Nearly every day since we moved the books cases into my office, he's taken 2-3 naps up there, curled up where he can't be seen.
Every day, too, when I open a can of cat food at 11 a.m., he gets up, stretches, and then stares at the cat tree placed right next to his giant blue bed. He wants to jump down, and a year ago he probably would have. But now he thinks about it, realizes it's not a good idea, and takes the long was across the four tall bookcases to the shorter, staircase-stagger cases in front of the window, he walks across my printer and then my desk, and waits there for me to come pick him up and carry him to his food.
He can make the jump from the desk to the floor easily still, but why? He knows I'll come get him. It's one of the few times I can pick him up and not worry that he'll bite me. I carry him a few feet into the kitchen, and take the opportunity to drop a few kisses on the top of his head, because that's the only way I'll ever really be able to.
Tonight when it was snack time, he waited on the desk, and I came to get him as usual, and three steps into the kitchen he pressed his head against my face.
Don't forget the kisses.
Friday
Thursday
8 November 2018
Starbucks green iced tea, no water added.
Right after they make it--if it's been shaken the way it's suppose to be--there's a nice head of foam on it.
It kinda looks like beer.
When the ice melts and there's only about half left, it looks like pee.
So basically, Starbucks is serving Bud Light.
Now you know.
Right after they make it--if it's been shaken the way it's suppose to be--there's a nice head of foam on it.
It kinda looks like beer.
When the ice melts and there's only about half left, it looks like pee.
So basically, Starbucks is serving Bud Light.
Now you know.
Wednesday
7 November 2018
My favorite shirt.
Mostly because it's true.
One of my other favorites says Introverts Unite. Separately. In Our Own Homes. Again, lots of truth there.
One of my friends thinks I'm an ambivert, and that might have been, way back when he knew a much, much younger me. But the truth now is that I am introverted and socially awkward, and I suspect it's the result of so many years of moving around and leaving friends behind, landing in places where I just didn't know anyone and when I did meet people, we didn't click.
Face it, I'm fairly liberal and wound up in some very conservative places.
After we left Texas--where I had martial arts as my main social outlet--I found it more and more difficult to connect with people unless it was online. In Illinois, I met, literally, no one with whom I had anything more in common than a couple of semesters at the local college. In North Dakota, we had a few friends, thanks to bowling, but there wasn't really any socializing outside that.
Ohio was a bright spot; we lived on a great street with terrific people, and spent a lot of time with them.
But that was it. We left there 15 years ago when the Spouse Thingy retired. My social life since then has been limited to online, except for one local friend who better die before dumping my ass.
This sounds whiny, but it's not meant to be.
It's really meant as more of an explanation.
I am perfectly comfortable with my introversion 99% of the time. I have a lot of friends, truly, but thanks to military life, they're scattered across the country. Or I met them through Max's blog. Or we connected way back when Prodigy was a thing and there was an active martial arts board. Some of my oldest friends--from when I was a kid--are still friends and we talk a lot, but they're way over there and I'm way over here.
There is a price to be paid for that kind of a social life.
Over time, with distance and habit, a person can lose their social skills. They forget how to engage in spontaneous small talk. There is no text-lag buffer, no taking time to edit thoughts before letting them fly. When you're conversing in person, you kinda have to talk. Like, right then.
So, sure, over the years I have become painfully socially awkward, and more of an introvert than I am an ambivert.
The topic came up recently when I was talking to a long time friend, who poked at me when she said she might be out this way and I reminded her I didn't have a guest room. I do have an inflatable mattress, and I might have a pump for it, so there was always a chance to bunk in the room where the treadmill and rowing machine live, and where Buddah and Max have barfed on the carpet approximately 4,967 times.
She declined.
And then she poked at me a little more. She wouldn't do that to me, because it would make me panic. When I denied that, she point-blank asked when the last time I had a guest was.
Um. Maybe in Ohio...? And before that, maybe when the Boy was 2?
"And if I drop in on your down time at the Pub Panel? With my entire brood?" I think that's when I told her to shut the fark up. She laughed at me again, and promised it would never happen. Too many new people at once. Too many people period. I don't do that well (Oddly, I never had those issues on the 3 Day. No clue why.)
More truth: yeah, we don't entertain at home. I have no idea HOW to entertain at home. You come over, I don't know what to do with you. I suck at small talk. If you're a talker, it works better (though not if you talk and talk and talk and talk and don't let anyone else get a word it...) because I feel like I'm more of a listener (delusional, perhaps) but really, no clue how to really socialize anymore. I'm not a decent cook, so you're probably not getting dinner here, and even if I were a decent cook...yeah, really never done that, so you're probably not going to have a great time.
Now, oddly, drop me into a party where I know a couple people, I'm okay. But you need to be okay with me sitting back and watching and listening, because I tend to not approach anyone and I still suck at small talk. It might look like I'm miserable and not having any fun, when the truth is I'm having a great time. But I avoid that, because it makes other people uncomfortable. Why is she just sitting there? Why isn't she talking? Is she just rude or what?
The weird, hard left turn: if I do the InDesign instruction at the Pub Panel, I won't have a problem with that. When I'm prepared, I can talk in front of a large group. If someone needs help with something, I can do that.
Hell, if you're a total stranger out in the wild and something's wrong, chances are I'll stop to help. I had zero issues stopping my car a few weeks ago to help an Asian guy in an Old Sac parking garage who couldn't figure out the parking exit payment. Neither of us understood a word the other was saying, but we figured it out. Never occurred to me to do anything other than solve the problem.
But that wasn't social.
I'll never see that guy again. Three or four minutes, done.
So, really, that's it. Now you know why you're probably not staying at my house on the cat-barf carpet, and why I seemed rude the last time you saw me, and why I'm pretty okay with being an introvert. It's not you. It's just how I am.
Sorry. I am awkard. Sorry.
For reals.
Mostly because it's true.
One of my other favorites says Introverts Unite. Separately. In Our Own Homes. Again, lots of truth there.
One of my friends thinks I'm an ambivert, and that might have been, way back when he knew a much, much younger me. But the truth now is that I am introverted and socially awkward, and I suspect it's the result of so many years of moving around and leaving friends behind, landing in places where I just didn't know anyone and when I did meet people, we didn't click.
Face it, I'm fairly liberal and wound up in some very conservative places.
After we left Texas--where I had martial arts as my main social outlet--I found it more and more difficult to connect with people unless it was online. In Illinois, I met, literally, no one with whom I had anything more in common than a couple of semesters at the local college. In North Dakota, we had a few friends, thanks to bowling, but there wasn't really any socializing outside that.
Ohio was a bright spot; we lived on a great street with terrific people, and spent a lot of time with them.
But that was it. We left there 15 years ago when the Spouse Thingy retired. My social life since then has been limited to online, except for one local friend who better die before dumping my ass.
This sounds whiny, but it's not meant to be.
It's really meant as more of an explanation.
I am perfectly comfortable with my introversion 99% of the time. I have a lot of friends, truly, but thanks to military life, they're scattered across the country. Or I met them through Max's blog. Or we connected way back when Prodigy was a thing and there was an active martial arts board. Some of my oldest friends--from when I was a kid--are still friends and we talk a lot, but they're way over there and I'm way over here.
There is a price to be paid for that kind of a social life.
Over time, with distance and habit, a person can lose their social skills. They forget how to engage in spontaneous small talk. There is no text-lag buffer, no taking time to edit thoughts before letting them fly. When you're conversing in person, you kinda have to talk. Like, right then.
So, sure, over the years I have become painfully socially awkward, and more of an introvert than I am an ambivert.
The topic came up recently when I was talking to a long time friend, who poked at me when she said she might be out this way and I reminded her I didn't have a guest room. I do have an inflatable mattress, and I might have a pump for it, so there was always a chance to bunk in the room where the treadmill and rowing machine live, and where Buddah and Max have barfed on the carpet approximately 4,967 times.
She declined.
And then she poked at me a little more. She wouldn't do that to me, because it would make me panic. When I denied that, she point-blank asked when the last time I had a guest was.
Um. Maybe in Ohio...? And before that, maybe when the Boy was 2?
"And if I drop in on your down time at the Pub Panel? With my entire brood?" I think that's when I told her to shut the fark up. She laughed at me again, and promised it would never happen. Too many new people at once. Too many people period. I don't do that well (Oddly, I never had those issues on the 3 Day. No clue why.)
More truth: yeah, we don't entertain at home. I have no idea HOW to entertain at home. You come over, I don't know what to do with you. I suck at small talk. If you're a talker, it works better (though not if you talk and talk and talk and talk and don't let anyone else get a word it...) because I feel like I'm more of a listener (delusional, perhaps) but really, no clue how to really socialize anymore. I'm not a decent cook, so you're probably not getting dinner here, and even if I were a decent cook...yeah, really never done that, so you're probably not going to have a great time.
Now, oddly, drop me into a party where I know a couple people, I'm okay. But you need to be okay with me sitting back and watching and listening, because I tend to not approach anyone and I still suck at small talk. It might look like I'm miserable and not having any fun, when the truth is I'm having a great time. But I avoid that, because it makes other people uncomfortable. Why is she just sitting there? Why isn't she talking? Is she just rude or what?
The weird, hard left turn: if I do the InDesign instruction at the Pub Panel, I won't have a problem with that. When I'm prepared, I can talk in front of a large group. If someone needs help with something, I can do that.
Hell, if you're a total stranger out in the wild and something's wrong, chances are I'll stop to help. I had zero issues stopping my car a few weeks ago to help an Asian guy in an Old Sac parking garage who couldn't figure out the parking exit payment. Neither of us understood a word the other was saying, but we figured it out. Never occurred to me to do anything other than solve the problem.
But that wasn't social.
I'll never see that guy again. Three or four minutes, done.
So, really, that's it. Now you know why you're probably not staying at my house on the cat-barf carpet, and why I seemed rude the last time you saw me, and why I'm pretty okay with being an introvert. It's not you. It's just how I am.
Sorry. I am awkard. Sorry.
For reals.
Tuesday
6 November 2018
I am feeling 62 kinds of =blech= today thanks to a headache that has all the feelings of an oncoming head cold. Last night I felt a little queasy, so I was pretty sure something was brewing...by tomorrow I'll probably want to spend the day in bed begging for new sinuses and an embarrassing amount of chocolate that I won't be able to taste.
But. How icky I felt didn't really matter, because there was one thing that had to get done today.
Voting.
There aren't really any reasons not to, people. Unless you're laid up in the hospital, there was an emergency, or you're genuinely affected by the current wave of active voter suppression happening in the U.S. right now, whatever comes out of your mouth about not bothering is an excuse, not a reason.
Just get it done.
It's painless. It's worth the wait in line. And when you're done, you get a free sticker.
Do it for the sticker, if nothing else.
But. How icky I felt didn't really matter, because there was one thing that had to get done today.
Voting.
There aren't really any reasons not to, people. Unless you're laid up in the hospital, there was an emergency, or you're genuinely affected by the current wave of active voter suppression happening in the U.S. right now, whatever comes out of your mouth about not bothering is an excuse, not a reason.
Just get it done.
It's painless. It's worth the wait in line. And when you're done, you get a free sticker.
Do it for the sticker, if nothing else.
Monday
5 November 2018
I spend a lot of time in Starbucks. I have a favorite table, some of the baristas know what I'm going to order before I open my mouth, and I recognize a lot of the regulars. I spend enough that I get a hell of a lot of freebies loaded onto my shiny gold Starbucks card, and I have been known to participate in a star dash or two or twenty.
I don't drink coffee, but I dig their tea and once in a while a Frappucino (with as little roast base as I can get, because I just never learned to like coffee.) (Also, they get a wee bit upset if you order a Frappe. That's McD's.)(Also also, learn the sizes there. It's not cute to refuse to say you want a tall, grande, venti, or trenta. No one cares if you hate the way they do it. Just make their job easier and do it the way their system is laid out. Otherwise you're gonna want a small and you're gonna get a grande.)
Yesterday Starbucks across the U.S. had a promotion: get a free red cup while supplies last, and until the end of the holidays, if you order a holiday drink after 2pm, you get 50 cents off.
People were lined up at opening, waiting to get their free red cup. Some stores received as few as 20 cups, based on (as far as I can tell) their typical sales patterns. Some got 50 or more. But within half an hour of opening, all the free cups had been given out.
Now, most people would have shrugged it off and said that it sucked, but, whatever.
I don't know what happened at the Starbucks I go to, because there's no way I'm getting there at opening. They open in the freaking middle of the night, when I'm usually offering the sleep fairy nasty things to come over and just do me. But as I surfed around online last night and read posts from the poor baristas who had to work during the cup give-away, way too many people lost their shit when they didn't get a free cup.
We're not talking someone snapping at the poor kid at the cash register and blaming him or her. We're talking full on, meltdown temper tantrums of the unholy terror toddler scale.
One woman posted that there was a meltdown so spectacular at her store that other people in line chipped in to buy the guy a $2.50 red cup that would get him the same deal. A grown-assed man, screaming and yelling so badly that people chipped in cash to shut him the hell up and spare the barista any further abuse.
Over a cup.
A cup that, when the free ones were gone, were available for purchase for $2.50. Any real Starbucks customer realizes the potential for savings there. Five purchases and you've covered the cost. From then out, that 50 cent discount is all yours.
And then came this morning, when a bunch of the people who scored their free red cup wandered into their local Starbucks and demanded their 50 cents off...and threw tantrums because the deal is for after 2pm, not all day. And only for holiday themed drinks.
It was all right there in black and white for anyone to read.
"But y'all can't expect us to read that whole thing." Seriously, that was said, according to one tired barista.
Imagine the mindset of someone who can't be bothered to read literally two sentences. Or those who do and don't grasp that 2pm MEANS 2 pm and not before. Or someone who doesn't get what they want and screams until they damn near have a stroke.
And the thing that keeps crossing my mind: tomorrow the U.S. has midterm elections, and these people probably vote.
God help us all.
I don't drink coffee, but I dig their tea and once in a while a Frappucino (with as little roast base as I can get, because I just never learned to like coffee.) (Also, they get a wee bit upset if you order a Frappe. That's McD's.)(Also also, learn the sizes there. It's not cute to refuse to say you want a tall, grande, venti, or trenta. No one cares if you hate the way they do it. Just make their job easier and do it the way their system is laid out. Otherwise you're gonna want a small and you're gonna get a grande.)
Yesterday Starbucks across the U.S. had a promotion: get a free red cup while supplies last, and until the end of the holidays, if you order a holiday drink after 2pm, you get 50 cents off.
People were lined up at opening, waiting to get their free red cup. Some stores received as few as 20 cups, based on (as far as I can tell) their typical sales patterns. Some got 50 or more. But within half an hour of opening, all the free cups had been given out.
Now, most people would have shrugged it off and said that it sucked, but, whatever.
I don't know what happened at the Starbucks I go to, because there's no way I'm getting there at opening. They open in the freaking middle of the night, when I'm usually offering the sleep fairy nasty things to come over and just do me. But as I surfed around online last night and read posts from the poor baristas who had to work during the cup give-away, way too many people lost their shit when they didn't get a free cup.
We're not talking someone snapping at the poor kid at the cash register and blaming him or her. We're talking full on, meltdown temper tantrums of the unholy terror toddler scale.
One woman posted that there was a meltdown so spectacular at her store that other people in line chipped in to buy the guy a $2.50 red cup that would get him the same deal. A grown-assed man, screaming and yelling so badly that people chipped in cash to shut him the hell up and spare the barista any further abuse.
Over a cup.
A cup that, when the free ones were gone, were available for purchase for $2.50. Any real Starbucks customer realizes the potential for savings there. Five purchases and you've covered the cost. From then out, that 50 cent discount is all yours.
And then came this morning, when a bunch of the people who scored their free red cup wandered into their local Starbucks and demanded their 50 cents off...and threw tantrums because the deal is for after 2pm, not all day. And only for holiday themed drinks.
It was all right there in black and white for anyone to read.
"But y'all can't expect us to read that whole thing." Seriously, that was said, according to one tired barista.
Imagine the mindset of someone who can't be bothered to read literally two sentences. Or those who do and don't grasp that 2pm MEANS 2 pm and not before. Or someone who doesn't get what they want and screams until they damn near have a stroke.
And the thing that keeps crossing my mind: tomorrow the U.S. has midterm elections, and these people probably vote.
God help us all.
Sunday
Saturday
3 November 2018
I love Christmas. No secret there. I look forward to putting up the Whovimas tree and the TARDIS lights around the fireplace, and I love going around and seeing other peoples' yard decorations. I enjoy shopping for gifts, when I'm kind of -meh- about shopping any other time. I sing along to Christmas songs and every year Feliz Navidad gets stuck in my head for a least a week.
But peoples...it's barely November.
I went over to Starbucks to get a little writing done, as I do most weekends, and they were already playing Christmas music. No, no, no, no, no. That chit needs to wait until Thanksgiving. I mean, start it ON Thanksgiving Day, like 6-8 pm after people have had dinner and are in a food coma, dreading the cleaning of the kitchen. Start it then and play it until New Year's Eve.
But not early November.
This early, it feels like punishment.
I got little work done in the 90 minutes I sat there. I finally gave up just as non-holiday music began pouring out of the speaker overhead, and headed for Walmart to pick something up for dinner.
Walmart felt like a relief.
That's just not right.
A writer's group I am a member of holds a "workshop" every year to cover issues in independent publishing. I put that in quotes because historically, little work gets done. The first three years it was held at Disneyland, and you can imagine how that went. The last two years it's been in Las Vegas (I did not go) and I understand it's been even less productive.
The last year it was at the Disneyland Hotel, on the night before the official start, a bunch of the attendees got together at the Rainforest Cafe, before I got there, there was drinking, there were words, and there was a bar fight.
It's the one thing I kinda wished I'd been there for.
The upcoming Indie Pub Panel will be, the organizer swear, vastly different. Individual panels will be structured. There will be an additional fee for each panel, the idea being that if people pay for it, they'll show up and do the work. There will be a dress code. It will be professional dammit.
It's being held at Disneyland again.
The person whose behavior started the bar fight was not, as promised, banned, and she'll be there again, her racist and homophobic rants surely on display. She's terrified of me for some inexplicable reason. I've never been mean to her. I've answered questions when she's directed them at me, and I've been polite.
I mean, I know what it is. She's got a pre-formed opinion about anyone with tattoos, and that I've had neon pink hair for every panel I've signed up for doesn't help.
All year, she's clamored for a panel that will teach indie publishers how to format for print using Adobe InDesign. She'll pay good money for that, because she's tired of paying other people to format her manuscripts, and there are always errors in them.
Guess who's been asked to head a panel tentatively titled: Formatting for Print with InDesign Made Super Simple?
Guess who agreed to do it?
Bets are now being taken (for real) on how quickly she asks for a refund.
I have the TV on for noise and Lottery Dream Home is playing on HGTV. It reminds me, I have a lottery ticket in my wallet I never checked. Granted, I know I didn't win the big one because 2 other people did, but there's a tiny, tiny chance I hit for something smaller. I should go check.
Bummer.
But peoples...it's barely November.
I went over to Starbucks to get a little writing done, as I do most weekends, and they were already playing Christmas music. No, no, no, no, no. That chit needs to wait until Thanksgiving. I mean, start it ON Thanksgiving Day, like 6-8 pm after people have had dinner and are in a food coma, dreading the cleaning of the kitchen. Start it then and play it until New Year's Eve.
But not early November.
This early, it feels like punishment.
I got little work done in the 90 minutes I sat there. I finally gave up just as non-holiday music began pouring out of the speaker overhead, and headed for Walmart to pick something up for dinner.
Walmart felt like a relief.
That's just not right.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
A writer's group I am a member of holds a "workshop" every year to cover issues in independent publishing. I put that in quotes because historically, little work gets done. The first three years it was held at Disneyland, and you can imagine how that went. The last two years it's been in Las Vegas (I did not go) and I understand it's been even less productive.
The last year it was at the Disneyland Hotel, on the night before the official start, a bunch of the attendees got together at the Rainforest Cafe, before I got there, there was drinking, there were words, and there was a bar fight.
It's the one thing I kinda wished I'd been there for.
The upcoming Indie Pub Panel will be, the organizer swear, vastly different. Individual panels will be structured. There will be an additional fee for each panel, the idea being that if people pay for it, they'll show up and do the work. There will be a dress code. It will be professional dammit.
It's being held at Disneyland again.
The person whose behavior started the bar fight was not, as promised, banned, and she'll be there again, her racist and homophobic rants surely on display. She's terrified of me for some inexplicable reason. I've never been mean to her. I've answered questions when she's directed them at me, and I've been polite.
I mean, I know what it is. She's got a pre-formed opinion about anyone with tattoos, and that I've had neon pink hair for every panel I've signed up for doesn't help.
All year, she's clamored for a panel that will teach indie publishers how to format for print using Adobe InDesign. She'll pay good money for that, because she's tired of paying other people to format her manuscripts, and there are always errors in them.
Guess who's been asked to head a panel tentatively titled: Formatting for Print with InDesign Made Super Simple?
Guess who agreed to do it?
Bets are now being taken (for real) on how quickly she asks for a refund.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
I have the TV on for noise and Lottery Dream Home is playing on HGTV. It reminds me, I have a lottery ticket in my wallet I never checked. Granted, I know I didn't win the big one because 2 other people did, but there's a tiny, tiny chance I hit for something smaller. I should go check.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Bummer.
Friday
2 November 2018
With every manuscript, there are things that make me laugh out loud, even though I know they might not make it into the final draft. A lot of my favorite things wind up deleted...with the Wick After Dark books, sooo much got cut because it was all, frankly, way too dirty to stay in a book that wasn't erotica.
But it's the things that amuse me that get cut that I mourn.
At 3 am, this chit's funny.
With 3 Lemon Drops and 2 shots of Fireball, it's hysterical.
Sober...eh...it's an old, tired joke, but since it's coming out of a 3 year old, it just might make the cut.
Thursday
1 November 2018
Oddz N Enz #874958628492.7x839/23
♦ I am so tired of political ads. So many packed into so little time, one right after the other, followed by 4 more...and I don't care what side they're on, they're all either lying or giving a minuscule sliver of truth taken totally out of context. Tuesday can't get here fast enough to that they're over.
♦ And in that vein.... If you're running for office and 95% of your commercial is dedicated to telling me everything your opponent is doing wrong, will do wrong, how stupid there are, you have already lost my vote. All that tells me is that your platform is not string enough to support the weight of your convictions, and you don't have the stones for the job.
♦ There are a couple of ad campaigns that drive me so nuts that I'm glad they're running for something in Sacramento and not here, because both major party candidates can't seem to do anything but whine and finger-point.
♦ I don't vote a straight-party ticket, so that wouldn't solve my being pissed off issues. I vote for the candidate I think will do the job the best, and there's one candidate running locally who is a registered Republican who has my vote. Surprise.
♦ NaNoWriMo is underway, and I'm off to a decent start. 4,000+ words, so only 46,000 to go.
♦ We officially can no longer say the word "hungry" out loud because for the last million years we've asked the cats, "Are you hungry?" right before going into the kitchen to feed them. Max has known from the start what it means, but Buddah finally understands it, so now when he hears it he expects something. And he can whine like a two-year-old at ear splitting decibels until he gets what he wants.
♦ There's a farking annoying fly in the house, and both cats just watch it go by. Eat the damn fly, furball.
♦ That damned fly is going to wind up in the bedroom 5 seconds before I go to bed, and it'll spend the rest of the night buzz-bombing my head.
♦ Useless cats...
♦ I am so tired of political ads. So many packed into so little time, one right after the other, followed by 4 more...and I don't care what side they're on, they're all either lying or giving a minuscule sliver of truth taken totally out of context. Tuesday can't get here fast enough to that they're over.
♦ And in that vein.... If you're running for office and 95% of your commercial is dedicated to telling me everything your opponent is doing wrong, will do wrong, how stupid there are, you have already lost my vote. All that tells me is that your platform is not string enough to support the weight of your convictions, and you don't have the stones for the job.
♦ There are a couple of ad campaigns that drive me so nuts that I'm glad they're running for something in Sacramento and not here, because both major party candidates can't seem to do anything but whine and finger-point.
♦ I don't vote a straight-party ticket, so that wouldn't solve my being pissed off issues. I vote for the candidate I think will do the job the best, and there's one candidate running locally who is a registered Republican who has my vote. Surprise.
♦ NaNoWriMo is underway, and I'm off to a decent start. 4,000+ words, so only 46,000 to go.
| Favorite line from today |
♦ There's a farking annoying fly in the house, and both cats just watch it go by. Eat the damn fly, furball.
♦ That damned fly is going to wind up in the bedroom 5 seconds before I go to bed, and it'll spend the rest of the night buzz-bombing my head.
♦ Useless cats...
Wednesday
31 October 2018
Ok, so I'm not doing the 3 Day this year. Too many other things popped up and there was no way to train and raise funds, so maybe next year. This means (unless we suddenly decide to go somewhere) I'll be home all month.
So. I'm definitely doing NaNoWriMo again this year, even though it feels kinda like cheating. 50,000 words in a month is about a third of what I normally write, but what the hell. I've got a book to write, so I might as well get part of the vomit draft done during November. The story has taken rough shape in my brain, but I don't have an outline or plethora of notes, so I'll mostly be winging it.
This should be fun.
Also, right now, I'm a little bit drunk and I'm trying to catch typos as they occur, but if I miss them...that's why.
I may also attempt NaNoBlogMo. That's the one thing that super suffers when I'm on a writing tear--I get the writing I need to get done, but not much more--but the blog languishes Posts might be short, but I'm gonna try.
Ohhhh...and a few people have expressed concern that the Wick Chronicles were over with "Jump," but I promise they are not. Jump ended the way it did because I wanted to move it forward a few years, but there's more of their story to tell. Lots more.
So. I'm definitely doing NaNoWriMo again this year, even though it feels kinda like cheating. 50,000 words in a month is about a third of what I normally write, but what the hell. I've got a book to write, so I might as well get part of the vomit draft done during November. The story has taken rough shape in my brain, but I don't have an outline or plethora of notes, so I'll mostly be winging it.
This should be fun.
Also, right now, I'm a little bit drunk and I'm trying to catch typos as they occur, but if I miss them...that's why.I may also attempt NaNoBlogMo. That's the one thing that super suffers when I'm on a writing tear--I get the writing I need to get done, but not much more--but the blog languishes Posts might be short, but I'm gonna try.
Ohhhh...and a few people have expressed concern that the Wick Chronicles were over with "Jump," but I promise they are not. Jump ended the way it did because I wanted to move it forward a few years, but there's more of their story to tell. Lots more.
His Grumpiness...just because.
Monday
8 October 2018
Boys won't like you if you're fat.
People won't like you if you're not pretty.
You want friends, don't you? No one likes tomboys.
No one will like you unless you lose weight.
Why don't you want to be pretty? Don't you want friends?
You have to do the right things to get people to like you.
I'm sitting in Starbucks, scratching out the very beginnings of a story. It's been quiet in here; I got my favorite table and decided that I'm camping out here the rest of the day to enjoy it. Other people have come and gone, but twenty minutes ago a couple sat down at the table next to me and two minutes into their conversation I'm jerked back to eight years old.
No one will like you if you're fat.
They're discussing, I assume, their child. Why won't she conform to normal? She's ten years old already; she should have outgrown the whole tomboy phase by now. And honestly, if she gains any more weight, her social life will end.
Boys don't like girls who act like boys.
They're not being snotty or condescending; they're genuinely concerned. Their daughter is on the cusp of being--they assume--a social outcast. Puberty is looming; she's rapidly approaching the age where appearance matters to her peers. She hates dresses. She wants to play basketball and take karate lessons. If she keeps going in that direction, she's going to be friendless and miserable, and the idea breaks their hearts.
You're going to wear a dress to school every morning. I'm tired of you looking like that.
Her pediatrician says she's on the high end of the scale, but not overweight, not yet. But Mom can see it coming. And when it happens--not if--she'll be miserable. Kids are just mean little things. And how can she get on the basketball team? She's not quick and not athletic at all. She'll wind up riding the bench and watching as the sport she wants to participate in goes on without her. Those kids will mock her.
You're not a boy. Stop acting like it already.
And the karate? She'll last a week at the most. How many little girls really want to fight little boys all the time? How will she learn dignity and grace doing something like that? Dad thinks he can teach her to defend herself, but will it even matter? If she doesn't change, she's not going to wind up in the positions where boys will take advantage of her. He certainly wouldn't have looked at her twice when he was young.
You'll never have a boyfriend if you don't do things to make yourself pretty.
Mom doesn't know what to do. Their daughter is stubborn; they can keep her out of basketball and karate, but they can't force her into doing something to make herself look better. They can stop a few things in their tracks; she wanted leggings to play in because her friends all have them, but God only knows how much teasing that would have invited, a girl like her in skin tight things.
Fat girls aren't pretty. That's just how it is. If you want friends, you'll do something about it.
I wanted them to look over at me. See the horror on my face. I wanted to open my mouth and warn them: keep it up, keep telling her she's less than you want her to be. Keep picking at her clothes and her weight and her interests; keep doing that, if in five years you want a teenager who doesn't trust you; if in twenty years you want those words to echo in her head like a scream in the night; if in thirty years you want those feelings to stab her in the heart.
Keep thinking along those lines and say something, because she'll hear you and she'll swallow it whole, and for the rest of her life she'll be embarrassed for the people who do like her, who love her, who cherish her, and she'll never quite feel like she deserves it.
Keep talking. Do it here, and maybe, hopefully, you'll hear yourselves before she does.
Saturday
6 October 2018
Okay, so the whole rejoining of the gym thing just didn't work. I like the idea of swimming and when I'm in the pool I love swimming, but my shoulders do not enjoy it as much, and it's an outdoor pool heading into cooler weather. Also, their heater isn't being cooperative and I don't want nipples any pointier than they already are.
The big thing...when presented with a choice--go to the gym or take the bike out--I take the bike. And because the temps are cooling down, it means we can go on long rides without worrying that it's going to get too hot, and we don't have to get out the door at Stupid O'Clock to beat the heat. So, the gym membership is on hold until spring, and I'm gonna ride the snot out of my bike.
Not swimming really brings me to this.
The hair.
It's been un-dyed primarily because I wasn't going to show up to my son's wedding with neon pink--or blue or red or purple--hair. Even though she never asked it of me, I promised the bride, no pink hair. And I joked that the day after, it was going pink, but...
Hair dye and swimming don't go well together. So I didn't.
Now that I can, I'm waffling on it. If I dye it, I'll probably keep dying it until March, when my head will get shaved for St. Baldrick's (oh hell yes I'm doing it again. I hate being bald, but it's for kids.)
My hair is thinning. I don't think the pre-dye bleaching is helping that.
But I dig the pink. Yet I'd also like to go purple.
This is how difficult my life is, guys. Do I dye my hair or act my age and not? You know, the super hard choices.
In other news, Max has been pre-gaming for tomorrow, when the new Doctor Who season starts. Tomorrow is a holiday at Casa de Thumper, and our asterisks are going to be planted in front of the TV starting at 9:30 or thereabouts. In the morning. Because they decided to have a global broadcast and evening in London is morning here, so...breakfast, then Who.
Yep, his life is hard, too.
The big thing...when presented with a choice--go to the gym or take the bike out--I take the bike. And because the temps are cooling down, it means we can go on long rides without worrying that it's going to get too hot, and we don't have to get out the door at Stupid O'Clock to beat the heat. So, the gym membership is on hold until spring, and I'm gonna ride the snot out of my bike.
Not swimming really brings me to this.
The hair.
It's been un-dyed primarily because I wasn't going to show up to my son's wedding with neon pink--or blue or red or purple--hair. Even though she never asked it of me, I promised the bride, no pink hair. And I joked that the day after, it was going pink, but...
Hair dye and swimming don't go well together. So I didn't.
Now that I can, I'm waffling on it. If I dye it, I'll probably keep dying it until March, when my head will get shaved for St. Baldrick's (oh hell yes I'm doing it again. I hate being bald, but it's for kids.)
My hair is thinning. I don't think the pre-dye bleaching is helping that.
But I dig the pink. Yet I'd also like to go purple.
This is how difficult my life is, guys. Do I dye my hair or act my age and not? You know, the super hard choices.
In other news, Max has been pre-gaming for tomorrow, when the new Doctor Who season starts. Tomorrow is a holiday at Casa de Thumper, and our asterisks are going to be planted in front of the TV starting at 9:30 or thereabouts. In the morning. Because they decided to have a global broadcast and evening in London is morning here, so...breakfast, then Who.
Yep, his life is hard, too.
Thursday
27 September 2018
42.
Not, not the answer to life, the universe and everything.
That’s how many years it’s been since I was fifteen years old. October 2, 1976. My own personal #metoo moment, the details of which don’t need to be picked through here. I’ve written about it once before, a very short chapter in a very short book, with some of the specifics changed because the truth wouldn’t worm out of my brain and onto paper. The ugliness of it wouldn't come out.
It still won’t. And please don’t ask me to.
Right now, on a dozen TV stations I am not watching—because the stress of it is too much, because half a minute of it made me so anxious I wanted to punch the TV—a woman is baring her pain for the world to see. Christine Blasey Ford is sitting in front of a massive panel made up of mostly white men and she’s trying to get them to listen, and to take seriously something far too many women know won’t happen.
She doesn’t want to be there. Who would? But she’s stepping up and allowing the world a fleeting glimpse of her internal terror, because it’s that important.
I have zero faith in the people who should be taking seriously every word that comes out of her mouth. They don’t care. They’re perfectly willing to appoint to the Supreme Court of the United States a man with more than one accusation against him rather than risk waiting until after the elections this year. God forbid they have to go with a more moderate candidate later because of what might happen in the mid-term elections. They toss around terms like “he said/she said” and brush off the notion that it even matters. They denied Garland his due hearing when appointed by Obama because of pettiness, and are now frothing at the mouth because the man they want has a roadblock in front of him.
No, I don’t think they care.
This isn’t a case of hiring some sketchy twenty-year-old to handle inter-office mail delivery, someone who can easily be fired if it turns out he really does have some noisy skeletons in his closet. This is someone who will sit on the highest court in this country, with the ability to affect change for decades to come. Any accusation should be taken seriously. Anything remotely credible should be examined until there’s no doubt about the outcome. That seat is far too important to rush, far too important to place the wishes of one political party over the other.
Yes, a “he said/she said” incident, when it comes to a Supreme Court appointee, should be taken seriously. And it goes beyond that: one accusation could be construed as he said/she said. Two accusations is enough that those in charge should listen quite a bit more carefully. Three establishes a pattern of behavior that cannot be overlooked. And four? Holy hell.
Yes, there are four. And still, these people who supposedly have the best interests of the country at heart are willing to barrel over everything and rush to appoint their candidate, for no apparent reason other than they want to place party over country—something they damn well admitted to in the past—and care little about the truth.
They are willing to elevate a rapist to the Supreme Court of the United States rather than risk waiting for a more suitable, and possibly moderate, candidate.
Come on. Let that sink in. They are willing to appoint a rapist.
“But he hasn’t been found guilty of anything!” No, he hasn’t. That doesn’t change that the people who are rushing this through don’t care about the facts. They don’t care if he’s guilty or not. They care about appointing their choice to the seat rather than waiting for the facts. They’ll appoint him knowing there’s a good chance that he did, in fact, assault Dr. Ford when he was seventeen. He could admit to them behind closed doors that he did everything he’s accused of, and more, and they’ll still do everything they can to get him into that seat.
No, it doesn’t matter that Ford didn’t report it then. Don’t judge her for not having it in her to go through the ringer of judgment when she, too, was just a teenager. Don’t judge her for being terrified of having to shoulder the blame—something many of us understood far too well in our teen years, that the victim was almost always blamed for something over which they had zero control—and don’t brush it off as boys being boys.
Take a look at your sons. If you’re willing to brush off sexual assault as being no big deal, that it’s something boys just do, consider what you’re teaching them. Then take a look at your daughters, because they’re the ones at risk. Do you really think it’s okay for someone to molest, assault, rape, touch, or torment them for no reason other than “Well, you know, boys will be boys.”
Retire the tired tropes, the lame excuses, and the prejudice against the victims of assault.
Statistically, the number of false accusations in sexual assault cases are so low as to be negligible. Statistically, too, the number of convictions are so low as to be a reason why reporting an assault feels like a waste of time.
Statistically, when a woman levels a charge, you can be pretty sure she’s not lying.
There is literally nothing to be gained from accusing someone of sexual assault, and everything to be lost. When Dr. Ford came forward, she endured death threats serious enough that she had to leave her own home, and that’s not going to end when today’s hearing does. She offered up her safety and sanity and will not benefit from this at all.
Brett Kavanaugh, on the other hand, will get a pat on the back and an “atta boy” from people who believe he’s guilty of the charge, but don’t think that something he did as a teenager should matter. He’ll go on living his life, likely as a Supreme Court Justice.
You can’t possibly be okay with this.
No one should be okay with this.
Not, not the answer to life, the universe and everything.
That’s how many years it’s been since I was fifteen years old. October 2, 1976. My own personal #metoo moment, the details of which don’t need to be picked through here. I’ve written about it once before, a very short chapter in a very short book, with some of the specifics changed because the truth wouldn’t worm out of my brain and onto paper. The ugliness of it wouldn't come out.
It still won’t. And please don’t ask me to.
Right now, on a dozen TV stations I am not watching—because the stress of it is too much, because half a minute of it made me so anxious I wanted to punch the TV—a woman is baring her pain for the world to see. Christine Blasey Ford is sitting in front of a massive panel made up of mostly white men and she’s trying to get them to listen, and to take seriously something far too many women know won’t happen.
She doesn’t want to be there. Who would? But she’s stepping up and allowing the world a fleeting glimpse of her internal terror, because it’s that important.
I have zero faith in the people who should be taking seriously every word that comes out of her mouth. They don’t care. They’re perfectly willing to appoint to the Supreme Court of the United States a man with more than one accusation against him rather than risk waiting until after the elections this year. God forbid they have to go with a more moderate candidate later because of what might happen in the mid-term elections. They toss around terms like “he said/she said” and brush off the notion that it even matters. They denied Garland his due hearing when appointed by Obama because of pettiness, and are now frothing at the mouth because the man they want has a roadblock in front of him.
No, I don’t think they care.
This isn’t a case of hiring some sketchy twenty-year-old to handle inter-office mail delivery, someone who can easily be fired if it turns out he really does have some noisy skeletons in his closet. This is someone who will sit on the highest court in this country, with the ability to affect change for decades to come. Any accusation should be taken seriously. Anything remotely credible should be examined until there’s no doubt about the outcome. That seat is far too important to rush, far too important to place the wishes of one political party over the other.
Yes, a “he said/she said” incident, when it comes to a Supreme Court appointee, should be taken seriously. And it goes beyond that: one accusation could be construed as he said/she said. Two accusations is enough that those in charge should listen quite a bit more carefully. Three establishes a pattern of behavior that cannot be overlooked. And four? Holy hell.
Yes, there are four. And still, these people who supposedly have the best interests of the country at heart are willing to barrel over everything and rush to appoint their candidate, for no apparent reason other than they want to place party over country—something they damn well admitted to in the past—and care little about the truth.
They are willing to elevate a rapist to the Supreme Court of the United States rather than risk waiting for a more suitable, and possibly moderate, candidate.
Come on. Let that sink in. They are willing to appoint a rapist.
“But he hasn’t been found guilty of anything!” No, he hasn’t. That doesn’t change that the people who are rushing this through don’t care about the facts. They don’t care if he’s guilty or not. They care about appointing their choice to the seat rather than waiting for the facts. They’ll appoint him knowing there’s a good chance that he did, in fact, assault Dr. Ford when he was seventeen. He could admit to them behind closed doors that he did everything he’s accused of, and more, and they’ll still do everything they can to get him into that seat.
No, it doesn’t matter that Ford didn’t report it then. Don’t judge her for not having it in her to go through the ringer of judgment when she, too, was just a teenager. Don’t judge her for being terrified of having to shoulder the blame—something many of us understood far too well in our teen years, that the victim was almost always blamed for something over which they had zero control—and don’t brush it off as boys being boys.
Take a look at your sons. If you’re willing to brush off sexual assault as being no big deal, that it’s something boys just do, consider what you’re teaching them. Then take a look at your daughters, because they’re the ones at risk. Do you really think it’s okay for someone to molest, assault, rape, touch, or torment them for no reason other than “Well, you know, boys will be boys.”
Retire the tired tropes, the lame excuses, and the prejudice against the victims of assault.
Statistically, the number of false accusations in sexual assault cases are so low as to be negligible. Statistically, too, the number of convictions are so low as to be a reason why reporting an assault feels like a waste of time.
Statistically, when a woman levels a charge, you can be pretty sure she’s not lying.
There is literally nothing to be gained from accusing someone of sexual assault, and everything to be lost. When Dr. Ford came forward, she endured death threats serious enough that she had to leave her own home, and that’s not going to end when today’s hearing does. She offered up her safety and sanity and will not benefit from this at all.
Brett Kavanaugh, on the other hand, will get a pat on the back and an “atta boy” from people who believe he’s guilty of the charge, but don’t think that something he did as a teenager should matter. He’ll go on living his life, likely as a Supreme Court Justice.
You can’t possibly be okay with this.
No one should be okay with this.
Wednesday
26 September 2016
Yep, they're married. Ten whole days now!
No wedding pictures yet (let's give them time to share first...) but there is this:
The moment during the rehearsal when the Boy realized I was taking a picture.
The venue was stunningly beautiful. Just a hint of how amazing:
And that is just a tiny taste... it went on and on, one of the nicest places I've ever seen. And the wedding was absolutely beautiful, and yes, I got a little teary-eyed. Kinda hard not to when you see your kid in his happiest-ever moments and know that he truly found The One.
Oh, and the view from our hotel room...
I wasn't thrilled when I found out we were on the 3rd story and there was no elevator, but the stairs didn't give me as many problems as usual, and we had a balcony...with this to look down on. I'd be quite happy to stay there again sometime.
But, yeah. They're married now. I have a daughter-in-law!
Life. Is. Good.
No wedding pictures yet (let's give them time to share first...) but there is this:
The moment during the rehearsal when the Boy realized I was taking a picture.
The venue was stunningly beautiful. Just a hint of how amazing:
And that is just a tiny taste... it went on and on, one of the nicest places I've ever seen. And the wedding was absolutely beautiful, and yes, I got a little teary-eyed. Kinda hard not to when you see your kid in his happiest-ever moments and know that he truly found The One.
Oh, and the view from our hotel room...
I wasn't thrilled when I found out we were on the 3rd story and there was no elevator, but the stairs didn't give me as many problems as usual, and we had a balcony...with this to look down on. I'd be quite happy to stay there again sometime.
But, yeah. They're married now. I have a daughter-in-law!
Life. Is. Good.
Thursday
13 September 2018
Just 3 more days!
On Sunday, they're saying I Do. The Boy and his Much Better Half, who might be the most so-right couple I know, the two who always pop into my head when I hear Ed Sheeran's Perfect come on the radio. I can't begin to tell you how much I love these two, and how grateful I am that she came into his life. He's always been a good man, but damn, y'all, with her he's a good man, and what more could a mother want for her son?
I don't think that I've ever looked forward to something as much as I have this wedding, other than, perhaps, his birth.
And I swear, if anyone stands up to object, I'll get off my asterisk and threaten to cut a beeyotch.
It's a small wedding, so I doubt it'll come up, but still...
They're getting married!
On Sunday, they're saying I Do. The Boy and his Much Better Half, who might be the most so-right couple I know, the two who always pop into my head when I hear Ed Sheeran's Perfect come on the radio. I can't begin to tell you how much I love these two, and how grateful I am that she came into his life. He's always been a good man, but damn, y'all, with her he's a good man, and what more could a mother want for her son?
I don't think that I've ever looked forward to something as much as I have this wedding, other than, perhaps, his birth.
And I swear, if anyone stands up to object, I'll get off my asterisk and threaten to cut a beeyotch.
It's a small wedding, so I doubt it'll come up, but still...
They're getting married!
Tuesday
Monday
3 September 2018
I want a mango.
The last time I had a mango was in 2002. I remember this, because the morning after I’d eaten one, the Spouse Thingy dragged me to the ER because I woke up with my face roughly the size of a basketball, which was a bit uncomfortable and quite disconcerting for him. The consensus in the ER was that I had an allergic reaction, and the mango was the most likely culprit: quit eating mangoes, because the next time the reaction might be quite a bit more severe.
Now, I might not be truly allergic to mango. Not long before I ate that fateful fruit, I was diagnosed with a pituitary tumor which had given me a nice, life-long case of diabetes insipidus, and I’d started taking DDAVP for it. One squirt in each nostril, twice a day.
Turns out I only needed one squirt once a day, before bed. And later, one pill once a day, before bed, and if I have breakthrough the next day, half of another pill. When the meds work too well, I bloat. And often, I feel that bloating in my face before I feel it anywhere else. So my basketball face might have been because of too much DDAVP and not the mango.
But there’s a risk in testing that theory out, and I’m not sure that I want to.
I also want kiwi. I freaking love kiwi. Kiwi does not, however, love me back. The last time I had kiwi was somewhere around 1996. It was only the second time I had it, just enough to know I really, really liked it. The first time, I felt a tingling in my jaw, but surely that was because it was sour. The next time, my mouth itched and my throat felt kind of thick.
So. No more kiwi for me for sure. But I really want one.
I also want pineapple. Pineapple to me is like candy. It’s sweet and wonderful, and I could eat it every freaking day.
Pineapple, on the other hand, does not like me. One bite, and it feels like my stomach is trying to digest itself. The pain just isn’t worth it.
There are a plethora of other fruits, so over the years, when the craving for mango or kiwi or pineapple hits hard, I’ve consoled myself with cherries and raspberries and oranges and pears and plums and bananas...
Yeah.
One by one, those things started hating me, too. Raspberries now cause the same pain that pineapple does. Oranges and other citrus fruit come close. Cherries and pears and plums and bananas cause other discomfort, badly enough that I avoid them now. Well, except bananas. If I spread out the eating of those, every other day, it minimizes the issues.
I’m pretty much left with grapes and strawberries as the fruit that hasn’t attacked me.
The point?
Yeah getting old sucks. I want my damned fruit back. And knees, hips, and a back that doesn’t hurt. I want my metabolism back.
And I want a damned mango.
The last time I had a mango was in 2002. I remember this, because the morning after I’d eaten one, the Spouse Thingy dragged me to the ER because I woke up with my face roughly the size of a basketball, which was a bit uncomfortable and quite disconcerting for him. The consensus in the ER was that I had an allergic reaction, and the mango was the most likely culprit: quit eating mangoes, because the next time the reaction might be quite a bit more severe.
Now, I might not be truly allergic to mango. Not long before I ate that fateful fruit, I was diagnosed with a pituitary tumor which had given me a nice, life-long case of diabetes insipidus, and I’d started taking DDAVP for it. One squirt in each nostril, twice a day.
Turns out I only needed one squirt once a day, before bed. And later, one pill once a day, before bed, and if I have breakthrough the next day, half of another pill. When the meds work too well, I bloat. And often, I feel that bloating in my face before I feel it anywhere else. So my basketball face might have been because of too much DDAVP and not the mango.
But there’s a risk in testing that theory out, and I’m not sure that I want to.
I also want kiwi. I freaking love kiwi. Kiwi does not, however, love me back. The last time I had kiwi was somewhere around 1996. It was only the second time I had it, just enough to know I really, really liked it. The first time, I felt a tingling in my jaw, but surely that was because it was sour. The next time, my mouth itched and my throat felt kind of thick.
So. No more kiwi for me for sure. But I really want one.
I also want pineapple. Pineapple to me is like candy. It’s sweet and wonderful, and I could eat it every freaking day.
Pineapple, on the other hand, does not like me. One bite, and it feels like my stomach is trying to digest itself. The pain just isn’t worth it.
There are a plethora of other fruits, so over the years, when the craving for mango or kiwi or pineapple hits hard, I’ve consoled myself with cherries and raspberries and oranges and pears and plums and bananas...
Yeah.
One by one, those things started hating me, too. Raspberries now cause the same pain that pineapple does. Oranges and other citrus fruit come close. Cherries and pears and plums and bananas cause other discomfort, badly enough that I avoid them now. Well, except bananas. If I spread out the eating of those, every other day, it minimizes the issues.
I’m pretty much left with grapes and strawberries as the fruit that hasn’t attacked me.
The point?
Yeah getting old sucks. I want my damned fruit back. And knees, hips, and a back that doesn’t hurt. I want my metabolism back.
And I want a damned mango.
Tuesday
28 August 2018
After battled a shoulder injury for over a year, I gave up and stopped swimming a year ago. Well, I'd really stopped swimming a year before that, I think, but tried every now and then, hoping it had healed enough. PT helped--it got me far enough along to manage day to day tasks--but swimming just hurt like hell.
I picked other things to do. Walking. I bought a spiffy neon pink bike and love the hell out of riding it. But I missed swimming, and more importantly, my back missed swimming.
We got a rowing machine to help, but it was clear pretty quickly that I needed a stronger back to be able to row without making the pain worse. So...we went back to the gym I was most comfortable at, the one with a 7 lane lap pool, a family pool, an aerobics pool, and a hot tub. The pools are outdoors which won't be ideal in winter, but the other gym, the high-end super clean we-are-important gym with the indoor pool heated to a perfect level of warm-but-not-too-warm, always made me mentally itchy and seriously uncomfortable.
I'm not sure if it was the "we're better than everyone else" or the cutting looks I got from other women, but I never wanted to go and always found excuses not to go.
I walked into the gym today, and not one mental itch. No one looked at me like I was breathing in air to which I was not entitled.
The downside... the pool was freaking cold. It took a couple laps to warm up, but once I got going it felt great. I didn't push it today, only half an hour, and my shoulder was fine.
My knee, not so much, but I'll deal with that later.
Fingers crossed I can keep this up, because swimming--as horrible as I am at it--is my favorite thing. Next to my bike. They might be tied.
Monday
6 August 2018
We're at the point with the next book where cover art is bandied about, and links to possibilities are sent to me for consideration.
I got this a little while ago, one of four in the running.
It's a nice image. I like it. It would make a fine book cover.
But...I think not for a book titled, "Jump."
But it did make me laugh, so there's that...
I got this a little while ago, one of four in the running.
It's a nice image. I like it. It would make a fine book cover.
But...I think not for a book titled, "Jump."
But it did make me laugh, so there's that...
Sunday
5 August 2018
Pick one. You've written two series. Pick the best one.
No.
C'mon, there has to be a favorite. If the cosmos opened up and a booming voice told you to pick one to keep forever, which one would you keep and which one would you delete?
Why the hell does your brain think of these things?
I'm unemployed and only one of the kids is still at home. I was told to go amuse myself, so I'm bugging you. Pick one*.
I could not pick one.
Well, I could. The first series is long over with. Done. The chances of me going back to it are slim to none, not unless I have some weird vision while walking or biking again (which is how The Flipside of Here came to be.) If I'm never going to work on it again, that would have to be the one to let go.
Still. The idea of getting rid of it?
I've said before, I would really like to re-write the first in that series, and I would re-title it. The idea crosses my mind every now and then. But, it found its footing with a lot of readers and it seems like cheating. Not that I won't if I find myself with nothing else to work on someday. But probably not.
Wanting to rewrite the first book aside, the story arc is good and the characters are relatable. Each book was better than the last, and I really dug the last book. But if I had to choose, if a gun were held to my head, the Charybdis novels are the one I would let go.
Good thing I don't have to choose.
Wick is the one I would hold onto. It's been far more fun to write and the possibilities are endless. When you have a 400+ year old time traveling cat who can communicate with at least two people, every direction available is possible.
Do you want the rest of your career to be nothing but Wick?
Not necessarily, but it's not a bad place to be. There's an entire universe to explore, and I've barely scratched the surface.
Who knows, before I die, when the last book I ever write becomes available, Wick may be Ruler of All Things, the benevolent dictator of the galaxy.
Hell, maybe before then.
We'll see.
No.
C'mon, there has to be a favorite. If the cosmos opened up and a booming voice told you to pick one to keep forever, which one would you keep and which one would you delete?
Why the hell does your brain think of these things?
I'm unemployed and only one of the kids is still at home. I was told to go amuse myself, so I'm bugging you. Pick one*.
*based on a real conversation, though not verbatim
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
I could not pick one.
Well, I could. The first series is long over with. Done. The chances of me going back to it are slim to none, not unless I have some weird vision while walking or biking again (which is how The Flipside of Here came to be.) If I'm never going to work on it again, that would have to be the one to let go.
Still. The idea of getting rid of it?
I've said before, I would really like to re-write the first in that series, and I would re-title it. The idea crosses my mind every now and then. But, it found its footing with a lot of readers and it seems like cheating. Not that I won't if I find myself with nothing else to work on someday. But probably not.
Wanting to rewrite the first book aside, the story arc is good and the characters are relatable. Each book was better than the last, and I really dug the last book. But if I had to choose, if a gun were held to my head, the Charybdis novels are the one I would let go.
Good thing I don't have to choose.
Wick is the one I would hold onto. It's been far more fun to write and the possibilities are endless. When you have a 400+ year old time traveling cat who can communicate with at least two people, every direction available is possible.
Do you want the rest of your career to be nothing but Wick?
Not necessarily, but it's not a bad place to be. There's an entire universe to explore, and I've barely scratched the surface.
Who knows, before I die, when the last book I ever write becomes available, Wick may be Ruler of All Things, the benevolent dictator of the galaxy.
Hell, maybe before then.
We'll see.
Saturday
4 August 2018
Randos
Sitting in Starbucks, trying to edit, but my brain cannot seem to focus right now, so I’m mostly people watching. So far I’ve seen one elderly nose-picker—and holy hell, yes, she ate it—one poor woman bolting for the rest room, bald guy with an eyeball tattooed on the back of his head, and I managed to upset a broflake when I bypassed the long line and mobile ordered from my table. That was nearly half an hour ago and he’s at another table, still glaring at me, probably because he didn’t think of it first.
Because nice clothing for fat women is hard to find, I ordered, like, $1000 worth of blazers online to try on at home. I had a weirdly good time doing that but am not as excited about it all arriving because then I have to pick something. And thank you Amazon for having Prime Wearhouse, which gives you a week to decide and then only charges for what you keep. I have spent more time surfing online for nice clothes this week than I think I did for all the Christmas shopping of the last three years. I hoped I would find something spiffy and a local store would have it, but across the board I got Nope, nothing in your size, hit he gym fat ass.
Okay, so I exaggerate. But seriously, even the major stores don’t stock what few plus size things they carry in their brick and mortar stores. Checking in a 100 mile radius yielded zero things.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, lose weight.
Shuddup.
I’m in search of spiffy things because apparently this is not appropriate wedding attire. Who knew? Spouse Thingy has it easy; he’s just going to Mens’ Wearhouse and getting fit for a suit already picked out for him. I need a Drag King Wearhouse, someplace where I can go get fit for a nice suit that doesn’t look too butch, and then buy one in neon pink.
That’s not too much to ask for. Right?
Upset Random Dude is now on his phone, yakking, and not using his inside voice. And he’s discussing peeing. I think it’s in a medical context but I really don’t care.
I miss swimming.
The eighth book in the Wick series (third in this leg of it) is in the editor’s hands, and the beta readers liked it well enough, AND it’ll head to formatting as soon as the Battle axe is done telling me everything that’s wrong. That’ll be 8 books in a tiny bit over 2 years. I am normally not a fan of pumping books out that quickly, but there were hundreds of pages of notes and it was literally years in the making.
There are groups of authors who play online and sit back and discuss rapid release strategies as away to increase sales, and it works for a whole lot of people. They release a book a month, roughly, and they supposedly make money. But…yeah, I’ve read a lot of their books. And, no, I’m not selling my barely polished vomit draft to anyone.
I don’t pretend in any way, shape, or form to be a superlative writer. I write literary junk food; I know it, and I embrace it. It’s what I enjoy reading. Quick, absorbable, fun, wordy hot apple pie or triple layer chocolate cake. Pizza. It’s not perfect by any stretch. It won’t win any awards. But it’s fun as hell to write and to read, and yes, I often go for an emotional gut punch at least once in a book. But I don’t think I’ll ever be the writer why types “The End” on a first draft, typo-hunts and thinks that’s editing, and then uploads it to Amazon three weeks after the first words were written.
I break a hell of a lot of the rules, but editing isn’t one of them. I’ve had horrible editors, good editors, and outstanding editors…but I’ve had editors.
Max and I are still mulling over starting a Patreon account. Mostly because it’s a place we could, theoretically, share work-in-progress and offer sneak peaks and have things somewhat protected. Also…we can blog there and say what we really think. LOL
There’s a couple sitting not far from me, sharing a tablet to read from. She’s standing behind him, not sure why. I’m pretty sure she could see it if she sat next to him. But it’s kinda cute, they’re older, and she’s resting her head on the top of his head.
All right, I’ve been here 2 hours and only worked on 6 pages. Might as well go home and give housework the same dedicated care.
Sitting in Starbucks, trying to edit, but my brain cannot seem to focus right now, so I’m mostly people watching. So far I’ve seen one elderly nose-picker—and holy hell, yes, she ate it—one poor woman bolting for the rest room, bald guy with an eyeball tattooed on the back of his head, and I managed to upset a broflake when I bypassed the long line and mobile ordered from my table. That was nearly half an hour ago and he’s at another table, still glaring at me, probably because he didn’t think of it first.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Because nice clothing for fat women is hard to find, I ordered, like, $1000 worth of blazers online to try on at home. I had a weirdly good time doing that but am not as excited about it all arriving because then I have to pick something. And thank you Amazon for having Prime Wearhouse, which gives you a week to decide and then only charges for what you keep. I have spent more time surfing online for nice clothes this week than I think I did for all the Christmas shopping of the last three years. I hoped I would find something spiffy and a local store would have it, but across the board I got Nope, nothing in your size, hit he gym fat ass.
Okay, so I exaggerate. But seriously, even the major stores don’t stock what few plus size things they carry in their brick and mortar stores. Checking in a 100 mile radius yielded zero things.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, lose weight.
Shuddup.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
I’m in search of spiffy things because apparently this is not appropriate wedding attire. Who knew? Spouse Thingy has it easy; he’s just going to Mens’ Wearhouse and getting fit for a suit already picked out for him. I need a Drag King Wearhouse, someplace where I can go get fit for a nice suit that doesn’t look too butch, and then buy one in neon pink.
That’s not too much to ask for. Right?
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Upset Random Dude is now on his phone, yakking, and not using his inside voice. And he’s discussing peeing. I think it’s in a medical context but I really don’t care.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
I miss swimming.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
The eighth book in the Wick series (third in this leg of it) is in the editor’s hands, and the beta readers liked it well enough, AND it’ll head to formatting as soon as the Battle axe is done telling me everything that’s wrong. That’ll be 8 books in a tiny bit over 2 years. I am normally not a fan of pumping books out that quickly, but there were hundreds of pages of notes and it was literally years in the making.
There are groups of authors who play online and sit back and discuss rapid release strategies as away to increase sales, and it works for a whole lot of people. They release a book a month, roughly, and they supposedly make money. But…yeah, I’ve read a lot of their books. And, no, I’m not selling my barely polished vomit draft to anyone.
I don’t pretend in any way, shape, or form to be a superlative writer. I write literary junk food; I know it, and I embrace it. It’s what I enjoy reading. Quick, absorbable, fun, wordy hot apple pie or triple layer chocolate cake. Pizza. It’s not perfect by any stretch. It won’t win any awards. But it’s fun as hell to write and to read, and yes, I often go for an emotional gut punch at least once in a book. But I don’t think I’ll ever be the writer why types “The End” on a first draft, typo-hunts and thinks that’s editing, and then uploads it to Amazon three weeks after the first words were written.
I break a hell of a lot of the rules, but editing isn’t one of them. I’ve had horrible editors, good editors, and outstanding editors…but I’ve had editors.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Max and I are still mulling over starting a Patreon account. Mostly because it’s a place we could, theoretically, share work-in-progress and offer sneak peaks and have things somewhat protected. Also…we can blog there and say what we really think. LOL
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
There’s a couple sitting not far from me, sharing a tablet to read from. She’s standing behind him, not sure why. I’m pretty sure she could see it if she sat next to him. But it’s kinda cute, they’re older, and she’s resting her head on the top of his head.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
All right, I’ve been here 2 hours and only worked on 6 pages. Might as well go home and give housework the same dedicated care.
Thursday
21 June 2018
You’re driving down Main Street with your two under-10 kids in the back seat. They’re fighting, because of course they are, that’s what bored kids do, and it’s just distracting enough that you roll through a stop sign. Luckily, there’s no cross traffic, so no one gets hurt. Unluckily, there’s a cop behind you. At the sound of whoop-whoop and a flash of lights, you pull over.
And you can’t find your license.
Now, you have a driver’s license, you just can’t find it. The officer is understanding; you get your ticket for blowing the stop sign and a chance to later prove you do, in fact, have an unexpired, valid license.
It’s an everyday kind of exchange. You broke a law, but no one got hurt, so you go on your merry way, yelling at your kids in the back seat to not tell the other parent.
Of course they’ll tell. Because they’re kids.
You’re driving down Main Street with your two under-10 kids in the back seat. They’re fighting, because of course they are, that’s what bored kids do, and it’s just distracting enough that you roll through a stop sign. Luckily, there’s no cross traffic, so no one gets hurt. Unluckily, there’s a cop behind you. At the sound of whoop-whoop and a flash of lights, you pull over.
Problem? You don’t have a license. For whatever reason, you don’t have one. It expired. You just never bothered. Whatever.
You get your ticket, one for blowing the stop sign, one for driving without a license. You’re gonna have to appear in court, but overall, it’s not horrible.
You broke a law, no one got hurt, your crime is a misdemeanor. You can be pretty sure you’ll get a slap on the wrist and a fine. It sucks, but life goes on, so you go on your merry way, yelling at your kids in the back seat to not tell the other parent.
You’re driving down Main Street with your two under-10 kids in the back seat. They’re fighting, because of course they are, that’s what bored kids do, and it’s just distracting enough that you roll through a stop sign. Luckily, there’s no cross traffic, so no one gets hurt. Unluckily, there’s a cop behind you. At the sound of whoop-whoop and a flash of lights, you pull over.
Problem? You don’t have a license. For whatever reason, you don’t have one. It expired. You just never bothered. Whatever.
The officer asks for your license and insurance, which you don’t have. You’re asked to get out of the car, made to step away. Another cop shows up. Your kids are forcibly removed from the back seat of your car. You’re not allowed to explain anything to them. They’re frantic, crying, screaming for you. They get shoved into the back seat of the other cop car, and you’re not told where they’ll be taken or when you’ll get to see them again.
You’re shoved into the back of the first cop car, taken to jail, with no guarantee of when you’ll be given a hearing.
Your crime is a misdemeanor, but you’re treated like a felon. You have no representation.
And you may never see your kids again.
Here’s the thing.
There is nothing illegal about crossing the border to seek asylum.
Crossing the border without a visa and not asking for asylum is a misdemeanor.
By law, it’s no worse than driving without a license, an offense for which rendering your children from your arms is unthinkable. An offense for which going to prison is unthinkable. An offense for which your children being held in a prison-like institution is unthinkable.
A misdemeanor is a misdemeanor is a misdemeanor.
Yet, that's what we're doing.
Supporting the current zero-tolerance policy that rips families apart (and don’t let the newly signed executive ordering ending that fool you; it’s only good for 20 days and does nothing for the families already affected, and has the neato clause that allows apprehended families be held indefinitely) supports the idea that the disaffected in this world don’t deserve to be have access to the same legal protections as everyone else. It’s about as un-American as it gets.
It does nothing to protect our borders.
It does nothing to make you more safe.
It does nothing to save American jobs for American citizens.
It will destroy these children; even if they’re reunited with their parents, the mental and emotional damage is done.
It will result in hundreds, if not thousands, of these kids remaining in the U.S., never to see their parents again. Guess who foots the bill for that?
It will cost the U.S. far more to continue to implement this zero-tolerance policy than if things had been left alone.
BUT OBAMA…
No. This was not a policy started by Obama. Families were not ripped apart, and the kids were not held like animals in cages. Yes, there were detention facilities in which kids were and are held, but those were largely occupied by teen boys who crossed the border *without their parents* and that doesn't mean they were the right thing to do.
And those kids? With the influx of children being taken from their parents for the misdemeanor crime of seeking a better life, those kids are being taken to a tent city.
A tent city.
In the Texas heat.
You know, like prisoners in Arizona. Prisoners who probably have more rights.
It’s simple, really. The current administration had no difficulty with the idea of holding children hostage to getting funding for a border wall that will do absolutely nothing to curb illegal immigration.
And really, if the administration ever gets it, the net effect will be null.
Don’t kid yourself.
Most illegal aliens in the U.S. didn’t sneak over the border with Mexico. Most of them came into this county legally, on Visas, which they overstayed.
But that doesn’t count, does it?
Where’s the fun in having moral outrage about that?
Illegal aliens are not taking your jobs. You wouldn’t do the jobs they’re taking. The jobs you’re losing are more likely taken by corporate greed; that rich white guy sitting at the CEOs desk who would rather make another million or two rather than bolster the work force that earns him the big bucks. The jobs lost went overseas, where the work can be done for a fraction of the pay.
Illegal aliens are not grabbing food stamps. They’re not eligible.
Illegal aliens are not sucking up welfare dollars. Most people are welfare are, surprise, white and born right here in the U.S.
Continued support of this administration blows me away.
I basically understood when people voted for him; they wanted to take a wrecking ball to everything. They were tired of the way things were going.
The problem is in still supporting this administration. That wrecking ball is swinging, and if left unchecked is going to demolish everything. Was that the point? Because if it was, you’re forgetting something major: when you tear something beyond its foundation, there’s a good chance it can’t be rebuilt.
When the Boy was in 8th grade or thereabouts, he told me about what they were studying in history; the U.S. had carried this particular form of government long past its expected expiration. Looking ahead, we were poised to endure a fundamental shift that might end this form of republic in a generation, maybe two.
He thought it might happen sooner.
Twenty to thirty years.
That’s stuck with me all this time. And now I worry he was right.
We’re throwing babies in jail because someone else committed a misdemeanor.
We’re throwing babies in jail.
You can’t support that. You can’t.
If you can?
God help you, and I mean that sincerely.
And you can’t find your license.
Now, you have a driver’s license, you just can’t find it. The officer is understanding; you get your ticket for blowing the stop sign and a chance to later prove you do, in fact, have an unexpired, valid license.
It’s an everyday kind of exchange. You broke a law, but no one got hurt, so you go on your merry way, yelling at your kids in the back seat to not tell the other parent.
Of course they’ll tell. Because they’re kids.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
You’re driving down Main Street with your two under-10 kids in the back seat. They’re fighting, because of course they are, that’s what bored kids do, and it’s just distracting enough that you roll through a stop sign. Luckily, there’s no cross traffic, so no one gets hurt. Unluckily, there’s a cop behind you. At the sound of whoop-whoop and a flash of lights, you pull over.
Problem? You don’t have a license. For whatever reason, you don’t have one. It expired. You just never bothered. Whatever.
You get your ticket, one for blowing the stop sign, one for driving without a license. You’re gonna have to appear in court, but overall, it’s not horrible.
You broke a law, no one got hurt, your crime is a misdemeanor. You can be pretty sure you’ll get a slap on the wrist and a fine. It sucks, but life goes on, so you go on your merry way, yelling at your kids in the back seat to not tell the other parent.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
You’re driving down Main Street with your two under-10 kids in the back seat. They’re fighting, because of course they are, that’s what bored kids do, and it’s just distracting enough that you roll through a stop sign. Luckily, there’s no cross traffic, so no one gets hurt. Unluckily, there’s a cop behind you. At the sound of whoop-whoop and a flash of lights, you pull over.
Problem? You don’t have a license. For whatever reason, you don’t have one. It expired. You just never bothered. Whatever.
The officer asks for your license and insurance, which you don’t have. You’re asked to get out of the car, made to step away. Another cop shows up. Your kids are forcibly removed from the back seat of your car. You’re not allowed to explain anything to them. They’re frantic, crying, screaming for you. They get shoved into the back seat of the other cop car, and you’re not told where they’ll be taken or when you’ll get to see them again.
You’re shoved into the back of the first cop car, taken to jail, with no guarantee of when you’ll be given a hearing.
Your crime is a misdemeanor, but you’re treated like a felon. You have no representation.
And you may never see your kids again.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Here’s the thing.
There is nothing illegal about crossing the border to seek asylum.
Crossing the border without a visa and not asking for asylum is a misdemeanor.
By law, it’s no worse than driving without a license, an offense for which rendering your children from your arms is unthinkable. An offense for which going to prison is unthinkable. An offense for which your children being held in a prison-like institution is unthinkable.
A misdemeanor is a misdemeanor is a misdemeanor.
Yet, that's what we're doing.
Supporting the current zero-tolerance policy that rips families apart (and don’t let the newly signed executive ordering ending that fool you; it’s only good for 20 days and does nothing for the families already affected, and has the neato clause that allows apprehended families be held indefinitely) supports the idea that the disaffected in this world don’t deserve to be have access to the same legal protections as everyone else. It’s about as un-American as it gets.
It does nothing to protect our borders.
It does nothing to make you more safe.
It does nothing to save American jobs for American citizens.
It will destroy these children; even if they’re reunited with their parents, the mental and emotional damage is done.
It will result in hundreds, if not thousands, of these kids remaining in the U.S., never to see their parents again. Guess who foots the bill for that?
It will cost the U.S. far more to continue to implement this zero-tolerance policy than if things had been left alone.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
BUT OBAMA…
No. This was not a policy started by Obama. Families were not ripped apart, and the kids were not held like animals in cages. Yes, there were detention facilities in which kids were and are held, but those were largely occupied by teen boys who crossed the border *without their parents* and that doesn't mean they were the right thing to do.
And those kids? With the influx of children being taken from their parents for the misdemeanor crime of seeking a better life, those kids are being taken to a tent city.
A tent city.
In the Texas heat.
You know, like prisoners in Arizona. Prisoners who probably have more rights.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
It’s simple, really. The current administration had no difficulty with the idea of holding children hostage to getting funding for a border wall that will do absolutely nothing to curb illegal immigration.
And really, if the administration ever gets it, the net effect will be null.
Don’t kid yourself.
Most illegal aliens in the U.S. didn’t sneak over the border with Mexico. Most of them came into this county legally, on Visas, which they overstayed.
But that doesn’t count, does it?
Where’s the fun in having moral outrage about that?
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Illegal aliens are not taking your jobs. You wouldn’t do the jobs they’re taking. The jobs you’re losing are more likely taken by corporate greed; that rich white guy sitting at the CEOs desk who would rather make another million or two rather than bolster the work force that earns him the big bucks. The jobs lost went overseas, where the work can be done for a fraction of the pay.
Illegal aliens are not grabbing food stamps. They’re not eligible.
Illegal aliens are not sucking up welfare dollars. Most people are welfare are, surprise, white and born right here in the U.S.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Continued support of this administration blows me away.
I basically understood when people voted for him; they wanted to take a wrecking ball to everything. They were tired of the way things were going.
The problem is in still supporting this administration. That wrecking ball is swinging, and if left unchecked is going to demolish everything. Was that the point? Because if it was, you’re forgetting something major: when you tear something beyond its foundation, there’s a good chance it can’t be rebuilt.
When the Boy was in 8th grade or thereabouts, he told me about what they were studying in history; the U.S. had carried this particular form of government long past its expected expiration. Looking ahead, we were poised to endure a fundamental shift that might end this form of republic in a generation, maybe two.
He thought it might happen sooner.
Twenty to thirty years.
That’s stuck with me all this time. And now I worry he was right.
We’re throwing babies in jail because someone else committed a misdemeanor.
We’re throwing babies in jail.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
You can’t support that. You can’t.
If you can?
God help you, and I mean that sincerely.
Saturday
9 June 2018
It pricks at me every now and then that I should be miles-deep into training for this year's 3 Day. I registered for it. I'll probably register for it the way I always did the Avon Walk...every year, with good intentions.
But...the truth is the 2017 was probably my last walk. And that popped back up last night when someone asked me how my training was going and the answer was "It's not."
My body just can't take it anymore. The training (if done right) is time consuming and draining, and the walk itself is...hard. It's a fun kind of hard and you're doing it with hundreds of your best friends that you just met that day, but still hard.
I managed it last year with Norco and alcohol. I don't recommend that.
I also managed it because the Spouse Thingy went with me and walked every step with me. It's for sure not something I would ever do again without someone who can walk my pace and knows what to do if I crash and burn.
I'm not saying 100% for sure never again, because it's an event that matters to me and I freaking love my team members. But as it stands for now, I think I'm done. I hate the idea, but that's where I am right now.
But...the truth is the 2017 was probably my last walk. And that popped back up last night when someone asked me how my training was going and the answer was "It's not."
My body just can't take it anymore. The training (if done right) is time consuming and draining, and the walk itself is...hard. It's a fun kind of hard and you're doing it with hundreds of your best friends that you just met that day, but still hard.
I managed it last year with Norco and alcohol. I don't recommend that.
I also managed it because the Spouse Thingy went with me and walked every step with me. It's for sure not something I would ever do again without someone who can walk my pace and knows what to do if I crash and burn.
I'm not saying 100% for sure never again, because it's an event that matters to me and I freaking love my team members. But as it stands for now, I think I'm done. I hate the idea, but that's where I am right now.
Friday
8 June 2018
Overheard in Starbucks today:
Woman 1: I put it on Facebook.
Woman 2: I didn't see it.
W1: But I put it on Facebook!
W2: I still didn't see it.
W1: It was right there, on my profile.
W2: It didn't show up in my feed.
W1: But--
W2: I. Did. Not. See. It.
I really kinda felt for the second woman. She could not make her friend understand that just because you post it on Facebook, that doesn't mean it makes it to everyone's news feed. I've missed a metric chit on of things posted by my friends because FB's algorithms just doesn't allow for every single friend seeing every single thing you post. I've been added to groups formed to collect cards for common friends who have lost a pet, and didn't know for weeks. I've been invited to events, finding out after the fact.
The takeaway: if it's important, don't rely on Facebook to deliver the message for you.
If you follow Max's "official" author page on FB, you already know we're seriously considering starting a Patreon page. It's still very much in the consideration stage, but leaning ever so slightly toward giving it a try. I'd like to consolidate our blogging to one site and bring Buddah back into the mix, and using Patreon would be a way to do that.
But, it's more than that. It's also a platform where artists and creators can invite support from their patrons. As a writer, I would be able to offer a mix of free content and sponsored content, and have more control over it than I currently do. Face it, the 'Zon has such a choke hold on books sales--I know more than 98% of my sales comes from there--that writers are pretty much at their mercy. My print books are distributed to all the online book stores via Ingram, and I could (now) go that route with digital books, I dove head first into the Amazon pool when they opened up sales avenues to individual writers who wanted to offer their works in ebook format, and I've kind of stayed in one spot since.
It hasn't made sense to take another route with ebooks. But with them paying less and less for books downloaded via Kindle Unlimited, and watching my download numbers go up but royalties plummet, it feels like a good time to give something new a try. With Patreon, I can offer up my backlist and give patrons the first read on new material. Some of the content would be free for anyone, other content would be available to paying patrons (and there are different levels...it could be as little as $1 a month.)
I follow a few writers and musicians there and am a paying patron at various levels. And every now and then I get on the site and surf, looking for new creators, and have found some pretty cool stuff.
But, like I said, still thinking about it. If I do it...y'all are totally getting my first few books for free,
No matter what, we're going to try to blog more. Quick blurbs on FB are fine, but I'm far too verbose and I have a lot to whine about.
I still haven't gotten links up on Max's blog for pawtographed copies of The Blessings of Saint Wick nor for The Whens of Wick. But...the second book in the Return of the Wick Chronicles series is with the editor and a couple of beta readers. The takeaway from this one is probably, if you say you want to be a character in the Wickiverse, it just might happen.
Woman 1: I put it on Facebook.
Woman 2: I didn't see it.
W1: But I put it on Facebook!
W2: I still didn't see it.
W1: It was right there, on my profile.
W2: It didn't show up in my feed.
W1: But--
W2: I. Did. Not. See. It.
I really kinda felt for the second woman. She could not make her friend understand that just because you post it on Facebook, that doesn't mean it makes it to everyone's news feed. I've missed a metric chit on of things posted by my friends because FB's algorithms just doesn't allow for every single friend seeing every single thing you post. I've been added to groups formed to collect cards for common friends who have lost a pet, and didn't know for weeks. I've been invited to events, finding out after the fact.
The takeaway: if it's important, don't rely on Facebook to deliver the message for you.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
If you follow Max's "official" author page on FB, you already know we're seriously considering starting a Patreon page. It's still very much in the consideration stage, but leaning ever so slightly toward giving it a try. I'd like to consolidate our blogging to one site and bring Buddah back into the mix, and using Patreon would be a way to do that.
But, it's more than that. It's also a platform where artists and creators can invite support from their patrons. As a writer, I would be able to offer a mix of free content and sponsored content, and have more control over it than I currently do. Face it, the 'Zon has such a choke hold on books sales--I know more than 98% of my sales comes from there--that writers are pretty much at their mercy. My print books are distributed to all the online book stores via Ingram, and I could (now) go that route with digital books, I dove head first into the Amazon pool when they opened up sales avenues to individual writers who wanted to offer their works in ebook format, and I've kind of stayed in one spot since.
It hasn't made sense to take another route with ebooks. But with them paying less and less for books downloaded via Kindle Unlimited, and watching my download numbers go up but royalties plummet, it feels like a good time to give something new a try. With Patreon, I can offer up my backlist and give patrons the first read on new material. Some of the content would be free for anyone, other content would be available to paying patrons (and there are different levels...it could be as little as $1 a month.)
I follow a few writers and musicians there and am a paying patron at various levels. And every now and then I get on the site and surf, looking for new creators, and have found some pretty cool stuff.
But, like I said, still thinking about it. If I do it...y'all are totally getting my first few books for free,
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
No matter what, we're going to try to blog more. Quick blurbs on FB are fine, but I'm far too verbose and I have a lot to whine about.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
I still haven't gotten links up on Max's blog for pawtographed copies of The Blessings of Saint Wick nor for The Whens of Wick. But...the second book in the Return of the Wick Chronicles series is with the editor and a couple of beta readers. The takeaway from this one is probably, if you say you want to be a character in the Wickiverse, it just might happen.
Thursday
7 June 2018
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| We ride together...a lot |
My favorite toy has an electric motor; I have another bike, a standard step-through 8 speed road bike, but because of reasons, I'm not comfortable taking it far from home. Hence, it sits in the shed and I always take the pretty pink bike. Today I got to Starbucks and started to lock it up, but when I went to turn the controller off, it was flashing an error code.
Because the Internet is a thing, after I got online and whined about it, and then posted to a Pedego FB group, I got the answer I needed and was not stuck there all day waiting for the Spouse Thingy to come pick me up. But I did whine about it BECAUSE OF COURSE I DID THAT'S WHAT I DO, which set off a IM conversation that would have pissed me off if I hadn't known it was tongue in cheek.
Dood: Electric. That's cheating.
Me: Electric. That's fricking FUN.
Dood: Cheat, cheat cheat, cheat, cheat.
Me: Says the guy with an electric skateboard. And an electric wheel.
Dood: That's different. Those are for fun.
Here's the thing... a lot of people--a lot of a lot--think riding an electric bike is somehow cheating. A "real" cyclist pedals using nothing but body power and sweats like a whore in July, developing massive quads that can crush small children and delicate women with zero effort. He was teasing me because he knows I've heard that grunted in my direction: "yeah, it's a nice looking bike, but she's cheating."
If you ride a regular bike, more power to you. The Spouse Thingy does; he likes his bike. I like mine. He uses his gears to adapt to changes in the road grade and surface. I use different levels of pedal assist. It's basically like using the gears, which I have but have never changed, but I save a lot of wear and tear on my knees. And I'm not young anymore. I like the idea of saving that wear and tear.
The motor isn't a heart-rate curbing device, either. If I take the road bike a mile, I get my HR up to about 130. If I take the electric, I get my HR up to about 130. The difference is I get there faster...so I go further. If I take the road bike, I might ride 3-4 miles. If I take the electric, I might stop at 10 but I'm just as likely to go 15, and often 20. My longest ride is 30, and I only went home because I was hungry and had to pee.
Road bike = 20ish minutes at 130
Electric bike = 60-120 minutes at 130
For what I want...it's not cheating.
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| I hate the helmet, tho... |
I don't always recognize it when it happens. Most of the time I do (ask the Spouse Thingy how many times I've just stopped and told him I need to eat. Like RIGHT NOW) and deal with it. But afterward it feels like a ton of ick, and getting back on a bike I'd have to pedal very slowly is not the best idea in the world.
Because the bike has a throttle, if I get into trouble, I can get my asterisk home without having to pedal. I can get to food, or sugar, or a/c (and seriously, I now know the distances between just about everything in this little town, at least the places I would need to reach quickly. All hail 3 Day training.) Riding an electric gives me freedom I don't have otherwise.
So no, it's not cheating. I get more exercise, and I feel a hell of a lot safer on it.
It doesn't even matter if that safety is my own perception. I FEEL safer. Thusly, I get out and ride when I can. And isn't that the point? Ride safe, ride over drive, have some fraking FUN.
And older folks...this is an awesome way to get back into activity. If you can't ride anymore, an electric might make it possible. If you can't balance, there are electric trikes. Pedego has some seriously great options.
So, yeah. I don't wanna pass out on a bike.
I want to have fun.
So I do.
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| A matching water bottle was necessary, right...? |
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