Payback is now available on the Nook!!! Click HERE or click the cover!
Payback is now available on the Nook!!! Click HERE or click the cover!
Payback is available on the Kindle right now! Just click HERE.
Yay!!!!! I hope you enjoy reading it as much I loved writing it!!!!
Nook and iBook versions coming soon! Probably this week!!!
Three years ago, our beloved last cat Pooter kicked the litter-box. As time has passed, I have romanticized what it is to be owned by a cat. I picture sweet Hallmark card photos of the cat and I hanging out, enjoying life and each other’s company. My furniture stays clean, my rugs spotless. My cat loves me and only wants to please me. His meow is melodious and only deployed occasionally. When he hunts and kills the occasional rat, he eats the whole thing and I am unaware of the event, I only notice how low the cat food bills have dropped. My cat is never sick and rarely goes to the vet. In the car, the cat obediently rides in his crate, knowing the whole adventure is for his own good. My cat never interrupts me while I work; he waits patiently for me to finish. He never claws me or my furniture. He never pukes or poops behind the couch. He is perfect.
Riiiiigghht. I am actually too well aware of the realities of having a cat roommate. When I was very young we had Liz. When I was six, we adopted Cabbage. Since I was twenty, I’ve been owned by Helen, Puff, Harold, 43, Norman Bates, Doris, Crunchy, Stimpy and Pooter. The last six as a group. Yet, I still find myself forgetting what it was like. I do not want to be blind. I want to prepare myself. So I have developed a twelve-step plan to simulate being owned by a cat.
Step One: The Cat In The Lap. Every time I sit down, I must pick up and hold in my lap a plush-covered heated bowling ball randomly studded with spikes containing one extremely stinky spot. The plush covering must shed and the spikes must be sharp enough to draw blood. I must jab myself with the spikes occasionally, enough to puncture my skin, and create pulls and pills in the material of my pants. Every half hour, I must reposition the bowling ball on my lap, ensuring that the stinky spot comes within a half inch of my nose.
Step Two: Sleeping With The Enemy. I must take the bowling ball to bed at night, put it in my spot under the covers, and try to sleep in the four inches of space that’s left. Every hour, I must try to move the bowling ball to create more room, but fail miserably and allow the fuzzy ball to take up most of the bed. Every now and again, I must rake my face with a fork.
Step Three: Egregious Egresses and Food Demands. I’ve set an alarm clock to go off every three hours, including during the night. When the alarm sounds, I must stop what I’m doing, get up and go into the kitchen, smell the garbage or a tuna can, then open and close all the doors leading to the outside.
Step Four: Vomit Treasure Hunt. Frank will hide scoops of wet newspaper pulp mixed with oatmeal in random places around the house for me to step in or find before they rot. Half I must locate by walking around barefooted at night in the dark.
Step Five: Shred Fest. We’ve attached razor blades to our robotic vacuum cleaner to shred the furniture—and our legs if we aren’t paying proper attention—at approximately cat height.
Step Six: The Fur Coat Coating. I’ve cut open an old pillow and randomly sprinkled the contents all over the house and my dark-colored clothes.
Step Seven: The Litter Jitterbug. I’ve set up a litter-box in the bathroom filled with cat litter and many Tootsie Rolls. Twice a day, I have to fish out one of the Tootsie Rolls with a pooper-scooper, and sprinkle cat litter on the tile floor. (Frank thought it was important to simulate a horrible smell, but I drew the line at this.) I must purposefully forget that I’ve spilled litter so that I will walk through it later and track it everywhere in the house.
Step Eight: Lost Cats, Lost Minds. I’m arranging for a friend to break into my house, steal the bowling ball and hide it somewhere in the neighborhood. After putting up flyers with a picture of the bowling ball all over my neighborhood, I’ll stay up for three days canvassing the entire city of San Mateo while crying and worrying about the ball’s safety.
Step Nine: Destruction Derby. Once a day, I’ll knock one of my most precious glass objects off its shelf, making sure it shatters. Then I’ll take an embroidery needle and pull threads from my favorite sweaters, shirts and sweatshirts.
Step Ten: Sick Tricks. Right before Frank and I leave for our next vacation, I’ll pretend the bowling ball became ill and cancel the vacation, making sure we lose a hefty deposit. As I “wrestle” the bowling ball into a crate, I’ll rake my arms with a fork until I bleed. Then I’ll drive to the vet’s with pre-recorded cat cries blasting from my stereo speakers. To approximate the money paid to the vet, I’ll burn a stack of one hundred dollar bills. Twice a day, I’ll scratch my arms with a metal comb to simulate administering pills or medicine to the cat. Frank will hide extra scoops of the newspaper pulp/oatmeal mixture around the house. I’ll set the alarm for every hour to get up and check on the bowling ball, clean the cat box and find the fake puke. Frank will get up at random times during the night to hide the bowling ball so that I lose lots of sleep looking for it.
Step Eleven: Pray for Prey. I will buy a mouse and bird at a pet shop. When I am running out the door to an important appointment, I will let the creatures loose in my house. However, unlike my former cats, I will not maim them first. Then I will attempt to catch the live cat toys in an empty milk carton or small box—whatever I have handy that’s inadequate for the purpose.
Step Twelve: Bathroom Follies. If a bathroom door is left open, I will yank on the toilet tissue until it is in a large pile. If I’m in the bathroom for longer than a minute, Frank will yell outside the door, shove his hand underneath and wave, and try to sound pitiful and lonely. If I leave the door ajar, he’ll come in, yell at me, and knock whatever reading material I have out of my hands.
If I get through all of the above and am still sane, then I will adopt a cat. But at this point, I’m thinking a stuffed toy kitty might be a better option.
©2013 Janet Periat
My latest installment of the Patriot Series, Payback, is available now. Click here to buy! In just a short week from now, Payback will be available on Amazon. Also the ebooks will be released soon and will be available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and the iTunes store. Stay tuned for updates on this fun, action-packed thriller! My critique partners think this is my best work to date. I’d love to hear from my readers what they think.
Email me for a $3 discount code for Payback! Use my Contact page.
Yay!!! A new Patriots book!!!
If you haven’t already, please like my Facebook page called: Janet Periat’s Fan Page (Official, Authorized and Fully Licensed)
Hope you’re all having a great one today!
The US government is planning to invade the US. You may scoff at this idea—since the government is already here and in control—but I have it on good authority that they are planning to capture and enslave the populace. My fellow bunker-dwelling, assault-weapons-enthusiast, Yahoo commentators have outlined the Obama-led invasion in great detail. In order to help the uninformed, I have outlined some simple tips to protect you and your children from attack. Even though Americans outnumber government employees 27 to 1, scoffers take note: you are in imminent danger.
Number One: Know Thine Enemy. While we get distracted thinking that the US will use the military against us, think how much success they’ve had with recent invasions. How’s Iraq doing these days? Are we still in Afghanistan? Took us ten years to kill Osama Bin Laden—in Pakistan. While the US military is busy protecting the financial interests of the oil companies they won’t waste those precious resources against us. The government is comprised mainly of middle-aged men and women. These paunchy, out-of-shape, form-pushers are our true enemies. They are the ones the government will deploy against us.
Bullets and grenades won’t stop the hoards of middle managers, we must think like them to win the battle. What do forty-something men like? Supermodels and beer. What do middle-aged women enjoy? George Clooney and chocolate. To defeat the evil male government workers, all we have to do is hire cute chicks in bikinis to man tanker trucks full of beer. As for the female workers, we need to cover the area above our bunkers in George Clooney posters and boxes of chocolates. Add a few big screen TVs showing sports for the men and Lifetime Channel for the ladies and the government workers will be too distracted to attack. Ha!
Number Two: Knowing When The Attack Will Come. The government will be staging their attack Monday through Friday from 8:00 AM to 12:30 PM and from 1:30 PM to 5:00 PM. Exceptions: every other Friday when the offices are closed, and all government holidays including the week between Christmas and the New Year.
Number Three: Safest Places To Build Your Bunker. The US government has no interest in the most crime-ridden cities in America. They rarely fund the dilapidated schools of the poor and underprivileged neighborhoods, and abandon its populace to street gangs. Large chains won’t build stores in these areas; police don’t dare to venture inside. Perfect for your armed bunker! Those drug gangs will do your front line work for you! And think how cheap and available the extra weaponry will be. HINT: Schools and bridges are great places to hide during the war, but watch for the crumbling chunks of cement. Lack of investment in our infrastructure over the previous forty years has compromised many government installations. Bonus: after we’ve won the war, think how easy the buildings will be to destroy! One well-placed kick could bring the whole structure down. Perfect! EXTRA HINT: Most cities today have fox-hole-sized craters in their streets. Build your bunker at the end of a pitted avenue. Use the decay to your advantage!
Number Four: Rely On Trusted Information Sources. Getting accurate information is difficult yet necessary to foil the invasion. The only people brave enough to speak the truth are your fellow commentators on Yahoo, the Gun Lobby, the NRA, the Tea Party and most big corporations (Remember: corporations ARE people.) After the attack, avoid all mainstream media and emergency communications. Don’t use your cell phone because it will have been hacked. Don’t call 911 or you will alert them to your location. Stay in your bunker forever. Thankfully, your friends at the pharmaceutical corporations have abandoned the ridiculous idea of curing diseases and have provided people with what they really want: drugs that enable people to eat and drink whatever they like without exercising and not drop dead. Big Pharma doesn’t want to enslave you because they already own your fat ass. Make sure to stockpile their drugs. Pharmaceuticals will help you survive on MREs and diet Coke with little exercise but gun-cleaning and jumping to crazy conclusions.
Number Five: Extreme Home Makeover—The Bunker Edition. If you’re like me, your bunker’s not quite big enough to hold your stockpile of weapons and your whole family. Rather than kicking Aunt Selma to the curb, get creative with your bunker furnishings. Ammo cans make great coffee tables; turn an AK-47 into a lamp (watch which switch you use to turn it on or you might blow a hole through the roof); make a handgun chandelier; pack bullets into the earthen floor of the bunker for a great walking surface; paint half the grenades red and string them together for dazzling Christmas decorations; cover pallets of C-4 with comfy couch cushions—the possibilities are endless!
Number Six: Invasion Tricks. The US government knows your teenage daughter sneaks out to see her boyfriend at night and will be sending agents disguised as young women to attack you. Or dressed as your mother or son. How do you know that’s your wife coming back in the house with the morning paper? Open fire and ask questions later. Even if you make a mistake and kill your loved one, fewer family members means less people to defend and less people raiding your food stockpile. Which guarantees your survival. Neat!
I hope I have given vision to the sightless and awoken the sleeping. Lying to yourself that the US government is too feeble, badly organized, technologically challenged, underfunded and uninterested in subverting you is your ticket to enslavement. Just think, while you’re safe in your bunker, the rest of the country will be forced to enjoy the sunshine, their jobs, families and communities all the while being blind to the truth of their captivity. Suckers.
©2013, Janet Periat
Been reflecting on aging recently, looking at my adult life through the eyes of my younger self. I remember studying my parents and thinking, “I’ll never do that.” Or “Are they CRAZY?” Seems as if I’ve turned out just as crazy as my parents. Here’s a list of things I never thought I’d do when I grew up.
Number One: Say things like “I don’t understand these kids today.” In my defense, what the eff is up with young dudes showing their underwear? The cool kids shuffle along with almost the entire length of their boxers hanging out with their belt around mid-thigh and the crotch of their pants at their calves. I saw a teenager the other day with the outline of his junk clearly visible through his underwear. Vile. When I was a kid, if you dared to show even a micro-inch of underwear, someone would grab it and pull it up to the middle of your back and give you an epic wedgie. I think wedgies ought to make a comeback.
Number Two: Put ludicrous amounts of pepper on my food. This one sticks out in my mind more than any on the list. I used to watch my father in horrified shock as he used the pepper grinder to turn his food black. He didn’t just use a little pepper, he made his food look like volcano eruption fallout. Dad’s forearms were massive from all his pepper grinding. I think it was how he got most of his exercise. I have not yet reached his blackout phase of pepper application, but I’m getting close. I think I blacken my food with pepper because my taste buds are burning out and I can’t taste as much as I did when I was a kid. Either that or my latent pepper deficiency gene got activated.
Number Three: The contents of my bedside drawer would become the same as my father’s. Tums, reading glasses, Kleenex and back scratchers. Horrifying. Dad’s bedside table contents always disgusted me. Why would you need peppermint candy that was chalky and horrible-tasting? How many pairs of glasses does one person need? Adults blow their noses so much, they actually need a whole box of Kleenex by their bedsides? And what’s with all the backscratchers? Are adults really this blind, sneezy and itchy? Do they have no taste? Answers? Yes, yes, yes and yes. I’m glad I didn’t know then what I know now or I’m not sure I would have allowed myself to grow up.
Number Four: Refuse to acknowledge the limitations of my eyesight. I am now one of those idiots in denial you see in grocery stores with their arms extended as far as they can, squinting at the fine printing on the soup cans to make sure they don’t contain monosodium glutamate. I’ve been practicing balancing cans on my feet at home so I’ll be better prepared for the inevitable. So. Humiliating. Why can’t I remember to carry glasses with me? Because I think I’m mounting a subconscious aging protest. Like if I don’t carry glasses, it means I can see and am still young. It’s also because I hate carrying crap around with me. I already have to carry Kleenex and Tums and ibuprofen with me everywhere. Pretty soon, I’ll have to drag around freakin’ carry-on luggage just to hold my Old Lady emergency supplies. Ugh!
Number Five: Talk about getting older. There is nothing that makes you older than talking about getting older. Which is what all my friends and I seem to talk about these days. Well, that is when we can hear each other. Rock-n-roll was not kind to my generation’s hearing. I’m getting good at smiling and nodding.
Number Six: Be convinced by current events that the world is coming to an end. My grandmother was convinced that the fabric of society was disintegrating. I thought she was insane. But with global warming and the global warming deniers; our failing healthcare system; our failing safety net; our failing education system—and the news being controlled by the same corporations that are screwing us out of all of our money, polluting the planet and exploiting the workforce—I’m starting to understand my grandmother’s mentality. My bunker should be complete by next year.
Number Seven: Be startled by my reflection. Or recent photos. Who the hell is that old lady? Wow, my face is starting to look like the Death Star, all deep dark channels. And what the HELL is up with the flippin’ jowls? And when did my neck start looking like that? (Insert scream here.) The only thing that’s saving me from total shock is that my eyesight is gratefully fading. If I stand far enough back from the mirror, I look like Doris Day in her later films, all fuzzed out and pretty.
Number Eight: Wear clothes for comfort, rather than fashion. A slippery slope, let me tell you.
Number Nine: Use an old lady cart to get groceries. This is the most humiliating out of all of the above. I feel a thousand years old dragging the damn thing over to Safeway. I feel like I should heap on the Depends, antacids and laxatives, and shuffle back home. I feel like I’m using a walker. Ever since this summer when I had seizures in the emergency room—and the DMV suspended my driver’s license—I have no choice but to use the horrid cart if I want food. Yes, I know I should be thankful I can still walk and I’m alive and all that garbage, but I hate crossing six lanes of traffic on El Camino looking like a crazy old lady when I’m only fifty-bloody-three.
I have decided to stop aging altogether. Next time I emerge from my bunker, I’ll let you know how my refusal to get older is working.
©2013, Janet Periat
Sorry I’ve been remiss in posting here, but I’ve been having health issues which severely compromised my brain. In July of 2012, I went to the hospital with nausea and fainting spells. They gave me phenargen for the nausea, which gave me grand mal seizures. Which blew out my brain for a while and rendered me unable to write. Slowly, my brain has returned and I’m finally getting back to abnormal. So hopefully, you will see many more postings here this year.
For those who try to leave comments: Sorry. I will be having my technical person looking into why no one can leave comments. My apologies for the glitch.
For those who have tried to contact me and had their email bounce back: Again, my apologies. This issue has just been brought to my attention. Again, I’ll have it fixed soon. Until then, you can go to my Facebook Page and like it and leave me messages there. Look for Janet Periat’s Fan Page (Official, Authorized and Fully Licensed).
In other words: I’m baaaaaack!!!!
Love to everyone!