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There are very few “guy things” I feel I am really knowledgeable about. I can drive a car with a standard transmission, and I’ve always considered that a guy thing. I can use power tools and I’m pretty handy with home repairs and those are sort of guy things.

As an indie author, I am the target of many scammers. Many, many more scammers than I previously dreamed possible. I recently got a workout from two of them who were particularly good at what they do.

I’ve been writing and reading historical romance for some time now, so I’ve seen lots of old-fashioned names, particularly for women. I’m embarrassed to say that it took me a while before I noticed the pattern: lots of old-fashioned names for women represent what might be considered “appropriate” traits for women.

I had a needle biopsy on my left breast recently. I don’t recommend it. The results that came back were good—benign—but it was an unpleasant experience.

I learned recently that a friend of mine has switched dog food brands, and her pooch doesn’t seem to like it. In fact, the dog has gone on its own little version of a canine hunger strike. Being a dog owner myself, I can’t quite fathom this.

It is, as my husband likes to say, the shitification of everything. In case you’ve not heard that term, it refers to how so many products and services are going to shit. Here’s a perfect example: there was a time when a box of Cracker Jacks contained a fair number of peanuts and an actual, three-dimensional prize.

Well, the 90 days are up. The 90 days that the publisher said it would take to review my submission before it was deleted. Of course, the publisher also said I’d get some sort of response from them within the 90 days—one of which could be a request for “more time.”

I had lunch today with a couple of friends at a newish place in an old house in Downtown Albuquerque. It’s called Curious Toast Café and, as you can image, it has a very toast-centric menu. It also has some curiously unusual art

I just left a bag of weeds on my neighbor’s porch. Lest you worry that my neighbor and I are having an ugly, passive-aggressive, snit over lawn care, let me reassure you: she wants my weeds.

Apparently, my proprioception is going to hell. It’s one more sign that I’m getting older and I think that stinks. Proprioception, in case you’re wondering, is one of the body’s senses. You’ve probably never heard of it because it’s not as popular as sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste, but it’s very important.

It sucks being a creative type. I’ve heard the compliments all my life: “you’re so creative,” people say, as though it’s a good thing. As if being creative is as valuable as being smart or good looking. Rich or lucky. It’s not.

I think it’s safe to say that there’s nothing more universally reviled than the cockroach. The little German roaches that look like long-grain wild rice are bad enough. But consider those big, black sewer roaches that look like pitted dates.

Today is, officially, my least favorite day of the year. It’s the day when we all set our clocks forward one hour for no apparent reason. I don’t actually know anyone who likes changing their clock and screwing up their eating and sleeping schedules—at least not anyone who admits it.

As I’ve written before, one of the most annoying things about being an indie author is all the marketing sharks that circle you like you’re chum in the water. Sadly, I suspect, many indie authors are easy prey.

Okay, not everything about AI sucks, just most everything about it. Before I go into my diatribe about why, exactly, AI sucks, I must start off with a bit of a compliment: whoever came up with the term “artificial intelligence” gets my kudos for pulling one over on the public.

I watched the Super Bowl last Sunday. I neither watch regular football games nor any kind of broadcast television anymore, so it was a window into another world for me. I know Super Bowl commercials are supposed to be weird and over-the-top. Whether non-Super Bowl commercials have gotten as weird, I’ve no idea.

I got depressed yesterday and I still don’t really know why. It’s not like I need to know—I mean, the real reason I get depressed is because my brain chemistry is screwed up—but it’d be kinda nice to know what exactly set it off this time.

I’ve never quite understood the male fascination with breasts. They are, after all, pretty much just lumps of flesh. But they are lumps of flesh that can stop a ninety-year-old man dead in his tracks. Kryptonite has nothing on Superman, compared to the hold a breast has on the average male.

Last week I promised you more stories from my days of working in the news media and how it all relates to the distressing lack of critical thinking among the public.

I recently got into a flame war on Facebook with a total stranger over the ICE shooting in Minneapolis. I know, I know. Not a smart (or productive) thing to do. Interestingly, the whole thing reminded me of when I worked in the news media, so it resulted in a nice stroll down memory lane.