoring muscle cars and one about carving monkey heads out of coconuts, I can see a clear distinction. But my life isn't compartmentalized like that. It's more like if you ate all your basic food groups in alphabetical order and subdivided according to color, then went on the Tilt-A-Whirl and yakked it back up on some kid's shoes, all mixed together and homogenized. Yep, that's my life.

Even if it's technically a post directly related to the Writing Project, there are often elements that would fit in just fine here, and which you might enjoy. Instead, because nobody seems to spend any time (at all; come on people!) over at Writecrastination, these disgusting shameful profound moments are going completely unappreciated. For example, you are thus far unaware of my recent unintentional pursuit and attainment of the Alcohol Trifecta.

However, one thing that I refuse to do is duplicate posts on both blogs. Because that would be really, really lazy, even for me. And I'm Queen of the Shortcuts when it comes to just about everything. Because I won't be doing that, you must be a bit more proactive if you want to read all the pearls of wisdom that oh-so-freely flow from my gifted fingertips.

Maintaining two blogs is starting to make me feel a wee bit schizophrenic, or as if I have multiple personality disorder, a la Sybil (very dated reference to book about real-life MPD patient - it was a movie, too, in 1976, but of course I didn't see that - on which I did a term paper my senior year in high school).

Actually, having a few extra personalities might come in handy, because you'd always have someone else to take the blame when you mess up. (Note to self: Develop several additional personalities. At least one of them should be capable of writing a book.)

But, really, I probably already have enough voices in my head, and writing is the only way to purge them. Get them out of there, give them lives of their own, and they'll stop yelling at me all the time.

Oh, and since Tom didn't give me too much shit over the Alcohol Trifecta, and did in fact see that I was safely tucked in bed, I have not yet written about our Snoring Situation. It bought him a couple days' reprieve. But unless BroZarkWin does something incredibly adorable and/or annoying, that topic is next up.

The final thing I want to mention today is that tomorrow is the Dog Writers Association of America banquet, at which the winners of the writing competition will be announced. I inquired on the forum as to when and how winners who are not present will be notified, and was told that this will happen "as soon as someone who is there and has the results gets to a computer after the banquet". So. Maybe I'll know Monday morning.

If I don't win something, I'm going to be super pissed. And possibly suicidal. Or homicidal. Which I will blame on one of my new personalities.

Stupid Chick Stunt

There are people who always said I'd end up in the gutter sooner or later, and it turns out that they weren't entirely wrong.

I've done some genius things with my car in the past, usually while backing out of the garage. For example, I took off the side mirror once. In my defense, our "2-car" garage is really more of a "1.5 car" garage, and it's a tight fit once you factor in the lawn mower and/or snow blower, stacks of tires or other assorted stuff. Tom begs to differ, but I stand by my assessment of the situation.

Also, the very first day we got the Taurus wagon back from The Boy, I totally forgot it was sitting on one side of the driveway and backed into it, scratching and denting the passenger side of my little red Cavalier before I figured out what the grindy-crunchy sound was. Oops.

Today, I thought I was brilliant, remembering (albeit at the last second) that it was trash day. At 7:00 AM, it's a miracle if I can even find the garage, so this wasn't an inconsiderable accomplishment. The Taurus was sitting in its customary spot, with trash cans somewhere behind it. Didn't want to hit those! The second this hit my brain, I cut a bit to the left so as to be sure to avoid them...

...and my left front wheel slipped off the paved driveway and into the ditch. Normally this wouldn't be a terrible thing, but it's February in Minnesota. Think "lots of snow". But, hey, it's only one wheel. Surely I can get out of here. No problem!

I tried pulling forward, slowly. Nope.

I tried pulling forward in several short jumps. Nope.

I tried pulling backward, slowly. Nope.

I tried pulling backward in several short jumps. Nope.

I tried pulling forward and backward, in as quick a succession as I could manage. Nope.

I tried all of the above again, with the front wheels turned at various angles. Nope.

Shit. Yep, pretty stuck. Might be a problem after all.

Thankfully, this was Tom's late day, and he was still home. Yeah, he was in a warm, snug bed, and not likely to be happy to see me under the circumstances, but at least he was there.

The car was tilted to the left front at an alarming angle, but I opened my door and stepped out. Into the ditch. Which is currently filled with 18 inches of ice-encrusted snow. And I am wearing loafers. About thirty pounds of snow immediately cascaded into my shoes, and compacted around my toes as I trudged toward the house.

Me: Honey? I have a little problem, and I need your help.
Tom: Mmmm? Huh? What?
Me: Um, I was backing out of the driveway, and I remembered it was trash day, and I jerked over to miss the trash cans, and my wheel is stuck in the ditch. I need a push.

If he said anything after that, I didn't hear. I turned off my ears temporarily, because I was fairly sure it wasn't going to be anything that would make me feel particularly good about myself.

Back to the car I went, managing to get even more snow in my shoes, and waited. A few minutes later, Tom came out and assessed the situation. He didn't look happy.

He tried pushing me forward. Nope.

He tried pushing me backward. Nope.

By now I'd worn the rut under the left front tire so deep that I was high-lowed. The right rear wheel was completely off the ground.

I grabbed my phone and called Dr. Vet-Friend.

Me: Hey, I'm going to be a little late.
DVF: Yeah?
Me: Yeah. I'm kinda stuck in the ditch at the end of my driveway. Tom's trying to push me out.
DVF: Well, good luck with that.

At this point, Tom started heading toward the house. Was he giving up? Was he abandoning me??? I asked where he was going, and he said he had to go open the garage so he could get the Blazer.

Oh. OK. I started wondering if we had a rope or chain or some other pulling-type equipment. Then I wondered where you would attach such a thing to a Cavalier. The Blazer has a hitch. My car does not. But this seemed like the kind of thing Tom would know, so I kept my mouth shut, other than to utter repeated apologies for dragging him out of bed.

While waiting, I took off my shoes and dumped out enough snow to build a toboggan run, then brushed encrusted ice off my socks. I have lousy circulation in my feet at the best of times. If I sit at my desk or in a car for too long, or if they get remotely chilly, my toes turn white-yellow and are completely numb. At that moment, if I had dislocated both big toes they could have been jammed back into place and I wouldn't have felt a thing. I might have feeling back in them by June. Late June.

Now you have to draw a mental diagram. Go ahead, you can do it! From my perspective, the Blazer is parked in the right side of the garage. About 25 feet back, the Taurus is parked on the right side of the driveway. I was stuck partially off the left side of the driveway, just behind the Taurus.

Somehow, fresh out of bed, Tom backed the Blazer out to the left of the Taurus, directly in front of me, and then angled it diagonally back and to the right so he could get out between my car and the Taurus. I was totally impressed! I couldn't do that on a tricycle, let alone a giant Blazer, just moments after being woken up.

He turned in the neighbor's driveway and pulled up right behind my car. I pictured the fragile rear bumper on my little Cavalier, and waited. Finally, he made contact with my car and I slowly tried to pull forward.

Score!!!!!!!

I pulled all the way into the garage, and Tom came up to my open driver's side window. (While waiting for him to traverse the icy driveway and reach me, I admit that I was thinking, "I'm so going to blog about this.")

Me: Do you need to check anything before I drive off?
Tom: No, I think everything is fine. (He took a quick look anyway)
Me: I'm really, really, really sorry. Guess this is my Stupid Chick Stunt, huh? I haven't had one of those in a while.
(He had no reply to that. His silence speaks volumes.)
Me: Um, you should probably wait there till I pull out, though.
Tom: I was going to.

I made it onto the street without further incident, but it felt like I was driving diagonally the whole way to work. It wasn't the car, though; it was me.

He called later to make sure I made it to work OK, like I wouldn't have called him right away. Well, upon further thought, maybe I wouldn't. Better to sit there all day listening to talk radio and eating my lunch.

After listening to me apologize some more, Tom ventured an opinion that perhaps this was all an elaborate plot on my part to get the goodbye kiss that I hadn't gotten because he was still in bed. (It wasn't, but probably only because I didn't think of it.)

I offered further - probably unnecessary - explanations about how it was all because I forgot about the trash cans till the last second and then over-compensated out of fear of backing into them, and he said...

"Lor. Next time, hit the trash cans, OK?"

Can do!

I had planned to blog today about Tom's snoring, but now that would totally be inappropriate and ungrateful. But tomorrow is another day...!

Don't Forget!

Hey, FFFans, if you are at all interested in my ongoing writing struggle (and - hopefully - my eventual progress), don't forget to stop by Writecrastination! I haven't installed a counter or tracker over there, and don't know if I will, so maybe you are visiting there and I just don't know it. I don't see any comments yet, though, so (sniff) maybe you're not.