The Cookie Thief

Plotting planning  scheming.
Plotting, planning, scheming.

There are a few movies I could watch over and over again, and never get tired of them. The Secret Garden is one of them, and it always makes me cry. I can’t help it, and there’s nothing I can do about it. When the end comes, my cheeks are always wet with tears.

When it comes to the interaction between a woman and a shrunken man, there are thoughts I can’t help but have, as they come to me as naturally as those emotional tears when I watch that movie. Those thoughts don’t relate to direct intimacy between a little man and a much larger woman, but they surround it.

One of them began years ago and it has to do with theft… cookie theft, to be specific. I imagined the life of a shrunken man. What does he do every day? How does he keep his mind alert and his body in shape? In what way does he exert his self-determinism now that he’s the size of a small toy?

Well, there are many ways, but stealing cookies from the woman he loves is one of them. She bakes them and then doesn’t let him have but a few crumbs, the way we women like to do when we go in the kitchen and prepare delicious foods that then we try to keep away from the men we love.

That’s not all she does to keep him healthy: She gives him a dollhouse where he can almost feel normal from time to time; she sews little clothes for him so he can almost feel normal because he owns clothes; she plans activities for him that resemble what he used to do when he was bigger, and almost make him feel the way he used to.

But then she maps his days and nights in a manner that constantly drives home how small he truly is, in the way she speaks to him, the place he occupies in the palm of her hand when she feeds him, and the diet he’s now forced to follow, for example.

Everyone likes a bit of junk food every now and then, and… well, to have to ask permission for a damn cookie, and then get a few crumbs because “he’s getting a little fat”? And the way she giggles when she emphasizes the word “little”, poking his belly with the giant tip of her fingernail, pushing him back a step, punctuating that power she has over every bit of food he receives.

What choice does a manly man have but to arm himself with an assault rifle, a grappling hook, and a healthy appetite as he plans to enter one of her realms, that environment where building-sized appliances hum and buzz, framed by counters that loom like mountains, atop which she keeps those snacks she makes?

I want a cookie, and I’m gonna take a cookie, and there’s nothing you can do about it, woman!
he thinks as he inserts a 30-round magazine into his tiny AK47. You know, in case there are any bugs. A hunting rifle would be more efficient for a kill, but spray fire from a high-capacity weapon is what he requires to scatter ants or frighten a spider.

Not that it would work, but it’s the idea of carrying a weapon “just in case” into an environment that hardly ever presents a target that he likes, and it’s the exaggeration of drama that falls into the ridiculous that I find appealing about arming a shrunken man with firepower just so he can break into his own cookie jar.

Or what used to be his cookie jar.

Now everything is hers, including his little body, but every once in a while it’s lovely to defy her and do as he pleases, and it doesn’t hurt that when he is discovered, the punishment makes it worth all the trouble he went through just to pretend for a moment that he has a single say over anything at all.


Shrunken men and shoes


Today is the last day of November, and for many thousands of people, the last day they get to upload a word count at As I mentioned before, this year I didn’t have the time to write 50,000 words, but I’ve been thinking about it and missing the thrill. The above is my word count chart as it looked exactly a year ago.

My story came along very nicely. It was (still is) mostly story and almost no padding, with loads of description and dialogue and almost no annoying weather-related similes or metaphors of which I’m terribly fond, but can get as tired as a late summer drizzle… that’s tired.

I like my story. It’s about a group of women that gather to relate something in common, something they share with a very naughty man that did a really bad thing to them. As they tell their stories something happens to him. He’s with them, listening to each woman’s account, as is his mother, a very powerful woman looking for something. Each of their experiences came from various ideas I had and notes I made long ago for short stories, and even a dream, all adapted to suit my writing needs.

Speaking of needs, here’s one of them, very intense, strong, powerful like a late summer storm… sort of need.

Hes right where he belongs.
He’s right where he belongs.

No, I’m talking about the shoes. I was looking for violet shoes as it is my wont to do from time to time, and I saw these on the first Google page that popped up on my screen. It was love at first sight. Oh, how I stare and drool at them! The brand is L’Autre Chose, and the price is over $200.00, so I’ll have to wait until nothing more pressing needs pecuniary attention (40-50 years), and then you bet I’ll make them mine.

Until then, I’ll picture my little guy in them, visiting, playing, slipping through that toe-peeping space, exploring, writing his name on the sole, and finally falling asleep on the soft material in the toe section so I’ll find him there, spot him just as I’m about to step into them. Of course I pretend I don’t see him, and get a very giant kick out of feeling his little hands push against my slowly descending foot as he chirps out, “No! You silly giantess! Can’t you see I’m down here?”

And of course I say, “Why, no, Little One! I certainly did not see you down there! How could I, when you are so little, tiny, small, hard to see?”

And then he gives me one of his red-cheeked, outraged looks I love to imagine.

I think I’ll find a way to put these shoes in my story when I get around to editing it.

Hell pay for what hes done to that high heel shoe wont he
He’ll pay for what he’s done to that high-heel shoe. Probably.

2007 was my third year doing NaNoWriMo, and in previous years I had a few ideas on what to write. Last year I only had one in the beginning, but it’s one I loved. The title is “All About Steve”, inspired by the collage above.

I started collecting the elements for it over two years ago, and in the beginning it was only going to be a tiny-man-and-giant-shoe image. I worked on it, finishing it rather quickly, since I only had to add the man to the shoe image. I sat in front of my computer a year ago, looking at it, thinking about the few shadows I needed to add, when I felt that thing… that tingly something in the back on my mind that tells me An Idea is about to arrive within the next few seconds, and then, POW! I saw him, his life, all about him.

I thank Bette Davis’ movie for the story title, but that’s where any vague similarity ends. I went looking for a weapon he could use, and knew exactly the one I was going to give him, and I gave him a target painted on the heel of that giant shoe. A blasphemy, heinous sacrilege for a shoe lover like me, but there’s a point to the abomination.

In the end I didn’t write anything about Steve, and saved his story for this year’s novel, which I didn’t write. I’m still planning on doing it, and I can also mention that the rifle he’s holding is a wonderful, tempting, luscious bolt-action Mosin-Nagant 91-30 sniper rifle, the kind that makes weapon collectors and lovers drool. That rifle both places Steve in great danger, and saves his life.

If his rifle seems too long, there’s a reason behind that. I also gave him a scar as I was finalizing the image. I still don’t know how he got it.

Concealed carry, or high capacity?

I’m dying to buy my first gun. Dying.

So I’ve been reading about a few pistols here and there, knowing it will be a while before I have enough extra money to spend on antiquities such as WWII Russian rifles like the Mosin-Nagant with scope, the type used to nix some of them Nazi pests by my hero Lyudmila Pavlichenko.

Number of confirmed kills 309
Number of confirmed kills: 309

But more on that some other time.

I can’t help but think that now is the best time to go out and get your high-capacity, high-caliber weapons, especially if the gun laws that passed in Chicago can now pass anywhere. Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is the tremendous stupidity of legislation that negates a person’s right to carry a concealed weapon in order to defend herself, while the bad guys—who are not going to follow a law simply because it passes—arm themselves with what they wish, by whatever means they have.

My top priority as far as home protection is to have the ability to defend my son if a home intruder or two happens to break in. Does having a high-capacity pistol help? Maybe not. Maybe I’ll be fine with a 6-round Glock, but I choose something that will allow me to shoot a higher number of bullets, something that will give me the feeling I can defend my child more effectively if I need to, something like the Springfield XDM.

Or I could choose the petite Walther PPS for my first gun, something I can take with me during walks, or to the park where bodies have been dropped and women have been raped, or anywhere my son and I visit. In any case, and whatever decision I make, the process is wonderful, and fun, and legislation free.

So far.

Well, at least I have nice dreams.

There I am, part of the crew.
There I am, part of the crew.

I did often have nightmares when I was a child. I only have a memory of one when I was six years old; it was such an unusual occurrence that I never forgot it. I only started having bad dreams in recent years. Last night I dreamt my son ran away from home and later called me on the phone so I’d pick him up at a crowded place. The horrible part of the dream was getting there before anyone thought of kidnapping him.

But then the dream changed, and I was suddenly part of the Serenity crew, battling bad guys in space. Of course I looked like my normal self, and not a squid. Actually, I didn’t look like my normal self either, since I was wearing a combination of cowgirl and high-tech clothes. Ya know, the boots, but made of bantha leather; the pants, but made of space-age fabric, the sexy S&W .44 Magnum type revolvers, but the kind that shot ray blasts.

Anywho, after we beat the bad guys we were celebrating, somebody shouted in disgust, and pointed at the floor toward the kitchen. There we saw a flood of roaches and other bugs running away from the kitchen in one direction, heedless of the light and humans around them. Then we heard a series of terrible explosions, and we realized the bugs had sensed trouble before humans the way some creatures do. We opened the ship’s windows to look outside, parked about 20 miles away from the city. What we saw was terrifying: A colossal mechanical bug destroying the city with missiles and rays shooting from it.

I heard someone sigh and say (with regret, as though they had hoped it had been a different foe), “And I had hoped we were being attacked by Iraqis”, and someone else whispered, “And I had hoped we were under nuclear attack”. In other words, the city-sized bugs were much worse than either of the other possibilities. Then a third person said, “We have to call Doctor Who!” at which point I felt great disappointment as I thought, But I’m in a Firefly dream! Not in a Doctor Who one!

Then I woke up thinking it would have been tremendously cool just to grow in my dream as I’ve done before, and squish those mecha bugs. Some of my dreams do make it worthwhile to sleep like crap.

Hot Fuzz

This is something else I posted in my old blog last year. I feel I should be embarrassed to show how often I save what I type… but I’m not.

Achtung! Verboten! Here there be spoylers…

I don’t watch many movies in theaters. I usually wait until they come out on tape. One small reason for that is my deep dislike of People That Talk In The Theater. They are the foundation for my wish to grow while in a movie theater so I can stomp them dead, or simply sit in front of them. Who would dare complain when a hundred-foot-tall woman rips off the theater roof and moves her shape in front so as to block the view of everything? Well, little ones can always watch the movie projected on my back. And boy, they wouldn’t make a peep.

Last week I rented Hot Fuzz. I had seen the trailer on another DVD and then forgotten all about it. I loved Shawn of the Dead, but had no idea what to expect here. I was entertained from the second it began playing. The soundtrack opened its floodgates, and Adam Ant’s Goody Two Shoes had the perfect wave to introduce Nicholas Angel’s pristine policeman-ness. Officerness.

Much to my delight, I found out that Jim Broadbent is in it. There’s no part he plays that I don’t like. His voice, the way he intones words, the manner in which he transforms script with his voice so that each syllable contains humor, his gliding into scenes, the way his body language supports everything he says, as though every muscle in his body knows how to tell a joke… he’s great, and made it so that I enjoyed this movie ten times as much.

Guns, explosions, fights, blood, murder, axes, decaffeinations, this movie has it all, and not one annoying sex or kissing scene that gets in the way of the rhythm. I like romantic movies, but the truth that some idiotic women-are-from-Venus articles try to dispel is that we women like action flicks too. We love them. My favorite Braveheart scene is when all the battling is taking place. The beginning of Gladiator, with all the blood and limbs flying off. The best part of Enemy at the Gates involves a Mosin-Nagant and sniper shots. The war scenes in Windtakers are only second to the descriptions of the code. But I love codes. Anyway, good movie.

But I would have never imagined that while watching it my jaw would drop and I would be hurled into one of my very special thoughts in being a giantess. It started when Angel and Butterman Jr. swerved the police car to avoid hitting the swan, and chased Butterman Sr. and Skinner into the model village. Oh, man…

Cover your children's eyes, for this image is my porn. Slutty Model Villages #15
Cover your children’s eyes, for this image is my pron. Slutty Model Villages #15

Doing a leg split for the first time. That’s the best way to describe how my mind felt; like a truncating in two parts. One was watching the movie, and the other had begun to run a duplicate sequence, except the characters in it were not men, and were not normal sized. In my head there were two giantesses, many hundreds of feet in height, fighting to the death, and I was one of them.

See, I really like the idea of fighting an evil giantess hard enough to kill her if I have to, in order to protect what’s mine, which in this case is the very town we both destroy as we fight. I don’t like destruction, so I’m not exactly sure how that figures into my fantasy computations. I think it has something to do with a demonstration of commitment to protect. The more I toss her about, the more energy I’m devoting to her demise.

It’s never gonna make any sense. Whatever. Who cares? I think many of us have super hero fantasies every once in a while at least at one point in our lives, especially when we are children. I no longer find myself thinking about it as often as I used to, but that’s understandable. I had to suspend my giantess campaign to save the economy.

As I imagine it, I hurl her onto buildings, flattening them (and the people inside) as she falls. She gets up and dives for me. I try talking some sense into her in the beginning, tell her buildings aren’t toys and suggest some healthier alternatives (such as rotting in hell), but she doesn’t want to listen, so here we are now. She punches me but I bring my legs between us and push her away so that she flies off in an arch, landing on… more buildings. It’s my turn to crash onto her, and I straddle her torso, driving my fist into her face again and again. I keep breaking more of her until she finally expires, and the town is made safe.

What’s left of it, anyway.

Then my attention returns to the movie, and I see Timothy Dalton’s head on a spire. Excellent movie.

What to do with $10,000

Tall and tiny, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Tall and tiny, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G

It’s 5:22 in the morning, and I can’t find my copy of The Bachman Books. I know I bought it years ago for $4.00, and I know I read it, but somewhere along the line it got gone. So I’ve been looking for it, and instead found a bag of bubble wrap I somehow have to recycle. Who takes bubble wrap? Apparently some UPS stores do, but anyway, that’s not your problem. Damn… where’s my damn book!?! I wanna read Rage again! And The Long Walk is practically part of my childhood. I’m thinking maybe the cable guy took it when he came in here to install cable so I could watch the World Cup. Except he said “Great book!” as he walked out the door and saw it on my table, so unless he was some incredible prestidigitator (in which case he wouldn’t be a cable guy), there’s no way…

Life is cruel.

Speaking of ways in which life is in fact cruel, I was thinking about those little boxer girls in Thailand. Someone told me a few weeks ago that the National Geographic Channel had a show called Taboo, and one segment of it was about girls that seemed to be about four years old, that had learned to box, and did it as a betting sport. At first I was disgusted, because I remember what I was like when I was four years old. I wanted to read books, and if my parents had put me in a ring so that greasy people could bet money on me, or on my opponent, I would have screamed bloody murder. Then I thought about it, and I continued to be disgusted by the idea. Muay Thai kickboxing, I think they call it, is becoming increasingly popular in England as something parents force their little children to do, and it can be found in the United States as well, except I haven’t seen footage of local little kids beating each other up while they move about in a sports ring.

That being said, I think it’s only cruel when the child doesn’t want to do it. If your little girl is wailing before every fight, that’s a pretty strong indication she might not want to be there. If I had a daughter, I still wouldn’t put her in a position where she’d possibly receive injuries to the head. That’s where she’d keep her brain. She’d be needing it.

But what does that have to do with the price of lemons?

Well, speaking of parental cruelty, decades ago there was this fabulous practice in South America that involved children and their parents. When a child had a birthday, her parents would throw her a little party, which involved her classmates and their respective progenitors. There would be cake, drinks, often a terrifying payaso

and after the screaming died down, the hostess would proudly announce it was time to break the piñata.

Now I will tell you something that perhaps you do not know. Piñatas back then were made of ceramic, a material that we children were supposed to hit with a stick as it hovered over our heads like a Death Star with breast implants, and that after it shattered in a million pieces, we were supposed to dive into a pile to try to gather as much as we could of the toys and candy that had exploded from its sharp innards. The parents? They stood back and smiled, and I would not be surprised if bets were placed and money changed hands as Fernandito elbowed Camilito in the face to get to that miniature fire engine, and Blanquita bit Carmencita‘s leg as she snatched candied almonds from her iron grip.

Years and a heartfelt rendition of “I Like to Live in America” later, I prepared to torture celebrate my firstborn with the same practice, once he proved he could stand on his two feet and hit acquired targets with a bat. Awesome, I thought. Now it’s my turn to watch him dive into sharp fragments of a breakable material have fun with his family and friends! But as I waded my way through Parties’R’Us, there were no decent piñatas to be found. Soon I discovered that in this country all piñatas are made of cardboard and paper. Do you have any freaking idea how hard it is for a small child to break a paper and cardboard piñata? Do you have any clue how difficult it was for me? The thing just sort of caved in like unbreakable rotten fruit, and we had to de-hang it and tear into it like a pack of hyenas.

It was very Lord of the Flies, and of course I blame J.R.R. Tolkien for it. It’s clear that parents, in a misguided effort to honor Gimli’s attempt to destroy the One Ring at the Council of Elrond, have chosen to emulate his behavior through their American children. Piñatas, just like The Ring, cannot be simply destroyed.

You need a Barrett M82, or a McMillan TAC-50, which brings me to the title for this post.

If I had $10,000, I’d get me one of those. Either would do. Them .50 BMG rounds can go through just about anything… so I was tweaking the image I posted above, the Sitting in a Tree one, and I got to thinking, If that tall lady there threw her little shrunken fella a party, then she’d have to provide an unbreakable piñata as well. Pondering what would be best to bring it to submission made me think of those sniper rifles, which I would love to own, being as I love guns.

Of course I’d need to sell one of my livers to get ammo, but hey, sacrifices.

I gotta go. Have a nice day!