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Welcome to the BOMB.

The Blog Of the "Mother" of Bandit.
Bandit is my Hairless Chinese Crested--he's the "normal" one. I, on the other hand, am unrepentantly "pet-crazy." You know the type--the spinster who lives in the haunted house three blocks over with 72 cats...okay, so I don't have 72 cats, and my house isn't haunted--but my dogs wardrobe is better than mine! Need I say more? :~)
I've never been consistant at journaling, so the timing of my blogs will be sporadic at best. I just hope they are as entertaining to you as they are to me; however, be forewarned: Most of my blogs will be about The BaldOne. In spite of his Don King "do," I think he's just as cute as any of the Brothers B!
Now, if I can just remember not to get him wet--or feed him after midnight...

About Me

My photo
My bags are packed and I'm always ready to seek out an adventure with Bandit and Moggy in tow. Bandit is my thirteen year old Chinese Crested, who I frequently call The Bald One or The BaldOne Boy (like he was one of the Baldwin Brothers). Moggy’s full name is Pip-Moggy. He’s my two year old gansta-resuce kitty. I couldn’t decide between Pip (which are the spots on die and domino tiles) and Moggy (or Moggie when I mistakenly thought he was a she), so I combined the two. Moggy refers to the British term for "cat of unknown parentage .” So in essence, I have an almost bald dog, and I’ve named my cat “Spot.”

Fun Stuff (I'm doing now or have done)

  • Artistic Attempts weekly (alternating between Painting With A Twist, That Art Place, and Peniot's Palette).
  • Bunko with the Belton Bunko Babes monthly.
  • Participating in the A to Z Blogging Challenge.
  • Spades and Liverpool Rummy with the Spadetts weekly.
  • The Mighty Texas Dog Walk, Austin (fund raiser for Service Dogs, Inc--they train shelter dogs to be Service Dogs, then give them free of charge to people with disabilities.)

Monday, August 29, 2016

Her Royal Majesty, Goobrella, Queen of Gooberdom

Hear ye! Hear ye, one and all! By the power vested in me, by myself, I hereby pronounce this proclamation: From henceforth, and forevermore, be it known that the woman you know as me, will be called Her Royal Majesty, Goobrella, Queen of Gooberdom and all its inhabitants: the Goober-babes, the Goober-heads, and their alien offspring, aka the Gooberlets. (Behind closed doors her closest friends may address her informally as GooberLou.)
News flash: I am such a goober—it's shocking, I know—however, it's true. I've just been able to keep this revelation from most of you. In case you are one of the many I have deceived, and you need proof of my gooberness...
At the request of a multitude of adoring fans I have been asked to change careers to Published Author.
Okay, that just might be a slight exaggeration...Truth be told, it was an inferred comment, made in passing by the non-English speaking guy who does my nails, and three Facebook Friends—who are not my Mother—or related to me in any other way.
As I recall, the exact statement was, "Oh, you funny. You write more."
So taking career goal advice from my four trusted advisors, I have written more.  And last February I submitted a piece to the scrutiny of professionals--a nerve wracking ordeal to say the least. To share is to make yourself vulnerable, and making yourself vulnerable is not for the faint of heart. When you Dare to Share, you run the risk of rejection. Of course, the possibility of rejection is true of every aspect of sharing, not just writing.  Anyway, I took a deep breath and held it while I reread the submission guidelines. Then, blue in the face—and ready to pass out, I reached a trembling hand toward The Button. Closing my eyes tighter than a misers fist, and a split second before I gasped for fresh air, I tapped send.  Then I gasped and wondered what I had just done.
Amongst the submission guidelines they drop a little tidbit of information about the process and tell hopeful authors that they do not provide rejection letters. They go on to state, "If you have not heard from us within (insert their formula for the given timeline), you may consider the lack of communication as your rejection." Dusting off my knowledge of algebraic equations, I calculated the deadline for my submitted work, and placed it on my iPhone calendar with the following paraphrase from A Knights Tale: Unless you have heard otherwise, your submission "has been measured, weighed, and found lacking." And then, because I am a Pollyanna at heart, I changed the Rejection Day notation from mid-August to the end of August, and I tried to forget the date.
For the most part I have been successful at not obsessing—stop laughing,  I am capable of not obsessing!  The proof?  For the past couple of months I have only checked my inbox for a response three or four times a day.

Okay, okay, 3-4 times hourly.
But I'm not obsessing.  Really. I’m not. Some days I just feel more insecure about basically baring my soul to a total stranger.
Today, as I checked, and did not find the long-hopped for email, I remembered the Rejection Day Deadline (as predetermined by the aforementioned algebraic formula) was sometime this month; but, I could not remember exactly when. [Actually,  I can—and do (it’s tomorrow), I just want to remain in rejection denial as long as possible.]  In order to confirm my knowledge that it is actually tomorrow, I could simply click on tomorrows date. Or, I could really torture myself, and click on every day (I started this post mid-month, so there were more days with which torture could be exacted).  But rather than checking the day I thought it was on my calendar, or clicking on every day, I decided to perform a topic search on my sent emails. 
My shaky hands betrayed me and touched more typo keys than normal. When I finally had the correct letters, in the correct sequence, typed in the search box, and hit search, five emails popped up.
Unfortunately not a single email contained the original submission.
Acccck!!!!  Panic ensued.
I checked to see if I had moved the email to a different folder for safekeeping.  Several folders later, close to tears of frustration. I still had not come across the original submission email. One of the emails noted I had submitted it in February; however, it was not the original.  What I found were five emails I sent and received—between two of my accounts so I would have an email trail. 
A sinking feeling started in the pit of my stomach and my legs became as heavy as the Easter Island Statues....What if I never submitted story?! What if I only thought I had?!
Only a goober would spend the past five months obsessing over a response/non-response to an email that was never sent. Hence my above mentioned proclamation.
But then I remembered something:
I submitted the story while visiting their submission portion of their website—I didn’t submit the story from my any of email accounts; therefore, there would not be an email trail!   Which is why, in addition to editing the story in draft form, I had sent it back and forth between the different email accounts. I knew I'd need an email trail to confirm I submitted the story.
Now, I fear I will fall into the trap I attempted to avoid after all—I seem to be ramping up the obsessive checking and rechecking for an email response.  And I try not to think about the previous months lack of a response being indicative of a passive rejection. Realistically, I know it's probably already been cut. However, I am a Pollyanna and Cockeyed Optimist all rolled into one.  Maybe, they don't notify anyone until the deadline is over. But what if they do notify people before the deadline…and I didn't make the cut...
It has been a longer-than-usual month of August here in the Gooberdom.
And the month is not quite over yet.  Not until midnight.  On Wednesday.  There is still plenty of obsession time in the Gooberdom—at least 53 goober-hours and 46 nutcase-minutes.  And counting. Let me check once more time

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