ADD, Cat lovers, Human Behaviour, Human Nature, Humour

Who Could Know?

Every scrap of paper I’ve written something important on, I keep, but I can’t find them. I have filing trays with printed off information, non of which are organized yet, but will be as soon as I finish working on another project. My sticky notes are mostly expired, but if I trash them, there’s a chance I’ll still need a couple or three. I get uptight when my hubby comes into my writing lair to borrow my stapler, because, bless his forgetful heart, he won’t remember where it belongs afterwards.  I have two overly furry cats who shed remnants of fur in here, and I put up with it because they own the place. That can be distracting. I’m only able to thoroughly focus on writing or editing my novel or story. Anything and everything else seems to lead to other things to think about. I’m either suffering from ADD or ADD is symptom of writing. Who could know?

Human Behaviour, Human Nature, Humour

Uninformed Greedy Guts

The system was I’d make enough din-din so hubby could warm his portion at work the following night.

Well, I made extra the night before so I could do something quick with it for myself the next evening. Hungry early and looking forward to my already cooked main stir fry ingredient, I went to the fridge. I couldn’t find it. I moved stuff. I squatted down, hung onto the shelves and thoroughly inspected the fridge’s contents. Gone? I shut the fridge door, counted three Mississippi’s and opened it again. I looked like a curious dog, you know, how they turn their heads and relate with their eyebrows.

Then it hit me… uninformed greedy guts left the container with his three course meal and took my extra, because that container was the biggest. I hugged my middle all bent over and scared the cats with my maniacal laughter and slaps on the counter. Utter greed—he took four grey, cooked chicken legs with wrinkled, cold skin on them, crushed down unceremoniously into the container with no veggies, no potato. Ew!

I knew what he was calling about that night. It was either for sympathy or we’d laugh together. I laughed the hardest.

Humour, Traditional publishing

Glorified Forced Rest


I have a lack of understanding for ‘just wait a while longer.’ It’s glorified forced rest, that’s all. It’s the rest that comes before the task so large, you kinda wish you never stopped waiting. So, yeah, I must chill while I wait for a yes or no. I think I know what makes my cats feel anxious when I’ve got their food bag in one hand the phone in the other. As soon as I hang up from Madame Garrulous, they’ll get fed. And they wait….

But I’m waaaiting to hear back from a publisher. I don’t want to be an Indie author, I want the challenge of the process of traditional publishing. See, where I went wrong in the first place was to ask God for more patience. Well it turns out He doesn’t just hand it over. He sends trials to build the skill. So anyway, I was under the influence of God when I decided to send out a realistic drama-type novel. It isn’t for the faint of heart, it’s hardboiled, and so is mental illness. It’s also dark, and funny, and meaningful.  Coach House Books, a small press in Toronto, did send a note to say it’s in their reading queue, and it was going to be about six months. We’re just a tad past that, and I believe they’re good for their word. I have a 100-word synopsis handy, I’ll drop it in here and if you want, you can help me wait for that cat kibble to drop in the dish, so to speak.  Would you mind? Waiting. It makes me pace.

Thank God for this rest, I suppose. People I hardly know think it’s going to make its way, so I’ll be complaining about the task soon enough maybe. Here’s the synopsis:

Lynn P. Penner

Fifteen-year-old Brad Fadden trudges with his head down and his guard up. His unassertive mother didn’t stop it, and she’s fearfully reticent about it. His protective sister fled at the age of sixteen because of it, and the family’s raw scars spread far beyond what their clothes cover. It’s 1988; ganja, cocaine—whatever—easy snag for minors. Even so, Brad’s illusion of escape does not squelch resentments and suspicions which compel him to harass his freshly dead, psychopathic father’s socially inept boozing pal to exhume the guarded, pivotal truth. The truth will set you free, they say. They’re wrong.

Careful what you ask God for. 😉 Thanks for reading~


God Helps Greedy Guts Hubby To Reform


The system was that I made dinner and Hubby would get his three-course din-din to go for the next night so he could warm it at work. Well, I made extra one night so I could do something with it the next night. Hungry early the next night and looking forward to an easy din-din, I went to the fridge for the extra. I couldn’t find it. I moved stuff. I squatted down, hung onto the shelves and thoroughly inspected the fridge’s contents. Still, it was gone. I shut the fridge, counted to three, and opened it again. I was looking like a curious dog, you know, how they turn their heads. Then it hit me…my guy left his reasonably-sized  supper container and took my large container of extra. I laughed and laughed—four chicken legs with wrinkled, cold skin on them, shoved carelessly into the container, no veggies, no potato. Ew. Ha! I knew what he was calling about that day. It was either for sympathy or we’d laugh together. I laughed the hardest.

God has a way of letting us know when we need to rethink our behaviours. So there. God can do two things at once. I needed that belly laugh, and Hubby needed to know the biggest isn’t always the best. 😉

L. P. Penner, 2013


Funny Facts About God’s Cats


We cats are quite remarkable.
Allow us to explain
what it is about us
that makes us so very vain.

Cats don’t merely walk,
we strut.
And cats don’t need much sleep,
just naps.

We cats rarely feast,
we prefer to nibble.
And we too have different tastes,
some for canned food,
some for kibble.

Cats don’t just jump,
we pounce.
And we’re very agile;
astounding balance.

Cats don’t give in so much
to what you expect of us;
we negotiate,
until you give in to us!

So, if you are so lucky
to be owned by one of us,
or maybe a couple or three,
perhaps you can learn a thing or two
about living independently….

L. P. Penner, 2015


On Marriage and Slumber


He jostles his hip finding
the sleep-ready sweet-spot;
she may always grimace,
but says not a word of retort.

He has three pillows
he fluffs and he scrunches;
she thinks he’s ridiculous.
He says he needs the support.

When he’s settled in
then she will stretch and bend
to slumber with her husband,
that pillow man.

Asleep, he somehow determines
that it just isn’t enough,
those three pillows he hordes—that worm…
and now hers is his fourth.

She knows he works hard;
won’t disturb his sleep,
but deep down she wishes
less pillows he’d keep.

The night before she wrote this
he did cross the dream-sleep line….
He shoved a pillow into her chest
not once, but more than twice.

She clutched it and flung it
to her side of the bed
where he couldn’t reach it,
not ever again.

© L. P. Penner, 2015




One handed, scrolling her cell, she strolls in front of me outside with her grocery cart; beautiful day for sauntering along, after all, is it not? Sharp, rusty-sounding turn, ramming my way around her and keeping my rude comment to myself, I peel to my car with my cart in a panic after having to resort to my credit card.

I’m wearing a sundress, my knee’s on the seat, car door’s wide open. I’m pretty much up-side-down—my everything on display—I do not find the debit card. I throw off the sunglasses, look again.

Back to gas station to discover an honest human has turned in my card. I’m doing the pee dance, cash attendant smiles and points to the relief room. On my way home, driver jumps on brakes to avoid hitting a bug or something, forcing me to do the same. Open purse falls to floor and I hear all my necessary junk spill out. Deep breath, ignore, pay attention to traffic.

Once I’m home, I pick up my necessary junk, cram it unceremoniously into my purse and unload groceries. I’m on the fourteenth and final stair when I lose my grip on a bag handle and food rolls and bounces all the way down. Two cats chase it and marvel at this new game.

Next time I find ten bucks in my husband’s jean shorts while doing laundry I will keep it, yes I will; however, I will not laugh at him and wave it in the air like a trophy, because that my friends, creates punishment due to me.

© L. P. Penner, 2015