Here ya go.Just what you want to buy that special someone in your life.
Go ahead, I know you want to.
It's fun to drive, you'll love it.
Saturday
Friday
Well now, nothing says You'll Sleep So Well than finding out there's a serial rapist terrorizing the part of town you live in...
Thursday
File This Under 'Oh Holy...'
Cute kid, eh?
And she just got her red belt in karate.
She's two years old.
Two years old.
Ok. I used to train in a martial art; in the system in which I trained a red belt is just 2 steps away from black belt. It takes a couple of years at least to get to red belt, and you have to show considerably more skill than doing a front kick, a punch, two turns, and four defensive blocks. Those skills won't get anyone from white to gold belt (or yellow or orange, take your pick based on your own school's colors.) In some schools, red is the last belt before black.
Yes, different schools in different martial arts styles and systems use different colored belts. A green belt in Jhoon Rhee TKD is not the same as a green belt in a Goju Ryu school which is not the same as a green belt in, say, Kung Fu, if that Kung Fu school used belt or sash colors at all. So her red belt might not be any different than a beginner in another school.
But.
But but but.
Red is generally recognized as having at least a modicum of proficiency in the styles I am even minutely familiar with. There is no way that a 2 year old has even a basic understanding of martial arts and fighting concepts. A 2 year old shouldn't even be taught fighting concepts.
I'm not one of those people who thinks 10 year old kids shouldn't test for black belt; I don't think a black belt indicates the ability to kick ass, nor is it proof that the student can take on any potential attacker. It simply means the student has shown a grasp of the fundamental concepts of their art and can physically demonstrate those concepts, and is ready to become a Student. Before that, you're really just dabbling in the art.
So I don't have a problem with kids in martial arts. I do have a problem with this. There's no possible way that kid knows enough nor understands enough to have earned a red belt. Or even a white belt.
It should be duly noted that her parents are karate instructors.
Wanna guess who tested her and awarded the belt?
Um, yeah...that was my guess, too.
Cute kid, eh?And she just got her red belt in karate.
She's two years old.
Two years old.
She got it by proving she could do a front kick, a punch, two turns and four defensive blocks.
Mollie got her passion for martial arts from her parents, both black belts and full-time karate instructors.
Ok. I used to train in a martial art; in the system in which I trained a red belt is just 2 steps away from black belt. It takes a couple of years at least to get to red belt, and you have to show considerably more skill than doing a front kick, a punch, two turns, and four defensive blocks. Those skills won't get anyone from white to gold belt (or yellow or orange, take your pick based on your own school's colors.) In some schools, red is the last belt before black.
Yes, different schools in different martial arts styles and systems use different colored belts. A green belt in Jhoon Rhee TKD is not the same as a green belt in a Goju Ryu school which is not the same as a green belt in, say, Kung Fu, if that Kung Fu school used belt or sash colors at all. So her red belt might not be any different than a beginner in another school.
But.
But but but.
Red is generally recognized as having at least a modicum of proficiency in the styles I am even minutely familiar with. There is no way that a 2 year old has even a basic understanding of martial arts and fighting concepts. A 2 year old shouldn't even be taught fighting concepts.
I'm not one of those people who thinks 10 year old kids shouldn't test for black belt; I don't think a black belt indicates the ability to kick ass, nor is it proof that the student can take on any potential attacker. It simply means the student has shown a grasp of the fundamental concepts of their art and can physically demonstrate those concepts, and is ready to become a Student. Before that, you're really just dabbling in the art.
So I don't have a problem with kids in martial arts. I do have a problem with this. There's no possible way that kid knows enough nor understands enough to have earned a red belt. Or even a white belt.
It should be duly noted that her parents are karate instructors.
Wanna guess who tested her and awarded the belt?
Um, yeah...that was my guess, too.
Wednesday
Tuesday
In my blog hopping this morning, I landed at Carmi's blog, as I am wont to do many mornings a week (and often evenings, too, as I check to see if he's posted more than once in a day) and his "About Me" blurb caught my eye. I've looked at it a dozen times, yet this morning something clicked in my brain, a memory that I tend to dig out of the recesses of my mind several times a year.
(Go on. Go over there and peek, read his post for today. I'll be here when you get back.)
So, hey! My brain still works.
This time of year people all over are engaged in random acts of kindness; one person empties his pocket change into a red kettle; one person buys a bag of groceries and places it in the Food Donation bin by the door; someone else buys a cart load of toys and hands it over to the Marines standing next to the Toys For Tots bin outside the WalMart entrance.
It occurs to us to do simple things for others this time of year; sometimes the act occurs without a lot of thought. We see the red kettle, we automatically reach for the change. That it's often a remote act doesn't lessen the impact--those simple gestures add up and make a difference in someone else's life.
Like last year--heck, almost exactly last year, on Dec 11--when I was standing in front of a vending machine, fishing for nonexistent quarters in my pocket, this guy that just bought himself a soda, gave me 2 quarters so I could get one, too. That made a difference to me. It might not be up there with curing cancer or bringing about world peace, but it was a kind gesture that stuck with me.
But when I was at Carmi's blog this morning, reading his blurb, I remembered something that made a huge impact in our lives. A very simple gesture, a random act of kindness that has likely been long forgotten by the person who touched our lives, but provided us with a jaw dropping moment that kept on giving.
The Spouse Thingy and I--very newly married, living on 10 cent boxes of generic mac and cheese and boxes of blueberry muffins sent in care packages put together by my mother in law (ha! Be jealous. She's my MIL and not yours, so nyah nyah nyah, :::sticking out my tongue:::)--were standing in line at a Safeway in Provo, Utah. We normally didn't shop there, because the generic mac and cheese was 12 cents instead of 10, but they had this thing where you got a stamp for every $5 you spent, and if you saved enough of the stickers, you could get a dinner plate for free.
These were nice plates, too. Yes, we owned plates, but only a couple of them, and when you have to choose between food and dinner plates, you buy food. But we really wanted those plates.
So there were were, counting out what was essentially small change to buy a few boxes of mac and cheese, and some vegetables, a woman walked up and asked us if we were collecting those stamps. And when we said yes, she reached into her purse and handed us several sheets of them.
Enough stamps to get an entire set of plates, 8 of them.
She handed us the stamps, saying she wasn't going to use them, and walked away. She essentially gave us an entire set of dinner ware, and walked away with only a suprised thank you.
This woman never knew what that simple random act of kindness meant for us.
Sure, we would have done just fine eating off the same couple of (very cheap) plates for the next few years. We eventually would have collected enough stamps to get one or two plates, and we would have been happy with that. But instead, two almost-starving college students were able to go home with this gift...more than stamps, more than plates.
In the thumbnail version of this picture it's just a couple of sheets of stamps that got us some free plates. But in the full sized image, the progressive JPG scanned at 1200 dpi... That I've never forgotten it says alot. Those extra pennies we were spending to get those stamps added up; when you're living on $2.25 an hour and only working part time because school is the Main Job, pennies matter.
Pennies add up to extra boxes of macaroni and cheese that come in plain white boxes with black lettering. Pennies mean you can actually put the right amount of milk in the mix. Over time, pennies mean you can buy a pound of hamburger, even if it is 25% fat.
When the Boy moved into his own apartment, just before we moved to Ohio, we still had those plates to give to him. Having those meant he didn't have to scrape together anything to buy his own. When he and his roomates parted ways, he passed them on to someone else.
And thusly did that one simple act live on.
One tiny thing...you never know where, or if, it will end.
I believe strongly in random acts of kindness, and know we can all do a better job making our planet a happier place to live.
(Go on. Go over there and peek, read his post for today. I'll be here when you get back.)
So, hey! My brain still works.
This time of year people all over are engaged in random acts of kindness; one person empties his pocket change into a red kettle; one person buys a bag of groceries and places it in the Food Donation bin by the door; someone else buys a cart load of toys and hands it over to the Marines standing next to the Toys For Tots bin outside the WalMart entrance.
It occurs to us to do simple things for others this time of year; sometimes the act occurs without a lot of thought. We see the red kettle, we automatically reach for the change. That it's often a remote act doesn't lessen the impact--those simple gestures add up and make a difference in someone else's life.
Like last year--heck, almost exactly last year, on Dec 11--when I was standing in front of a vending machine, fishing for nonexistent quarters in my pocket, this guy that just bought himself a soda, gave me 2 quarters so I could get one, too. That made a difference to me. It might not be up there with curing cancer or bringing about world peace, but it was a kind gesture that stuck with me.
But when I was at Carmi's blog this morning, reading his blurb, I remembered something that made a huge impact in our lives. A very simple gesture, a random act of kindness that has likely been long forgotten by the person who touched our lives, but provided us with a jaw dropping moment that kept on giving.
The Spouse Thingy and I--very newly married, living on 10 cent boxes of generic mac and cheese and boxes of blueberry muffins sent in care packages put together by my mother in law (ha! Be jealous. She's my MIL and not yours, so nyah nyah nyah, :::sticking out my tongue:::)--were standing in line at a Safeway in Provo, Utah. We normally didn't shop there, because the generic mac and cheese was 12 cents instead of 10, but they had this thing where you got a stamp for every $5 you spent, and if you saved enough of the stickers, you could get a dinner plate for free.
These were nice plates, too. Yes, we owned plates, but only a couple of them, and when you have to choose between food and dinner plates, you buy food. But we really wanted those plates.
So there were were, counting out what was essentially small change to buy a few boxes of mac and cheese, and some vegetables, a woman walked up and asked us if we were collecting those stamps. And when we said yes, she reached into her purse and handed us several sheets of them.
Enough stamps to get an entire set of plates, 8 of them.
She handed us the stamps, saying she wasn't going to use them, and walked away. She essentially gave us an entire set of dinner ware, and walked away with only a suprised thank you.
This woman never knew what that simple random act of kindness meant for us.
Sure, we would have done just fine eating off the same couple of (very cheap) plates for the next few years. We eventually would have collected enough stamps to get one or two plates, and we would have been happy with that. But instead, two almost-starving college students were able to go home with this gift...more than stamps, more than plates.
In the thumbnail version of this picture it's just a couple of sheets of stamps that got us some free plates. But in the full sized image, the progressive JPG scanned at 1200 dpi... That I've never forgotten it says alot. Those extra pennies we were spending to get those stamps added up; when you're living on $2.25 an hour and only working part time because school is the Main Job, pennies matter.
Pennies add up to extra boxes of macaroni and cheese that come in plain white boxes with black lettering. Pennies mean you can actually put the right amount of milk in the mix. Over time, pennies mean you can buy a pound of hamburger, even if it is 25% fat.
When the Boy moved into his own apartment, just before we moved to Ohio, we still had those plates to give to him. Having those meant he didn't have to scrape together anything to buy his own. When he and his roomates parted ways, he passed them on to someone else.
And thusly did that one simple act live on.
One tiny thing...you never know where, or if, it will end.
Monday
Not For The Kiddies To Read...
Or "WHAT Was He Thinking???"
Or "File This Under WTF? & OMG!"
I tried to find an article online that wasn't locked behind a You Must Register To Read link, but the only one I could find was at The Daily Republic Online which not only requires signing up to read, but a paid subscription. So, in order to not violate copyright, I've snipped a small portion of the article regarding a Santa at the mall near us:
I read it once in the paper yesterday and had a major WTF? moment, read it again and had another. Seriously, what was this guy thinking? Is he some young jerk who thought he was being funny? Some old fart who has slipped a gear and lost all ability to use his inner filter? Did someone whack him over the head with a giant hammer 10 minutes before taking his Santa Seat?
The article goes on to explain that the photo company who hired him fired him on the spot and the mall fully supports the decision. I would certainly hope so. And the Santa in question wrote to his managers and explained he "didn't intend the questions to be offensive."
How could anyone not realize how offensive that would be? And how could anyone even have that pop into their head?
Oooh yeah, Like bloodshed. She showed remarkable restraint. I think I would have bitch slapped Santa right there in front of all the kidlets.
:::wanders off, still wondering WTF?:::
Or "WHAT Was He Thinking???"
Or "File This Under WTF? & OMG!"
I tried to find an article online that wasn't locked behind a You Must Register To Read link, but the only one I could find was at The Daily Republic Online which not only requires signing up to read, but a paid subscription. So, in order to not violate copyright, I've snipped a small portion of the article regarding a Santa at the mall near us:
Vallejo resident Kelley Johnson said her 7-year-old son had just gotten his picture taken when Santa beckoned her over.
"He whispered 'Would you be offended if I called you a picaninny' and I said I would," Johnson recalled. "He said 'What about a coon,' and at that point I told my son to get up.
"I had tears in my eyes. The young ladies running the booth asked what he said. I said 'Young ladies, you may be too young to understand,' " Johnson said.
The Santa, who was not identified, was fired on the spot
I read it once in the paper yesterday and had a major WTF? moment, read it again and had another. Seriously, what was this guy thinking? Is he some young jerk who thought he was being funny? Some old fart who has slipped a gear and lost all ability to use his inner filter? Did someone whack him over the head with a giant hammer 10 minutes before taking his Santa Seat?
The article goes on to explain that the photo company who hired him fired him on the spot and the mall fully supports the decision. I would certainly hope so. And the Santa in question wrote to his managers and explained he "didn't intend the questions to be offensive."
How could anyone not realize how offensive that would be? And how could anyone even have that pop into their head?
Johnson said her son didn't hear the comments, but "got the sense that mommy was very upset."
Nevertheless, she said she was very happy with how the incident was handled.
"No one said it was no big deal or we'll deal with it later," she said. "If he would have said that to the wrong person, there are so many other things that could have taken place."
Oooh yeah, Like bloodshed. She showed remarkable restraint. I think I would have bitch slapped Santa right there in front of all the kidlets.
:::wanders off, still wondering WTF?:::
Saturday
Today's possibilities:
So many things to do, so little desire to do any of them...Or rather, I hate cleaning house; I'm not insane and don't really want to get caught up in the weekend holiday shopping insanity; the cats could eat the Other Dry Food (aka so calorie laden they love it and want to roll their bodies in it until they become One with the Fancy Feast); and I would feel a little bit guilty just sitting here all day.
That leaves the library.
Dammit, that means I have to think.
:::looks out window::: Stupid rain. I could bo out on my bike ignoring everything, but nooooo, it had to cloud over and get all rainy and chit.
I'm not sure I'm prepared to engage my brain. Maybe I'll do one load of laundry, and maybe the dishes.
Oh gawd...I'm choosing hosuework over writing.
Maybe I'll go to the ER instead. Obviously, there's something wrong with me...
- Clean house
- Go to the library and write
- Go shopping for that one last gift
- Go buy cat food for the little piglets
- Sit here and play online all day
So many things to do, so little desire to do any of them...Or rather, I hate cleaning house; I'm not insane and don't really want to get caught up in the weekend holiday shopping insanity; the cats could eat the Other Dry Food (aka so calorie laden they love it and want to roll their bodies in it until they become One with the Fancy Feast); and I would feel a little bit guilty just sitting here all day.
That leaves the library.
Dammit, that means I have to think.
:::looks out window::: Stupid rain. I could bo out on my bike ignoring everything, but nooooo, it had to cloud over and get all rainy and chit.
I'm not sure I'm prepared to engage my brain. Maybe I'll do one load of laundry, and maybe the dishes.
Oh gawd...I'm choosing hosuework over writing.
Maybe I'll go to the ER instead. Obviously, there's something wrong with me...
Friday
Dear Panhandler,
It might not be a good idea to sit there on that corner of the Walmart parking lot, with a sign begging for change because you're homeless and starving, with your $1300 Trek bike right there for the whole world to see.
Just sayin'...
Dear Max and Buddah,
Look, the store didn't have your regular dry food and we had this free sample bag in the pantry...you obviously love it, but don't get used to it. And cripes, stop making those grunting and snorting sounds while you eat. It's very disturbing.
Dear Holiday Shoppers,
Slow down. Enjoy it. The world will not stop if you don't find that PS3 for junior. But your heart might, if you don't take a deep breath and a step back.
Sincerely,
Me
Thursday
Dear Companies That Send Gift cards Instead Of Rebate Checks,
Look. I appreciate a rebate, even a small one. Heck, I would have purchased said item even without a rebate; odds are I intended to buy it without knowing there was a rebate offered, but was quite pleased to learn that my new toy came with one.
But.
Stop with the gift cards as rebates. It's a ripoff. No one ever uses the last 5 cents or dollar or even two dollars on gift cards, so that money winds up in the pockets of either you or the issuer of the card, and that's not right. How manymillions billions of dollars a year does VISA rack up in expired, unused card values?
Oh yeah...expirations. I also don't appreciate that my rebate-as-gift-card expires in just a couple of months. WTF? If the offer of a rebate had been the deciding factor in my purchase, I would be more than the little bit miffed that I am right now. It's my money now, shouldn't I be able to spend it six months from now if I want or need to? Or twelve months from now? Shouldn't I be able to stick that money into savings instead of being forced to spend it?
Yeah, I know. It's on the books as debt owed and you want to be able to clear that debt as soon as possible. But that's not my problem. It's your problem, and one you created when you decided to create debt in lieu of sending a check. Remember checks? That's how rebates used to be issued. We'd get this spiffy check in the mail for $20, take it to the bank, cash it, and buy a pizza. It worked quite well and we got every penny to which we were entitled.
Gift cards, as shiny as they are, are a ripoff. So stop sending my rebates in that form. I want a computer generated, signature stamped check that will require me to stand in line at the credit union, behind Joe Blow who hasn't bathed in 6 weeks. Because even though that's a pain in the butt, at least I get my entire rebate.
Sincerely,
Annoyed Wabbit Who Has $1.27 left on a rebate card that will never be used because NO ONE WILL TAKE IT.
Look. I appreciate a rebate, even a small one. Heck, I would have purchased said item even without a rebate; odds are I intended to buy it without knowing there was a rebate offered, but was quite pleased to learn that my new toy came with one.
But.
Stop with the gift cards as rebates. It's a ripoff. No one ever uses the last 5 cents or dollar or even two dollars on gift cards, so that money winds up in the pockets of either you or the issuer of the card, and that's not right. How many
Oh yeah...expirations. I also don't appreciate that my rebate-as-gift-card expires in just a couple of months. WTF? If the offer of a rebate had been the deciding factor in my purchase, I would be more than the little bit miffed that I am right now. It's my money now, shouldn't I be able to spend it six months from now if I want or need to? Or twelve months from now? Shouldn't I be able to stick that money into savings instead of being forced to spend it?
Yeah, I know. It's on the books as debt owed and you want to be able to clear that debt as soon as possible. But that's not my problem. It's your problem, and one you created when you decided to create debt in lieu of sending a check. Remember checks? That's how rebates used to be issued. We'd get this spiffy check in the mail for $20, take it to the bank, cash it, and buy a pizza. It worked quite well and we got every penny to which we were entitled.
Gift cards, as shiny as they are, are a ripoff. So stop sending my rebates in that form. I want a computer generated, signature stamped check that will require me to stand in line at the credit union, behind Joe Blow who hasn't bathed in 6 weeks. Because even though that's a pain in the butt, at least I get my entire rebate.
Sincerely,
Annoyed Wabbit Who Has $1.27 left on a rebate card that will never be used because NO ONE WILL TAKE IT.
Sunday
So.
Last night I printed out what I'd written for my NaNo novel, and began to read, thinking I would start re-writing, and adding to each far-too-short chapter, with editing to follow in 4-6 months.
You know the old saying about train wrecks that you can't help but slow down to look at?
That's my NaNo novel. It's a giant trainwreck, horrible and awful and bloody and gross, but I could not stop looking at it. I cringed when reading the opening, I groaned and snorted and rolled my eyes at my own literary prowess, and I laughed at places that were not supposed to be funny. It's a what the hell is this??? piece of Junque, so bad that one has to keep reading.
It's a repairable train wreck, so once I pick away the blood and guts and assorted pieces of broken Amtrak, I think I'll be able to read it without laughing at the horror of it.
Maybe.
I get to a certain point in all my work where I absolutely hate it. Face it, you can only read something so many times before it seems like the author committed a literary mortal sin. It does matter if it's something I wrote. In the rewrites for Finding Father Rabbit--probably the book I'm most satisfied with and that has garnered the best reviews--I wound up reading that sucker over 20 times, and by the 13th or 14th I wanted to barf all over it.
I have a few manuscripts tucked away that are still awful after several rewrites, and they'll never see the warmth of print, their fictitious glory nestled between a spiffy 4 color paperback cover. I pull them out once in a while, just to laugh at myself.
So. I think I'll take my print-out over to the library, where I will sit and begin to pick away at the scabs already forming on my bloodied literary trainwreck. I might see Library Bob, I'll probably see Krinkle Kris (lady who sits there and pays her bills the first Sunday of every month, it seems...she brings everything in a giant paper bag, and between the bag and the little cellophane windows on the envelopes, she creates quite a bit of irritating and annoying noise) and I might even get something accomplished before becoming distracted by something shiny.
No, I don't know what might be shiny in the library.
Maybe someone will have dropped a quarter, and I'll find it.
That would be spiffy.
Last night I printed out what I'd written for my NaNo novel, and began to read, thinking I would start re-writing, and adding to each far-too-short chapter, with editing to follow in 4-6 months.
You know the old saying about train wrecks that you can't help but slow down to look at?
That's my NaNo novel. It's a giant trainwreck, horrible and awful and bloody and gross, but I could not stop looking at it. I cringed when reading the opening, I groaned and snorted and rolled my eyes at my own literary prowess, and I laughed at places that were not supposed to be funny. It's a what the hell is this??? piece of Junque, so bad that one has to keep reading.
It's a repairable train wreck, so once I pick away the blood and guts and assorted pieces of broken Amtrak, I think I'll be able to read it without laughing at the horror of it.
Maybe.
I get to a certain point in all my work where I absolutely hate it. Face it, you can only read something so many times before it seems like the author committed a literary mortal sin. It does matter if it's something I wrote. In the rewrites for Finding Father Rabbit--probably the book I'm most satisfied with and that has garnered the best reviews--I wound up reading that sucker over 20 times, and by the 13th or 14th I wanted to barf all over it.
I have a few manuscripts tucked away that are still awful after several rewrites, and they'll never see the warmth of print, their fictitious glory nestled between a spiffy 4 color paperback cover. I pull them out once in a while, just to laugh at myself.
So. I think I'll take my print-out over to the library, where I will sit and begin to pick away at the scabs already forming on my bloodied literary trainwreck. I might see Library Bob, I'll probably see Krinkle Kris (lady who sits there and pays her bills the first Sunday of every month, it seems...she brings everything in a giant paper bag, and between the bag and the little cellophane windows on the envelopes, she creates quite a bit of irritating and annoying noise) and I might even get something accomplished before becoming distracted by something shiny.
No, I don't know what might be shiny in the library.
Maybe someone will have dropped a quarter, and I'll find it.
That would be spiffy.
Friday
WooHoo, it's December.
Christmas is coming.
New Year is coming.
NaNoWriMo is over.
I didn't hit 50K. I will not get the spiffy PDF certificate. In NaNo terms, I am not a winner, but I'm not a loser, either. I like how that works out.
In the last few days I had to make a concentrated choice: finish NaNo, or work on the layout of a book, the royalties from which will be donated to an animal charity. Get a PDF certificate or get the book to print in time for people to order it for the holidays. And there was the whole sit down and write, or go for a ride mentality working on me.
I opted to finish laying out the book (which might still get to print in time, I'm still waiting on a couple of publishing agreements; even though people submitted work specifically for this book I can't go to print without their John Hancocks) and to take a few bike rides. The thought occurred to me that I could cheat and just type nonsense for 10,000 words and "win," because GOSH DARN IT that's one spiffy PDF certificate (or it was when I did NaNo year before last) but my initial goal was to get this story out of my head, and in that I succeeded.
Before November, it had been tumbling around in my head for well over a year, but I didn't have a clear enough vision of it to do more than take copious notes. I had no idea how it would end; now I do, and it's ending in a way I honestly did not expect.
While I was pounding the story out, once in a while I worried that some people would eventually read it and think I had written them into the story, and not in a favorable light. I had to keep writing anyway...one, because if it didn't get out of my head I wouldn't be able to move onto the next project; and two, it's fiction. Pure fiction, albeit wrapped around familiar truths.
So when I finish, if it becomes a you-can-buy-it book...No, it's not about you. It's not about me. It's not even about the dead guy walking around in Goth makeup.
There ya go, something to look forward to, and to discuss amongst yourselves.
Who's the dead guy in Thumper's failed NaNo...?
Christmas is coming.
New Year is coming.
NaNoWriMo is over.
I didn't hit 50K. I will not get the spiffy PDF certificate. In NaNo terms, I am not a winner, but I'm not a loser, either. I like how that works out.
In the last few days I had to make a concentrated choice: finish NaNo, or work on the layout of a book, the royalties from which will be donated to an animal charity. Get a PDF certificate or get the book to print in time for people to order it for the holidays. And there was the whole sit down and write, or go for a ride mentality working on me.
I opted to finish laying out the book (which might still get to print in time, I'm still waiting on a couple of publishing agreements; even though people submitted work specifically for this book I can't go to print without their John Hancocks) and to take a few bike rides. The thought occurred to me that I could cheat and just type nonsense for 10,000 words and "win," because GOSH DARN IT that's one spiffy PDF certificate (or it was when I did NaNo year before last) but my initial goal was to get this story out of my head, and in that I succeeded.
Before November, it had been tumbling around in my head for well over a year, but I didn't have a clear enough vision of it to do more than take copious notes. I had no idea how it would end; now I do, and it's ending in a way I honestly did not expect.
While I was pounding the story out, once in a while I worried that some people would eventually read it and think I had written them into the story, and not in a favorable light. I had to keep writing anyway...one, because if it didn't get out of my head I wouldn't be able to move onto the next project; and two, it's fiction. Pure fiction, albeit wrapped around familiar truths.
So when I finish, if it becomes a you-can-buy-it book...No, it's not about you. It's not about me. It's not even about the dead guy walking around in Goth makeup.
There ya go, something to look forward to, and to discuss amongst yourselves.
Who's the dead guy in Thumper's failed NaNo...?
Tuesday
In the interest of settling a debate that really wasn't:
What makes more sense, and will do the greater good...buy a bunch of random toys to place in a local toy drive bin or Toys For Tots bin, or pick names off a Gift Tree and buy specifically requested items for kids in need?
Charlie (wife of He Who Never Blogged, and hence he lost his blog address to someone else, but that's neither here nor there) and I have been discussing this in email and we really aren't sure. For both our families, Christmas isn't Christmas without toy shopping, and tradition is to go out and buy stuff to donate.
But which is better? Just buy random things and let someone else match toy to kid? Perhaps spend a little less and get a few things someone has specifically asked for? Does it even matter?
Discuss amongst yourselves. Just do it in my comments :)
What makes more sense, and will do the greater good...buy a bunch of random toys to place in a local toy drive bin or Toys For Tots bin, or pick names off a Gift Tree and buy specifically requested items for kids in need?
Charlie (wife of He Who Never Blogged, and hence he lost his blog address to someone else, but that's neither here nor there) and I have been discussing this in email and we really aren't sure. For both our families, Christmas isn't Christmas without toy shopping, and tradition is to go out and buy stuff to donate.
But which is better? Just buy random things and let someone else match toy to kid? Perhaps spend a little less and get a few things someone has specifically asked for? Does it even matter?
Discuss amongst yourselves. Just do it in my comments :)
Sunday
Dear Santa,
I've been pretty good this year. I mean, I didn't beat the living crap out of anyone and I'm pretty sure I can get through December 25th without going apeshit on anyone. I didn't throw any major temper tantrums, and for the most part I played well with others. I didn't even run over any old people in the grocery store with my cart when they turned theirs sideways and blocked the aisles, even though I wanted to.
So, since I've been so good, I'm hoping you can get this for me for Christmas.
Isn't it pretty? It's so freaking awesome...it's not a sport bike, but it's not a cruiser either. It's a 680cc wonder, and it's automatic! It's my dream bike. If I get this I'll never ask you for another thing. Really, I promise.
Oh, I know that so far Honda has only shown it as a concept bike, and they aren't planning on rolling it out until next year, and then only in Europe, but you're so good I know you can get your hands on one. I have faith in you, Santa. You want me to be the only one in the U.S. with this beautiful little toy, don't you? I will love you forever.
Sincerly,
Thumper
P.S. If you bring me this, I'll make cookies and vodka slush for you. If you don't, you're only getting cookies.
I've been pretty good this year. I mean, I didn't beat the living crap out of anyone and I'm pretty sure I can get through December 25th without going apeshit on anyone. I didn't throw any major temper tantrums, and for the most part I played well with others. I didn't even run over any old people in the grocery store with my cart when they turned theirs sideways and blocked the aisles, even though I wanted to.
So, since I've been so good, I'm hoping you can get this for me for Christmas.
Isn't it pretty? It's so freaking awesome...it's not a sport bike, but it's not a cruiser either. It's a 680cc wonder, and it's automatic! It's my dream bike. If I get this I'll never ask you for another thing. Really, I promise.
Oh, I know that so far Honda has only shown it as a concept bike, and they aren't planning on rolling it out until next year, and then only in Europe, but you're so good I know you can get your hands on one. I have faith in you, Santa. You want me to be the only one in the U.S. with this beautiful little toy, don't you? I will love you forever.
Sincerly,
Thumper
P.S. If you bring me this, I'll make cookies and vodka slush for you. If you don't, you're only getting cookies.
Saturday
Wednesday
It's already November 22, only 8 days left in the month. I'm only 30,000 words into my NaNoWriMo entry...I don't think I'm going to hit 50K by the 30th (unless I cheat by typing one word 20,000 times, and no one but me would be the wiser...) While I am terribly, terribly sad (crushing! I cry daily!) that I won't win that nifty PDF certificate download for hitting fifty thousand words, I did get out of it what I wanted going into it. I finally fleshed out the story that's been rolling around in my head for well over a year.
I have thirty thousand words of what is essentially Really, Seriously, Completely Horrible material, but it's Really Seriously Completely Horrible in a reedemable kind of way; it's the bones that, if I keep at it, should become 80-100 thousand words with a little meat on those bones, and if I'm lucky, some savory fat, too. Maybe even with gravy and a side of mashed potatoes.
(Um, yeah, food on the brain right now.)
So, I'm an utter failure. I doubt I'll hit 50 thousand words. But it's been fun, and I'm not going to stop writing this month, just in case...
I have thirty thousand words of what is essentially Really, Seriously, Completely Horrible material, but it's Really Seriously Completely Horrible in a reedemable kind of way; it's the bones that, if I keep at it, should become 80-100 thousand words with a little meat on those bones, and if I'm lucky, some savory fat, too. Maybe even with gravy and a side of mashed potatoes.
(Um, yeah, food on the brain right now.)
So, I'm an utter failure. I doubt I'll hit 50 thousand words. But it's been fun, and I'm not going to stop writing this month, just in case...
Monday
Friday
I'm not sure where I got this picture, but substitute that cat for a chubby black and white tux kitty, and you'd have Max. He does not like going to the vet and has become so good at expressing his displeasure that he's earned a reputation.Last month we took Buddah in for his shots and checkup; we took him in Max's blue plastic tomb, because it's nicer than the average pet carrier, and we figured Buddah would like to be able to stand and look out the car window on the way there. The thing about that tomb is that it's quite distinctive, and as we pulled it out of the car the people in the vet's office were watching out the window; as soon as we were through the door they took a closer look and sighed in unison "Thank God, it's not Max."
Yesterday Buddah had to go back for a booster shot; he was terrified and trembled horribly, but he purred for the vet and even rubbed against him, but again, as we walked into the waiting area, the two people up front expressed relief that the kitty in the carrier was not Max.
They haven't seen Max since May, and it had been a good 6 months before that, but as the king of pooping at will, he's hard to forget.
Not only did Max poop all over me during at least one of his visits while he was so sick, all over the exam table, and the cage in the back, it seems that in a frenzy of You Will NOT Touch Me! Max pooped mightily and was able to smear it all over the wall.
Oddly, I'm a little proud of that.
They have six months to brace themselves, because he's going back. And I imagine he'll have saved up an awful lot of poop by then...
Thursday
Wednesday
What's The Frequency, Kenneth?
I have tinnitus. It's not bad, at least I don't think it is. I always have some ringing in my ears but it's not distracting unless I think about it, or unless the room I'm in is very quiet. Hell, I think I was 14 before it occured to me that not everyone has a persistent background noise that follows them around like a lost little puppy.
When it's incredibly quiet, it manifests itself as more than just a ringing; late at night, when everything is silent, I often think I'm hearing a TV on in another room. It's convincing enough that I sometimes have to get up to check to make sure no one left one on, which is a little bit odd since the sound rides on the air like a muffled auction or horse race announcing, and I don't think anyone in this house watches auctions or horse racing on TV.
I can ignore it for the most part. I hear it, have to think, and once I've pinned it on those odd sounds that my brain just makes up to annoy me, I can roll over and go back to sleep.
Four thirty this morning I woke up, (and surprisingly my first thought wasn't I'm alive!) and as I stirred awake and thought I heard a TV on in another room, but a peek out the door suggested everyone was still asleep, so unless a cat sat on a remote, it wasn't likely.
But... What I was hearing was Dan Rather.
Dan Rather, voice muffled.
Dan Rather, sounding rather drunk, repeating the same phrase over and over, though I could not tell exactly what that phrase was. It wasn't for lack of effort; I strained to hear, thinking that maybe one of the cats really did sit on a remote and turn on a TV. It's not implausible; they've stepped on them and changed channels before.
So I slid out of bed and went into the hallway; nothing. It was quiet and every light in the house was off. There was no tell-tale flicker of a TV to be seen, and no Dan Rather muttering from the living room.
Five minutes later, back in bed and trying to drift off, there he was, muttering from the ether, that authoritative deep rumble bouncing off the walls.
This is annoying.
I can deal with the auctions at night. I can deal with the horse race announcer. I can deal with the persistent ringing.
But Dan Rather talking to me at night?
There's just something wrong with that.
I have tinnitus. It's not bad, at least I don't think it is. I always have some ringing in my ears but it's not distracting unless I think about it, or unless the room I'm in is very quiet. Hell, I think I was 14 before it occured to me that not everyone has a persistent background noise that follows them around like a lost little puppy.
When it's incredibly quiet, it manifests itself as more than just a ringing; late at night, when everything is silent, I often think I'm hearing a TV on in another room. It's convincing enough that I sometimes have to get up to check to make sure no one left one on, which is a little bit odd since the sound rides on the air like a muffled auction or horse race announcing, and I don't think anyone in this house watches auctions or horse racing on TV.
I can ignore it for the most part. I hear it, have to think, and once I've pinned it on those odd sounds that my brain just makes up to annoy me, I can roll over and go back to sleep.
Four thirty this morning I woke up, (and surprisingly my first thought wasn't I'm alive!) and as I stirred awake and thought I heard a TV on in another room, but a peek out the door suggested everyone was still asleep, so unless a cat sat on a remote, it wasn't likely.
But... What I was hearing was Dan Rather.
Dan Rather, voice muffled.
Dan Rather, sounding rather drunk, repeating the same phrase over and over, though I could not tell exactly what that phrase was. It wasn't for lack of effort; I strained to hear, thinking that maybe one of the cats really did sit on a remote and turn on a TV. It's not implausible; they've stepped on them and changed channels before.
So I slid out of bed and went into the hallway; nothing. It was quiet and every light in the house was off. There was no tell-tale flicker of a TV to be seen, and no Dan Rather muttering from the living room.
Five minutes later, back in bed and trying to drift off, there he was, muttering from the ether, that authoritative deep rumble bouncing off the walls.
This is annoying.
I can deal with the auctions at night. I can deal with the horse race announcer. I can deal with the persistent ringing.
But Dan Rather talking to me at night?
There's just something wrong with that.
Monday
I had just pulled out of my driveway and was headed down the street, destination library, when a lady in a minivan blew the stop sign at the corner near our house; she missed me by about an inch--no exaggeration--and stopped only long enough to look at me like "Why are you there? No one is supposed to be there."
I pointed to the stop sign and yelled "There's a freaking STOP SIGN!"
She went on, looking confused. I don't know why; the stop sign is always there. It's not exactly a suggestion; you're supposed to come to a complete stop behind the limit line where a stop sign exists. It's one of the first things you learn in driver's ed. It's not even a difficult concept: see the red octagon, and stop. You don't even have to be able to read.
But she looked confused, and I wondered if she was having a bad day. Maybe she just lost her job. Maybe someone died. Maybe life was just so overwhelming at that moment that she just didn't see the stop sign.
Maybe.
But I don't care. Her right to have a bad day and drive ends where my personal safety begins. If I'd been a little quicker on the gas coming out of the driveway, she would have slammed into the passenger side of my car. And while the car is just a thing and can be repaired or replaced, the person inside might not be so lucky. And if I'd been on the bike, I would have been a little quicker on the gas. And that would have ruined MY day.
And we all know my day is more important.
It's all about me.
Yes, I'm now having an All About Me Day; I'm at the library and there are kids over in the corner laughing, and it's irritating the crap out of me. Normally I don't care. Some guy just answered his cell phone, and usually that doesn't bother me if they speak in a soft voice. He's dang near whispering, and I want to grab the phone and shove it up his left nostril. (You thought I was going to say ass, didn't you? Ha! But that would not be nearly as painful as a nostril, I don't think. People shove things up their buttockal region all the time, but I've never heard of anyone going to the ER because they tried to wedge a hamster up their nose.) There's a Library Lady shelving DVDs and the tick of the plastic on the metal shelf kind of makes me want to get up and scream This is a farking library! It's for BOOKS not some freaking movie rental place!
Yeah, not a good day now, though it was when I got up, even though I was woken by an odd dream about alien invasion and not being able to find the cats to get them to safety at the Little House On The Prairie. When I left the house I was in a good mood.
Some lady blows through a stop sign and now I want to chew nails and spit them out at little children.
So. I am going to shut the computer down. Stick it in my backpack, leave without saying a word to anyone lest I really offend, and I'm taking myself out to lunch, because we all know a burger and fries cures all.
And maybe this afternoon won't be all about me. Well, it should be all about me, but not in a I-want-to-rip-your-face-off kind of way.
My battery is dying anyway.
That's as good an excuse as any to stop working. A dying battery, and a desire to say mean things to small children.
Yes, I should definitely go.
Maybe a chocolate shake is in order.
Yep.
I pointed to the stop sign and yelled "There's a freaking STOP SIGN!"
She went on, looking confused. I don't know why; the stop sign is always there. It's not exactly a suggestion; you're supposed to come to a complete stop behind the limit line where a stop sign exists. It's one of the first things you learn in driver's ed. It's not even a difficult concept: see the red octagon, and stop. You don't even have to be able to read.
But she looked confused, and I wondered if she was having a bad day. Maybe she just lost her job. Maybe someone died. Maybe life was just so overwhelming at that moment that she just didn't see the stop sign.
Maybe.
But I don't care. Her right to have a bad day and drive ends where my personal safety begins. If I'd been a little quicker on the gas coming out of the driveway, she would have slammed into the passenger side of my car. And while the car is just a thing and can be repaired or replaced, the person inside might not be so lucky. And if I'd been on the bike, I would have been a little quicker on the gas. And that would have ruined MY day.
And we all know my day is more important.
It's all about me.
Yes, I'm now having an All About Me Day; I'm at the library and there are kids over in the corner laughing, and it's irritating the crap out of me. Normally I don't care. Some guy just answered his cell phone, and usually that doesn't bother me if they speak in a soft voice. He's dang near whispering, and I want to grab the phone and shove it up his left nostril. (You thought I was going to say ass, didn't you? Ha! But that would not be nearly as painful as a nostril, I don't think. People shove things up their buttockal region all the time, but I've never heard of anyone going to the ER because they tried to wedge a hamster up their nose.) There's a Library Lady shelving DVDs and the tick of the plastic on the metal shelf kind of makes me want to get up and scream This is a farking library! It's for BOOKS not some freaking movie rental place!
Yeah, not a good day now, though it was when I got up, even though I was woken by an odd dream about alien invasion and not being able to find the cats to get them to safety at the Little House On The Prairie. When I left the house I was in a good mood.
Some lady blows through a stop sign and now I want to chew nails and spit them out at little children.
So. I am going to shut the computer down. Stick it in my backpack, leave without saying a word to anyone lest I really offend, and I'm taking myself out to lunch, because we all know a burger and fries cures all.
And maybe this afternoon won't be all about me. Well, it should be all about me, but not in a I-want-to-rip-your-face-off kind of way.
My battery is dying anyway.
That's as good an excuse as any to stop working. A dying battery, and a desire to say mean things to small children.
Yes, I should definitely go.
Maybe a chocolate shake is in order.
Yep.
Saturday
Tuesday
Wandom Wabbit Dwoppings
And now, for some total cuteness, sent to me in email today by my mother-in-law... The real Bambi and Thumper, as captured by photographer Tanja Askani
- I voted. Thus, I get to complain until the next election.
- Voting required me to go someplace brand new all by myself.
- AND I had to TALK to strangers, because I had no clue what precinct I live in.
- I didn't even think twice about this until I was done.
- Pat me on the back and give me chocolate. Trust me, it's a big deal.
- Spouse Thingy had to work a day shift, so he had the car. So I rode my bike.
- After I voted I took myself on a nice 2 hour tour of the town.
- I said bad words at a stop light when it wouldn't change for me. I waited 4 cycles, then turned right because I didn't want to turn left that badly.
- I have done no writing today, though I may stop playing online in a few minutes and try to cough up a good 2,000 words.
- Or not.
- Remember how we had to move? Because the owners wanted to sell?
- They took the house off the market.
- So their son could live in it.
- That annoyed me for about 10 minutes, even though they had every right to not renew the lease and honestly intended to sell it. The kid really needed a place to live.
- I know this because our kids know each other.
- Even though it cost us a chitload of money to move, we at least got to move into a better house.
- Yes, we are still loving this house.
- If you did not vote, no chocolate for you. Give it all to me.
And now, for some total cuteness, sent to me in email today by my mother-in-law... The real Bambi and Thumper, as captured by photographer Tanja Askani
Monday
Sunday
Dear Maniac Driving The Car Behind Me,
This may come as news to you, but in the state of California, bicycles are considered vehicles and they have every right to share the road with cars and motorcycles (so do wheelchairs and those nifty little scooters you see old people tooting around on, but we're talking about bicycles here and I don't want to confuse you any more than you already seem to be.)
Now, when I am on my motorcycle and there is a group of bicyclists ahead of me at a stop light, I am not going to crowd them. I am not going to rev my engine to make them take off at the light as fast as they can, and I am certainly not going to try to blow around them. They have every right to be there, too.
What I will do is protect their lane space by staying a little bit behind them at the stop. When the light goes green, I am not going to engage in a jackrabbit start, and neither will I blow past them, even though I have enough room. I am going ride safely behind them until they have crossed the intersection, and then I am going to ride slowy and give them time to get past the cars parked at the side of the road, so that they can get into the bike lane. Then, and only then, will I speed up and pass them.
So...get off my freaking back tire and quit trying to press me into pressing them to get out of the way. If you won't protect their right to be on the road, then I will.
Sincerely,
The Rider Of The White Rebel That Went 15 Miles Under The Speed Limit A Lot Longer Than She Needed To Because You Were Pissing Her Off.
This may come as news to you, but in the state of California, bicycles are considered vehicles and they have every right to share the road with cars and motorcycles (so do wheelchairs and those nifty little scooters you see old people tooting around on, but we're talking about bicycles here and I don't want to confuse you any more than you already seem to be.)
Now, when I am on my motorcycle and there is a group of bicyclists ahead of me at a stop light, I am not going to crowd them. I am not going to rev my engine to make them take off at the light as fast as they can, and I am certainly not going to try to blow around them. They have every right to be there, too.
What I will do is protect their lane space by staying a little bit behind them at the stop. When the light goes green, I am not going to engage in a jackrabbit start, and neither will I blow past them, even though I have enough room. I am going ride safely behind them until they have crossed the intersection, and then I am going to ride slowy and give them time to get past the cars parked at the side of the road, so that they can get into the bike lane. Then, and only then, will I speed up and pass them.
So...get off my freaking back tire and quit trying to press me into pressing them to get out of the way. If you won't protect their right to be on the road, then I will.
Sincerely,
The Rider Of The White Rebel That Went 15 Miles Under The Speed Limit A Lot Longer Than She Needed To Because You Were Pissing Her Off.
Thursday
Music Of The Night
I doubt I'm alone in that I have these moments where I ponder life, both its meaning and its end. Dying is my greatest fear; it's not just that I've got this deep feeling that I'm not going to measure up to the standards that could get me past the Pearly Gates, or even that I'll be spending eternity wishing I hadn't bitched and moaned about spending my Living Years shivering through the 3 layers of goose bumps that seemed to crawl across my skin like fungus. A part of it is this niggling feeling that I've got it all wrong and there's nothing after this. We're born, we live, we die, and that's it.
I can't stand that thought. So I live on the idea that we're so hardwired to believe in something that comes after--whether you think there's a hell or not, how many levels of heaven there might be--that it has to be true. We can try to use logic to dismiss the notion of afterlife, but it's been a part of the human condition for as long as humans have been able to communicate; I can't fathom anything that long lived not being true.
(I'm not seeking debate on the matter. This is my gut feeling; you're free to listen to whatever gut feelings you have. We have gut feelings for a reason, for both good and bad.)
Most nights I wake up at some point, and I almost always wake with the same thought--I'm alive--as if it's a total surprise. Usually I fall right back asleep, and come morning that middle of the night waking feels like a distant memory, something stupid that I'd done years before that was mildly amusing to no one but myself.
But the last couple of months I've woken up, and while I'm not 100% awake, I haven't fallen back into those deepest places of slumber. I'm half awake, curled around a body pillow, sometimes with a cat pressed up against my chest, and I wait.
I haven't been entirely sure what I've been waiting for. I simply hold onto the pillow and breathe, or reach out and rub a furry little kitty head, and wait. I'm not waiting to fall back asleep, I'm just waiting.
And then last night I realized what I was waiting for; as Max stretched beside me, his paw sliding across my cheek in a most un-Max-like caress, I heard a soft bong...bong...bong... coming from the living room.
The clock. It was going through the machinations of announcing 3 a.m., and I realized that was what I was waiting for, the gentle bonging of the clock my father-in-law gave us last year, the clock he made by hand, each and every amazing, delicate cut of it.
And I realized it's the same time every night that I wake up; just before three a.m. I hold myself in that twilight of not quite asleep and not quite awake, and wait for that sound to drift up the stairs.
I'm alive...
...I'm alive...
...I'm alive.
Max stretched and jumped off the bed, and I felt myself slipping back into sleep, chasing after fragments of a dream abandoned, wrapped in the comfort of having the music of the clock to cling to when I inevitably wake in the middle of the night.
I doubt I'm alone in that I have these moments where I ponder life, both its meaning and its end. Dying is my greatest fear; it's not just that I've got this deep feeling that I'm not going to measure up to the standards that could get me past the Pearly Gates, or even that I'll be spending eternity wishing I hadn't bitched and moaned about spending my Living Years shivering through the 3 layers of goose bumps that seemed to crawl across my skin like fungus. A part of it is this niggling feeling that I've got it all wrong and there's nothing after this. We're born, we live, we die, and that's it.
I can't stand that thought. So I live on the idea that we're so hardwired to believe in something that comes after--whether you think there's a hell or not, how many levels of heaven there might be--that it has to be true. We can try to use logic to dismiss the notion of afterlife, but it's been a part of the human condition for as long as humans have been able to communicate; I can't fathom anything that long lived not being true.
(I'm not seeking debate on the matter. This is my gut feeling; you're free to listen to whatever gut feelings you have. We have gut feelings for a reason, for both good and bad.)
Most nights I wake up at some point, and I almost always wake with the same thought--I'm alive--as if it's a total surprise. Usually I fall right back asleep, and come morning that middle of the night waking feels like a distant memory, something stupid that I'd done years before that was mildly amusing to no one but myself.
But the last couple of months I've woken up, and while I'm not 100% awake, I haven't fallen back into those deepest places of slumber. I'm half awake, curled around a body pillow, sometimes with a cat pressed up against my chest, and I wait.
I haven't been entirely sure what I've been waiting for. I simply hold onto the pillow and breathe, or reach out and rub a furry little kitty head, and wait. I'm not waiting to fall back asleep, I'm just waiting.
And then last night I realized what I was waiting for; as Max stretched beside me, his paw sliding across my cheek in a most un-Max-like caress, I heard a soft bong...bong...bong... coming from the living room.
The clock. It was going through the machinations of announcing 3 a.m., and I realized that was what I was waiting for, the gentle bonging of the clock my father-in-law gave us last year, the clock he made by hand, each and every amazing, delicate cut of it.
And I realized it's the same time every night that I wake up; just before three a.m. I hold myself in that twilight of not quite asleep and not quite awake, and wait for that sound to drift up the stairs.
I'm alive...
...I'm alive...
...I'm alive.
Max stretched and jumped off the bed, and I felt myself slipping back into sleep, chasing after fragments of a dream abandoned, wrapped in the comfort of having the music of the clock to cling to when I inevitably wake in the middle of the night.
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