Gee, I Could Have Told Them That

Mr. Snark snores.

Now, we're not talking the occasional snarf-snort. The man produces a sound similar to a freight train lumbering along with a hundred cars in tow. 

Over the years, Mrs. Snark has resorted to sleeping with her head sandwiched between two pillows, preferring suffocation to another sleepless night. She has used tooth picks to prop open her eyelids and actively contemplated homicide. In prison, there would be plenty of time to sleep.

About six months ago, Mrs. Snark made Mr. Snark an appointment with their primary care physician. "Tell him you have sleep apnea," she said. "You need one of those breathing machines."

Dutifully, Mr. Snark went off with his instructions and returned with a referral to a sleep specialist. Another appointment was made and the Snarks waited a month. On the day of the big appointment, Mrs. Snark said, "Tell him you have sleep apnea," she said. "You need one of those breathing machines."

Off Mr. Snark went and returned saying, "The doctor ordered a sleep study. But first we have to obtain permission from the insurance company."

Riiight. And so the Snarks waited again. Finally, the insurance company green lighted the sleep study and then the Snarks waited some more. At long last, the sleep study center called to schedule an appointment.

The evening of the big event arrived and Mr. Snark kissed his wife and baby girl goodbye as he traveled far to sleep in some strange bed. "Tell them you have sleep apnea," Mrs. Snark said. "You need one of those breathing machines."

Bleary-eyed, Mr. Snark returned the next morning. "They poured goo in my hair and attached electrodes to my head."

Thanks to holiday madness and a busy time at work, Mr. Snark missed his first follow up appointment with the sleep study doctor. A second appointment was scheduled and kept.

"Well?" Mrs. Snark said when he returned.

"He says that I have sleep apnea. I need one of those breathing machines."

Mrs. Snark's hand performed a face plant.

Mr. Snark continued: "We just have to wait for permission from the insurance company."

TBC

The Baby Whisperer

Being the parent of a toddler is a lot different in your forties than it was in your twenties. On the one hand, you're wiser, more patient, more experienced. On the other, you're tired all of the time.

Miss Bear was born the week before I turned forty. Technically, I had her in my thirties, but from the frazzled appearance of my hair and my wrinkled clothes—right down to mismatched socks—you'd never know it. I have dark circles under my eyes and my gaze stares off into the distance, only coming into focus when a potential disaster looms.

Miss Bear is, allegedly, a human child, but my personal opinion holds that she is actually an agent of chaos incarnate. She is brilliant and creative at being bad.

In stores, she is a runner. No electronics are safe from her destructive path. Cats watch her with constant suspicion. White walls and doors are decorated with her murals done in permanent marker. (At first, Mrs. Snark tried Magic Eraser but it never really worked.)

Now Mrs. Snark sighs and says to Mr. Snark, "We'll paint in a few years once she's done."

The oldest Snark son has proven adept at protecting Miss Bear from herself and everyone around her. He shouts and removes choking hazards from her grasp. He snitches on her, issuing loud warnings like, "Miss Bear has a pair of scissors and is after the cat!"

When she makes a break for it at the grocery store, he dutifully chases her down and hauls her back. "ARRRRR," he growls, dropping the precious child into the shopping cart. "She's driving me nuts!"

"It's karmic justice, boy," Mrs. Snark says. "She's just like you were as a baby. Only then I didn't have a teenager to chase you down."

However, when it comes to managing Miss Bear's excessive energy and unstable mood swings, the middle Snark son has proven to be a Godsend. He can make her smile when no one else can. He performs goofy dances for her pleasure and gallops about the house on all fours with the baby clinging to his back.

Quite often his name is hollered in the midst of a Miss Bear tantrum. "Boy, we need you!"

And he races to save the day. He leans in close to Miss Bear's ear and murmurs something softly and the tears stop. When no one else can coax so much as a smile out of her, he makes her laugh.

We call him The Baby Whisperer.

Romance Novel Spotlight: Kelly Moran

Thanks so much, Mrs. Snark, for having me. I'll give away a FREE eBook to one commenter.

BIO:

Kelly's been known to say that she gets her ideas from everyone and everything around her, and that there's always a book playing out in her head. No one who knows her bats an eyelash when she talks to herself.

She began her writing career in the Indie market, becoming the recipient of an Editor's Choice Award, a Finalist in the 2008 Best Book Awards, and a Finalist in the 2009 Indie

Excellence Awards before moving into traditional publishing. Her books not only have honors from the top review sites, but from NY Times bestsellers too. She is a respected reviewer and a Romance Writers of America member.

Kelly's interests include: sappy movies, MLB, NFL, driving others insane, and sleeping when she can. She is a closet caffeine junkie and chocoholic, but don't tell anyone. She resides in Wisconsin with her husband, Darren, three sons, Logan, Evan, & Ethan, and her black lab, Willow. Most of her family lives in the Carolinas, so she spends a lot of time there as well.

BLURB:

In her dreams, a ghost demands to be heard...

Once plagued by mysterious nightmares, Trisha Eaton always chalked them up to childish nuisances--until they return with a vengeance. Something about the Drake house next door haunts her, and now her night terrors and sleepwalking seem to be luring her to something dark. After a series of strange events, Trisha turns to Nick Mackey. As the new deputy in town, Nick wants to forget his traumatic past. His undeniable attraction for Trisha has him wondering if a shot at a normal life is possible. But Trisha has somehow struck a nerve in their small, superstitious town, and a long-buried secret threatens to surface again. A secret that someone will kill to keep veiled. Answers only lead to more questions in a case where nothing makes sense, but one chilling fact remains...some nightmares are all too real.

EXCERPT:

            Her voice was inviting when she wasn’t mad at him. Like hot cocoa on a frigid day.

            “You should smile more often,” he claimed quietly, glancing ahead at the orchard approaching.

            She halted abruptly and tilted her head as if contemplating how to respond. “I smile all the time,” she said. No hint of irritation now.

            Clearing his throat, he said, “I meant at me. You should smile like that more often at me.”

            He couldn’t believe he said it. There was a very long awkward silence as she studied him, brown eyes widened. Talk about feeling like an idiot. Finally, she let out a laugh, smooth and rich from someone so small. She wove her arm through his affectionately like he’d seen her do with others and kept walking.

            “Give me a reason to smile and I just might.”

            “I’ll take it into consideration,” he mumbled. He already had. From the first moment he walked into her house tonight, he’d been considering her. Before,really, but why argue semantics.

Status update

I don't intend to promote this post since I don't have anything particularly amusing to contribute at the moment. Overall, it was a tough weekend. Mr. Snark completed the tile modifications on Saturday. He opened the box of the new stove top only to discover that the glass surface was shattered into thousands of pieces. For me, it was so disappointing. I'd been looking forward to cooking with the new appliance.

The guy on the phone from the delivery company was not comforting at all. In fact, it was highly distressing since the delivery people had me initial "no damage" ten days ago when they dropped it off. In hindsight, it was stupid on my part not to open the box and inspect it, but I saw no damage to the box and I figured it would be okay. The CS guy was telling us that no one worked there Sunday or Monday so we wouldn't get an answer until Tuesday.

On Saturday evening, Mr. Snark and I took the cook top down to Best Buy. The appliance manager explained to me that people often drop TVs and then claim damages, which is why they have people initial no damages. I think it helped our case that the appliance was still in its original packaging.

In Best Buy's defense, they took the stove top back into their inventory and ordered us a new one. It'll take two weeks or so to come into stock and I received a lecture from the sales lady to "inspect it this time".

To which I said, "Oh, believe me, I will."

***

The kids got MLK day off today, but not Mr. Snark. I took the kids to lunch and how the boys are over at a friend's house. Miss Bear is napping. I've gotten a little work done on the Norse werewolf short story that is going to be my freebie giveaway set prior to Hunger Moon. Soon I shall start trolling for beta readers, attempting to lure unsuspecting good Samaritans into my net. BWAH-HA-HA...

***

Heard from my mom today. Her mom is in the hospital again. 50% kidney function. Heart problems. She didn't know much but it didn't sound good. I'm worried.

Guest Spot Sunday: Amazon Reviewers

Sometimes, the sarcastic reviews that people write on Amazon are simply hysterical. You've probably already seen these circulating on Facebook, but they're so funny that I wanted to do a post about them. If anyone is aware of one that I've missed, please leave a link in the comments section.

I've reposted the "most helpful" customer reviews but following the link to the website is definitely worth it to read some of the others.

The Mountain Three Wolf Moon Short Sleeve Tee

Dual Function Design 10-10-08 by B. Govern

This item has wolves on it which makes it intrinsically sweet and worth 5 stars by itself, but once I tried it on, that's when the magic happened. After checking to ensure that the shirt would properly cover my girth, I walked from my trailer to Wal-mart with the shirt on and was immediately approached by women. The women knew from the wolves on my shirt that I, like a wolf, am a mysterious loner who knows how to 'howl at the moon' from time to time (if you catch my drift!). The women that approached me wanted to know if I would be their boyfriend and/or give them money for something they called mehth. I told them no, because they didn't have enough teeth, and frankly a man with a wolf-shirt shouldn't settle for the first thing that comes to him.

I arrived at Wal-mart, mounted my courtesy-scooter (walking is such a drag!) sitting side saddle so that my wolves would show. While I was browsing tube socks, I could hear aroused asthmatic breathing behind me. I turned around to see a slightly sweaty dream in sweatpants and flip-flops standing there. She told me she liked the wolves on my shirt, I told her I wanted to howl at her moon. She offered me a swig from her mountain dew, and I drove my scooter, with her shuffling along side out the door and into the rest of our lives. Thank you wolf shirt.

Pros: Fits my girthy frame, has wolves on it, attracts women
Cons: Only 3 wolves (could probably use a few more on the 'guns'), cannot see wolves when sitting with arms crossed, wolves would have been better if they glowed in the dark. 

 

Playmobil Security Check Point

 Great lesson for the kids! 09-09-05 By loosenut

I was a little disappointed when I first bought this item, because the functionality is limited. My 5 year old son pointed out that the passenger's shoes cannot be removed. Then, we placed a deadly fingernail file underneath the passenger's scarf, and neither the detector doorway nor the security wand picked it up. My son said "that's the worst security ever!". But it turned out to be okay, because when the passenger got on the Playmobil B757 and tried to hijack it, she was mobbed by a couple of other heroic passengers, who only sustained minor injuries in the scuffle, which were treated at the Playmobil Hospital.

The best thing about this product is that it teaches kids about the realities of living in a high-surveillence society. My son said he wants the Playmobil Neighborhood Surveillence System set for Christmas. I've heard that the CC TV cameras on that thing are pretty worthless in terms of quality and motion detection, so I think I'll get him the Playmobil Abu-Gharib Interogation Set instead (it comes with a cute little memo from George Bush).  

 

Hutzler 571 Banana Slicer

 No more winning for you, Mr. Banana! 03-03-11 By SW3K

For decades I have been trying to come up with an ideal way to slice a banana. "Use a knife!" they say. Well...my parole officer won't allow me to be around knives. "Shoot it with a gun!" Background check...HELLO! I had to resort to carefully attempt to slice those bananas with my bare hands. 99.9% of the time, I would get so frustrated that I just ended up squishing the fruit in my hands and throwing it against the wall in anger. Then, after a fit of banana-induced rage, my parole officer introduced me to this kitchen marvel and my life was changed. No longer consumed by seething anger and animosity towards thick-skinned yellow fruit, I was able to concentrate on my love of theatre and am writing a musical play about two lovers from rival gangs that just try to make it in the world. I think I'll call it South Side Story.
 

My Shameful Addiction

I have a shameful confession to make. I want come clean before I'm ousted by my teammates. The thought of having all of my awards and high scores revoked... The public humiliation, the ridicule and derision…all culminating in a tearful, soul-bearing appearance on Oprah.  It's just too much to bear.

I have an untreated addiction.

I'm a gamer.

It started sometime in the early 80s with a computer game series called Ultima that had to be played on 5-1/4 floppy disks because my Apple IIc didn't have a hard drive. Oh, I'd had an Atari as a kid, but back then I only used recreationally--Pong, Spaced Invaders and Defender. And I flirted with Zork but I never did get past that damn troll.

Ultima led me down a darker path. I started hanging out in video game arcades, feeding countless quarters into Mrs. Pacman and Joust. In those days I managed a double-life, maintaining good grades and something vaguely resembling a social life.

High school destroyed any residual chance I might have had to ever be normal. I joined the chess team and played for two years on the varsity squad—one of two girls in the state. I lettered in third board varsity.

Still, I held onto good grades and books—they were all I had left.

College brought a 486PC into my life and the array of games available to me multiplied like crazy. Using my student ID, I would sneak into the Maclab in the evening and on weekends to play SimCity with a stolen password.

In the 90s, I met a guy who introduced me to the mind-altering world of tabletop roleplaying. Dungeons & Dragons. Shadowrun. RIFT. Chaosium. And the very worst—White Wolf. High on pots of coffee and Jelly Bellys, we crouched over dice and character sheets, playing into the late hours of the night. After graduation, we broke up and I moved to another state, but I continued to roleplay. My current group has been together coming up on twenty years.

In California, I met fellow addict, a man who shared my obsession, and who also possessed the technological skills necessary to build a good gaming computer and maintain a network in the wonky Wild West days of the Internet. I married him.

Computers got stronger, faster, more powerful—and games grew more complex. Simulations took over my life. I micromanaged the lives of tiny virtual people and worlds—The Sims, Masters of Orion, Civilization. Ooohhh, Civilization.

Warcraft. Starcraft. God forgive me for the hours I wasted.

Eventually, I noticed a troubling trend—the increasing prevalence of first-person shooters. For a girl with terrible hand-eye coordination and tortoise-like reflexes, it was a worrisome development. I did what any sensible woman would do—I had boys and passed my addiction onto my children.

Alas, my oldest son has been led astray into the world of Pokemon and non-violent fantasy games. But my middle child, at the tender age of four, he could whup the asses of full grown men in Halo. By ten, he could out shoot a marine and had fingers that danced across buttons faster than the human eye could follow.

Jobs came and went, and so did my first husband. Mr. Snark and I met and married. Reproduced. I took a solemn vow over my newborn daughter to protect her from my addition but I've already failed. At the age of two, Miss Bear is already more computer savvy than either of her grandmothers.

In the 2000s, my addiction had gotten out of control. I hit rock bottom. Facebook games. For a time, I seriously considered quitting my job to become a farmer. Writing saved me, because I had to prioritize my time, choosing what really mattered. I stopped farming.

To this day, I remain a PC gamer. I've been slow to warm up to counsel gaming. But then I discovered Minecraft, and fell in love with a world conceived in cubes. The recent release of TellTale Games' The Walking Dead has brought me further around to the Xbox 360 as a way of playing, but I still get hung up on those pesky action sequences that involve shooting zombies in the head.

A panicked wail rises from Mrs. Snark as the walking dead rip her to shreds for the fifth time. "Boy!!!  I need you!"

And her youngest son comes running, flying down the stairs to see if the house is on fire. Upon spotting the carnage unfolding on the TV screen, he rolls his eyes. "Really, mom. You died again?"

"I died again," Mrs. Snark explains, sobbing. "I can't shoot to save poor Lee's life."

He flips out his hand. "Give me the controller."

I've got to go. By now my energy meter for Top Stylist will have recharged on my phone.