Something to look forward to.
Friday
24 January 2014
A few more years and maybe 20 pounds, and I'll probably have the arm flappage that will allow me to be able to do this.
Wednesday
22 January 2014
New year, new endeavors...
The Boy is gearing up for his annual Polar Plunge to benefit the Special Olympics of Northern California. He jumps in a month and if he reaches goal he'll go as a princess again, although I think he's willing to show a little more skin this year.
I dunno...I think if he blows past his goal of $3000, he should jump in a Speedo.
In any case, I think the jump is on Feb 22, and he has a ways to go. Donations are tax deductible. Just sayin'...
I have several events coming up. Some are fundraisers, a couple are just entry-fee-generated funding.
The St. Baldrick's head shaving event to benefit children's cancer research is on March 15, and so far I've raised $360. Not too shabby.
Per agreement for an upcoming donation, I went to Disney with crimson colored hair (and rocked it) and I'll go to the event with purple hair. And I'm still willing to humiliate myself for further donations! Unless it involves nudity, because no one wants to see that.
In February I'll walk/run/crawl a virtual half marathon to raise funds for the Mayo Clinic to benefit breast cancer. I haven't raised anything for this yet, but I also don't think I've mentioned it before.
I still don't know if I'll participate in an Avon or Komen event this year, but I am totally not done with the pink things...and I can do this.
I'm just waiting for my info packet which will include my required race bib, and then I'll probably go to SF to wander along the Embarcaderro to rack up the miles.
Also on tap, the Cyberman Delete Delete Virtual Half Marathon to benefit the American Medical Athletic Association's Youth Fund. No fundraising for this...just the entry fee.
And to top it off, the Firefly 14K/14M Virtual to benefit Galgos del Sol and SOS Galgos (saving abused and injured dogs.) No fundraising for this, either.
Busy first of the year ahead.
It gets me off my asterisk, though, so it's all good.
I dunno...I think if he blows past his goal of $3000, he should jump in a Speedo.
In any case, I think the jump is on Feb 22, and he has a ways to go. Donations are tax deductible. Just sayin'...
I have several events coming up. Some are fundraisers, a couple are just entry-fee-generated funding.
Per agreement for an upcoming donation, I went to Disney with crimson colored hair (and rocked it) and I'll go to the event with purple hair. And I'm still willing to humiliate myself for further donations! Unless it involves nudity, because no one wants to see that.
I still don't know if I'll participate in an Avon or Komen event this year, but I am totally not done with the pink things...and I can do this.
I'm just waiting for my info packet which will include my required race bib, and then I'll probably go to SF to wander along the Embarcaderro to rack up the miles.
Busy first of the year ahead.
It gets me off my asterisk, though, so it's all good.
Sunday
19 January 2014
How writers and indie publishers conduct business in Disneyland:
1. Being all serious and chit, they sit at their tables discussing writer-like things, such as "Is this coffee caffeinated? I hate decaff," and "Are you gonna eat that? Because if you aren't, I will."
2. Someone's phone pings.
3. While one writer espouses on the lack of a common e-publishing platform, Phone Boy interrupts with, "Guys, that was my son. There are NO LINES IN THE PARK."
4. Then, "Guys, we could totally talk about all this stuff IN THE PARK."
5. So business is discussed in line IN THE PARK, where writers who use their Amazon ranking in obscure genres to promote themselves as Best Selling Authors are the topic, and wherein they are determined to be frauds and dootiheads.
It's a hard life.
Things were learned, though. It was learned that future workshops/conferences/meetings/roundtable discussions will not take place in Disneyland, because writers are immature and Disney is fun.
It was learned, too, that you want me along, because, dammit, I am classy as frak.
Also, I dress professionally. Always.
Also also, since I didn't get to drive my little red convertible to Disney (seemed like a bad idea, honestly, what with the smell of cows all down I-5) I found another one to play with.
No worries. The kids I shoved out of the way so I could get in the car were not hurt. Badly. There was no blood, I swear!
There was a lot of good food, so we ate...a lot.
These were insanely good. Black Cherry Mojitos at ESPN Zone. They weren't strong at all--I had two and didn't even get a buzz--but they were freaking tasty. They were also a lesson learned: I should not drink at all, especially not when away from home. The only upside to having them (aside from how tasty they were and writers DRINK, dammit!) was that I had them on Thursday, after we were pretty much done, so the resulting return of my rage rock band, Thumper's Throbbing Intestines, on Friday didn't really get in the way of anything other than a lot of walking around.
We really lucked out with the crowds; on Wednesday and Thursday the crowd levels were so low that we pretty much walked onto the rides we wanted to be on. The waits were like 5-10 minutes tops, and we managed to get on everything 2-4 times. Even Radiator Springs Racers, which normally has a 1-2 hour wait, we only waited for 40 minutes at most...and that was in shade with a nice breeze, so it didn't feel like it was that long.
But Friday.
Holy hell. I'm glad we got everything done we needed and wanted to, because on Friday the winds were gone, the heat was not kind to me, and the crowds were awful.
I was exhausted by then, my gut was churning and my back was screaming, and we didn't get too far into Disneyland in the morning before heading back to the hotel where we just chilled until around 4:30, then tried again. It was still warm but there was a lot more shade, so we wandered around...and realized there were more and more people, and it was so crowded it was hard to turn around without bumping into someone else.
By 6:30 we were hungry and getting twitchy about the crowds, so we noped it on out of there and went to Downtown Disney to get dinner, because surely it wouldn't be as bad there.
Yeah.
The wait to get seated at Rainforest Cafe was 1:45 to 2 hours, and looking around it wasn't any better anywhere else, so we went back to the hotel and ordered room service. We'd expected to wait just as long for that, but figured we'd be comfortable while we waited...but less than half an hour later we had a table in our room and ate before the people who'd been just ahead of us in that Rainforest line were even seated.
It's the little things...
I did have to take a few breaks--no surprise there--but we had a great time. Good enough that we decided we really do like Disney better than Vegas and would like to go again this year, probably in the late fall when the weather is cooler and the crowds are a lot like they were most of the time this week.
No more work type things there, though. That just didn't work out well, and next time we want to have fun people with us. coughcough Disney would be a great getaway from Texas. Just sayin' coughcough.
Now the fun part of the Spouse Thingy's time off: the toilet in his bathroom is clogged, so we need a plumber, but we're not paying for a weekend or holiday repair, so we're sharing a bathroom right now and I HATE SHARING BATHROOMS WITH BOYS. Or anyone. Because inevitably, when I realllly have to go, someone has already gotten in there before me.
And no, Max did not miss me. He had the Grandma. I actually think he resents that we came home.
1. Being all serious and chit, they sit at their tables discussing writer-like things, such as "Is this coffee caffeinated? I hate decaff," and "Are you gonna eat that? Because if you aren't, I will."
2. Someone's phone pings.
3. While one writer espouses on the lack of a common e-publishing platform, Phone Boy interrupts with, "Guys, that was my son. There are NO LINES IN THE PARK."
4. Then, "Guys, we could totally talk about all this stuff IN THE PARK."
5. So business is discussed in line IN THE PARK, where writers who use their Amazon ranking in obscure genres to promote themselves as Best Selling Authors are the topic, and wherein they are determined to be frauds and dootiheads.
It's a hard life.
Things were learned, though. It was learned that future workshops/conferences/meetings/roundtable discussions will not take place in Disneyland, because writers are immature and Disney is fun.
It was learned, too, that you want me along, because, dammit, I am classy as frak.
Also, I dress professionally. Always.
Also also, since I didn't get to drive my little red convertible to Disney (seemed like a bad idea, honestly, what with the smell of cows all down I-5) I found another one to play with.
No worries. The kids I shoved out of the way so I could get in the car were not hurt. Badly. There was no blood, I swear!
There was a lot of good food, so we ate...a lot.
(That was seriously the best fried chicken I've ever had, I think. It's at the Plaza Inn and the end of Main Street.)
And I gave drinking a try.
We really lucked out with the crowds; on Wednesday and Thursday the crowd levels were so low that we pretty much walked onto the rides we wanted to be on. The waits were like 5-10 minutes tops, and we managed to get on everything 2-4 times. Even Radiator Springs Racers, which normally has a 1-2 hour wait, we only waited for 40 minutes at most...and that was in shade with a nice breeze, so it didn't feel like it was that long.
But Friday.
 |
| Space Mountain. 4 times. 'Cause we could. |
I was exhausted by then, my gut was churning and my back was screaming, and we didn't get too far into Disneyland in the morning before heading back to the hotel where we just chilled until around 4:30, then tried again. It was still warm but there was a lot more shade, so we wandered around...and realized there were more and more people, and it was so crowded it was hard to turn around without bumping into someone else.
By 6:30 we were hungry and getting twitchy about the crowds, so we noped it on out of there and went to Downtown Disney to get dinner, because surely it wouldn't be as bad there.
Yeah.
The wait to get seated at Rainforest Cafe was 1:45 to 2 hours, and looking around it wasn't any better anywhere else, so we went back to the hotel and ordered room service. We'd expected to wait just as long for that, but figured we'd be comfortable while we waited...but less than half an hour later we had a table in our room and ate before the people who'd been just ahead of us in that Rainforest line were even seated.
It's the little things...
I did have to take a few breaks--no surprise there--but we had a great time. Good enough that we decided we really do like Disney better than Vegas and would like to go again this year, probably in the late fall when the weather is cooler and the crowds are a lot like they were most of the time this week.
No more work type things there, though. That just didn't work out well, and next time we want to have fun people with us. coughcough Disney would be a great getaway from Texas. Just sayin' coughcough.
Now the fun part of the Spouse Thingy's time off: the toilet in his bathroom is clogged, so we need a plumber, but we're not paying for a weekend or holiday repair, so we're sharing a bathroom right now and I HATE SHARING BATHROOMS WITH BOYS. Or anyone. Because inevitably, when I realllly have to go, someone has already gotten in there before me.
And no, Max did not miss me. He had the Grandma. I actually think he resents that we came home.
12 January 2014
I get choked up over a lot of things: TV commercials designed to jab at a viewer's soft spot, adorable/sad/sickly wonderful pictures, beautiful song lyrics. But rarely do I see or read something that makes me literally cry out, and causes real tears to fly our of my eyes so hard and fast that they wind up splattering my glasses.
Last night I sat in bed with my iPad, poking through reddit, and found a thread in Ask Reddit that showed a lot of promise for humor and insight. The question asked: Reddit, what's a quote that makes you feel both happy and sad a the same time?
There were some song lyrics that surprised me; pop tunes that are catchy as hell, but when taken out of the melody behind it are actually quite sad. Quotes from South Park that are funny but fairly deep. Lines from major literary works, some well known, some obscure.
And then there was this, a quote someone pasted from another reddit thread.
To say it hit me in the feels is an understatement. My feels were instantly on fire and I couldn't see for the tears.
Happy and sad.
Holy shit.
Last night I sat in bed with my iPad, poking through reddit, and found a thread in Ask Reddit that showed a lot of promise for humor and insight. The question asked: Reddit, what's a quote that makes you feel both happy and sad a the same time?
There were some song lyrics that surprised me; pop tunes that are catchy as hell, but when taken out of the melody behind it are actually quite sad. Quotes from South Park that are funny but fairly deep. Lines from major literary works, some well known, some obscure.
And then there was this, a quote someone pasted from another reddit thread.
 |
| click to biggify |
Happy and sad.
Holy shit.
Friday
10 January 2014
In a few days the Spouse Thingy and I are packing a couple of bags and heading south for a few days. On one hand, this is a "work" thing; on the other, it's at the Disneyland Hotel, so how much work will really get done?
The work part started as a rather large indie publishing and writer's workshop, which became a slightly smaller workshop, which became a temper tantrum between some participants, which is now...who knows, but I'm going and taking the Spouse Thingy with me.
We're doing it much like we did a couple years ago--staying on site so that I can crash and burn as needed--with the added stress of people I don't know wanting to discuss things about which I am not particularly eloquent and one woman who may wind up tied to a pole inside the Monorail because she's just...just. Let's just say she is not going to be a fan of mine, what with the tattoos and drag king vibe, and the hair.
Oh yeah, the hair.
Crimson, or what should be crimson. A donation deal was struck with he-who-forgot-he-has-a-blog: show up to this thing with crimson hair, and then purple for the St. Baldrick's Shave.
I thought the hair was going to be darker, but, I'll live with it. I'm not thrilled about how thin it's obviously getting--made worse by that dark patch which is the result of having dyed the crap out of my scalp--but overall it's not bad.
I mean, it's not neon pink, which is good and bad. Good because it's not going to draw the slack-jawed staring pink tends to, and bad because...I like the pink.
It suits me.
I'm hoping the weather works out...while most of you are shivering, I want to be driving with the top down, except through that one stretch that smells like cow poop.
And don't worry about the kitties. They get the Grandma while we're gone. They won't even miss us.
The work part started as a rather large indie publishing and writer's workshop, which became a slightly smaller workshop, which became a temper tantrum between some participants, which is now...who knows, but I'm going and taking the Spouse Thingy with me.
We're doing it much like we did a couple years ago--staying on site so that I can crash and burn as needed--with the added stress of people I don't know wanting to discuss things about which I am not particularly eloquent and one woman who may wind up tied to a pole inside the Monorail because she's just...just. Let's just say she is not going to be a fan of mine, what with the tattoos and drag king vibe, and the hair.
Oh yeah, the hair.Crimson, or what should be crimson. A donation deal was struck with he-who-forgot-he-has-a-blog: show up to this thing with crimson hair, and then purple for the St. Baldrick's Shave.
I thought the hair was going to be darker, but, I'll live with it. I'm not thrilled about how thin it's obviously getting--made worse by that dark patch which is the result of having dyed the crap out of my scalp--but overall it's not bad.
I mean, it's not neon pink, which is good and bad. Good because it's not going to draw the slack-jawed staring pink tends to, and bad because...I like the pink.
It suits me.
I'm hoping the weather works out...while most of you are shivering, I want to be driving with the top down, except through that one stretch that smells like cow poop.
And don't worry about the kitties. They get the Grandma while we're gone. They won't even miss us.
Saturday
4 January 2014
Char: …so Rach asked why it was all right for him to say that, but not her. He answered without hesitation, “because I’m a grown-assed man, and your brain hasn’t finished cooking.” She looked to her dad, who shrugged and said, “Well, he’s not wrong, sweetheart. Your pre-frontal lobe cortex is still in development, areas of the brain that control logic—” and that’s when my dad cut him off with, “You can be a fucking drag sometimes, Glowboy.” It might have been inappropriate, but even Ian laughed.
The topic*—
[*How we got on the topic: after dealing with a very judgmental woman in an indie writers’ group, who—without knowing much about any of the other participants—declared that all who used the word “fuck” and any variation of it to be classless twits devoid of intelligence, anyone with tattoos to be classless heathens headed straight for Hell and deserved damnation, and anyone who sports piercings (of any kind), wildly dyed hair, or “improperly styled hair” to be classless thugs who should not be spoken to. She may be at an upcoming publishers and indie writer’s workshop this month meeting in Anaheim; this later prompted Murf to tell me (in regards to dyeing my hair) “…the first time she rolls her eyes, tell her that stick up her ass is antithetical to her so-called Christian, giving lifestyle, and your hair is, at the very least (and unlike her online sermons), doing good in the world.” It just rolled on from there.]
—whether or not to make a New Year’s resolution to cut out swearing. I’m not one to make absolute resolutions, like lose 50 pounds or go to the gym 3 times a week; I prefer to set more attainable goals, like eat better, move more, give more. The only goal I would likely set where words are concerned would be to write gooder.
I am not likely to ever agree to change the way I express myself; on paper I choose words with more care than what tumbles out of my mouth, but in both cases I will say what I mean, even if I drop a “frak” instead of its more colorful cousin.
(Battlestar Gallactica fans may be dismayed to find out that their beloved word “frak”—or “frakk” as it is sometimes spelled—did not originate with the series. I’m not sure where it came from or exactly how long ago, but it was the choice F-bomb alternative at BYU well over 30 years ago, and had been in use far longer than that. Zoobies—BYU students—are not supposed to swear. Not “real” swear words, anyhow. As is the case with most people, when disallowed one thing, another pops up as a substitute, and for whatever reasons, that seems to be all right with TIIC. )
Dangnabit.
Son of a biscuit eater.
Gal-darnit.
Crap.
Frak.
Bullshit.
Every time you spout off a substitution, clever or not, you’re still swearing. I know it; you know it even if you’re not willing to admit it to yourself. Much of the time, I substitute something else not because I’m refraining from the obvious word choice, but because it feels funnier. I tend to prefer a good FRAK to the tried and true F-bomb in blogs and other written forms; I prefer to work my asterisk off, not my ass. I tend to write, “well…carp” instead of crap, but I know my intention and I’m not trying to fool anyone.
If I drop a hammer on my toe, I’m sure as hell not going to let loose a string of Pollyanna Sweet Sunshine words. Oh, goodness gracious, that stings! No. I’m going to swear as hard as my inner sailor can swear—and I’ll feel better for it. Hell, yes, swearing can ease pain. Why would I not use that specific duct tape in my psychological tool belt?
And hey, it turns out that people who swear tend to be more trustworthy and honest.
I am not unintelligent; I may lack smarts now and then, but I am not stupid. Nor do I lack creativity. Nor do I lack the capacity to find other words. I swear because I swear, it’s as simple as that. I swear because I understand that more often than not the use of watered down colloquialisms is a rather immature approach to the spoken language, an alternative that is appropriate for children, from whom we really don’t want to hear a string of ill-timed swear words—their brains aren’t finished cooking.
There’s nothing wrong with using the less adult language, not at all. I don’t find it off-putting if an adult chooses to use the more immature versions of the bluer words; we’re all immature sometimes. Sometimes that other word is the better choice.
I don’t find particular umbrage with a well-timed “Well…fuck.” (By the same token, if every other word out of your mouth is tinged blue, you probably do have issues with self-expression; issues not rooted in a lack of intelligence per se…my guess would be in anger.) A few months ago I sat in Starbucks and a guy walking by dropped his scone and uttered just that. Was I offended? No. It was appropriate to the situation. It also could have been any of a dozen other words; whatever popped out would have meant the same thing.
I do find umbrage with those who would look down their noses at others simply because of the use of a particular word. It’s rarely kind and it’s often hypocritical; face it, if you can’t abide by hearing or seeing “goddammit” but freely use something like “gal-dangit,” you’re engaging in a fair amount of hypocritical thinking. It means the same thing. If you freely say “damn” or “hell” but judge someone else for saying “shit” or “fuck,” you’re a hypocrite.
Words carry the weight of intention; the finger you point at someone for saying them carries the weight of judgment.
~K.A. Thompson
So pretty much, the next time you let slip an “oh, dammit!” and then think ill of the person you just heard utter, “that’s fucking awesome!” just stop and think about it. (Oh, and Matthew 7:1 and all that, in case you lean that way.)
I don’t have a swearing problem, mostly because it’s not my issue. So no, I will not resolve to stop swearing. I may make a goal, however, to do it more colorfully, because, hey, I can only use the word “asterisk” so many times, right?
Oh, and yes, the hair is going to be dyed soon. Crimson for the upcoming trip where we will pretend to be exchanging ideas about the turning tides of the publishing industry and how indie writers can attain better marketability while retaining rights and higher royalty distribution while sipping Red Stupid Drinks in Trader Sams, and purple for the St. Baldrick’s Shaving event. During both, I shall endeavor to display my tattoos, and offend as many uptight people as I can with my unrefined, headed-to-Hell lack of smart thinks.
Holy hell, I’m classy.
=snort=
Friday
Wednesday
Sunday
29 December 2013
I’m not sure how much walking I’ll be doing this year; I’m not sure yet if I’ll do a major breast cancer event in 2014 or not (the Pinks Slips, with whom I walked in Atlanta a couple years ago, are walking in San Diego…whether I walk or not I’m going down there. I could be a walker stalker for them) and I won’t be driving a sweep van for the Komen walk since they dropped SF from the schedule.
Still…I’ll be doing something. I’m looking for 5 and 10k events that can be walked and not run, and I’ve got my eye on a few virtual events for which I can set my own date and pace. I need to do things; I’m just not sure I have in me what I need to complete the necessary training for 60 miles. Not right now.
2013 was supposed to be the year of getting better, getting fit, feeling human…but it didn’t work out that way. So 2014 is in my sights; but rather than set these huge goals—knowing that at any time my own body might slap the shit out of me for presuming too much—I’m going to set smaller, attainable goals.
Cook more real food.
Ok, LEARN to cook more real food.
Move more.
Expand the things to which I hope to contribute more.
First up, at least the first thing I have committed to is the St. Baldrick’s Head Shaving Event. It raises money for research into children’s cancer; the premise is simple: I get donors, I show up, I get my head shaved in the middle of a very crowded mall. I’ve set a modest goal of $500, but y’all know me. I’ll do things for money.
Embarrassing things.
My initial offering: the first person to donate $100 or more gets to choose the neon hair color I’ll done for 3-4 weeks ahead of the event. Want to see me in purple? Green? Blue? I’ll do it…people around here expect pink from me and they’ll lose their shit over something a little more out there.
So go ahead. Make me uncomfortable for a few weeks.
Got another idea? Ask and chances are I’ll do it. I don’t mind performing pony tricks for donations.
Just want to donate a few bucks for something important and get me to shave the noggin as a result? I’m down with that, too.
No amount is too small, and DKM is going to tag along with me and take pictures.
As Max would say: it's for the Sticky People, people!
Still…I’ll be doing something. I’m looking for 5 and 10k events that can be walked and not run, and I’ve got my eye on a few virtual events for which I can set my own date and pace. I need to do things; I’m just not sure I have in me what I need to complete the necessary training for 60 miles. Not right now.
2013 was supposed to be the year of getting better, getting fit, feeling human…but it didn’t work out that way. So 2014 is in my sights; but rather than set these huge goals—knowing that at any time my own body might slap the shit out of me for presuming too much—I’m going to set smaller, attainable goals.
Cook more real food.
Ok, LEARN to cook more real food.
Move more.
Expand the things to which I hope to contribute more.
Embarrassing things.
My initial offering: the first person to donate $100 or more gets to choose the neon hair color I’ll done for 3-4 weeks ahead of the event. Want to see me in purple? Green? Blue? I’ll do it…people around here expect pink from me and they’ll lose their shit over something a little more out there.
So go ahead. Make me uncomfortable for a few weeks.
Got another idea? Ask and chances are I’ll do it. I don’t mind performing pony tricks for donations.
Just want to donate a few bucks for something important and get me to shave the noggin as a result? I’m down with that, too.
No amount is too small, and DKM is going to tag along with me and take pictures.
As Max would say: it's for the Sticky People, people!
Saturday
28 December 2013
As I wandered around the grocery store today, there was a woman pretty much following me as she shopped. She had sitting in her cart a little boy about 18 months-2 years old, wearing a drool soaked t-shirt, nostrils rimmed with all the wonderful things little boy nostrils get rimmed with, and he was squealing with delight. He was adorable, truly. Happy, engaged, making everyone smile and wave their fingers at him...he was sweet and Mom beamed every time someone smiled at him and said hello, me included.
Delightful little kid...and I was so glad I was only going to be around him for a little while.
I just don't like being around little ones the way I used to. Small doses of toddlerhood is all I can take; after a while those high pitched little voices just grate on my nerves, and the volume at which little kids live turns into bomb-blasting thunder in my head.
When I was a teenager I couldn't fathom why so many older adults didn't like kids; I get it now. I don't dislike kids, but I'm sure as hell glad that mine is an adult now. If he ever has kids I'm sure I'll feel different about them...but for the most part, no, I don't want to hang with your sub-5 year old offspring.
Well, that's mean of you, Thump.
Yeah, maybe it is. But it is what it is and I'm not exactly motivated to change it.
I know its roots: too much time spent working drop-in daycare, watching other peoples' kids while thy worked out in the gym, putting up with their attitudes about their precious snowflakes--the biters, the kickers, the screamers--and the tens of thousands of diapers I changed. I think I chewed way too far into my personal allotment of patience for and enjoyment of little kids long before the Boy was much more than a toddler himself, and by the time he was grown, and we'd moved away from the neighborhood kids in Ohio, I was done.
The kids in OH...they were awesome. They were fun, I loved sitting outside watching them play, but they were probably at the tail end of my solid enjoyment of little ones. I'm glad that we had that time in OH and got to enjoy them...if we were in the same circumstances now, I'd probably be that grumpy old neighbor they run from.
Hell, they're in high school and junior high now; it's been a while.
I'm okay with not wanting to hang with the wee ones anymore. Other people...they don't get it. They tend towards a degree of upset because their kids are awesome.
Well, yeah, they are. But that doesn't mean I have the patience for much of their awesomeness. How awesome there are isn't an indicator that they'll be different and I'll want to spend oodles of time with them.
Hell, I might be willing to bleed dry for your kid. Rip heads off to defend your kid. Beat the snot out of someone to protect your kid.
That's not the same as hanging with your kid.
It sounds personal, but it's not.
There's an indie publishing workshop coming up, being held in a venue where bringing ones' children is entirely appropriate. It's invitation only, and on the surface sounds like it will be informative, connections will be made, and it will be an incredible use of time and effort. But...I know there are writers and publishers planning on being there with their kids, and after the days' presentations they want to head out and have some fun.
As a group.
For three days.
Kill me now.
Delightful little kid...and I was so glad I was only going to be around him for a little while.
I just don't like being around little ones the way I used to. Small doses of toddlerhood is all I can take; after a while those high pitched little voices just grate on my nerves, and the volume at which little kids live turns into bomb-blasting thunder in my head.
When I was a teenager I couldn't fathom why so many older adults didn't like kids; I get it now. I don't dislike kids, but I'm sure as hell glad that mine is an adult now. If he ever has kids I'm sure I'll feel different about them...but for the most part, no, I don't want to hang with your sub-5 year old offspring.
Well, that's mean of you, Thump.
Yeah, maybe it is. But it is what it is and I'm not exactly motivated to change it.
I know its roots: too much time spent working drop-in daycare, watching other peoples' kids while thy worked out in the gym, putting up with their attitudes about their precious snowflakes--the biters, the kickers, the screamers--and the tens of thousands of diapers I changed. I think I chewed way too far into my personal allotment of patience for and enjoyment of little kids long before the Boy was much more than a toddler himself, and by the time he was grown, and we'd moved away from the neighborhood kids in Ohio, I was done.
The kids in OH...they were awesome. They were fun, I loved sitting outside watching them play, but they were probably at the tail end of my solid enjoyment of little ones. I'm glad that we had that time in OH and got to enjoy them...if we were in the same circumstances now, I'd probably be that grumpy old neighbor they run from.
Hell, they're in high school and junior high now; it's been a while.
I'm okay with not wanting to hang with the wee ones anymore. Other people...they don't get it. They tend towards a degree of upset because their kids are awesome.
Well, yeah, they are. But that doesn't mean I have the patience for much of their awesomeness. How awesome there are isn't an indicator that they'll be different and I'll want to spend oodles of time with them.
Hell, I might be willing to bleed dry for your kid. Rip heads off to defend your kid. Beat the snot out of someone to protect your kid.
That's not the same as hanging with your kid.
It sounds personal, but it's not.
There's an indie publishing workshop coming up, being held in a venue where bringing ones' children is entirely appropriate. It's invitation only, and on the surface sounds like it will be informative, connections will be made, and it will be an incredible use of time and effort. But...I know there are writers and publishers planning on being there with their kids, and after the days' presentations they want to head out and have some fun.
As a group.
For three days.
Kill me now.
Tuesday
Sunday
22 December 2013
I've emailed you four times and you just ignore it; what have I done to offend you?
That's paraphrasing, but it's a theme in the last year or so. Someone emails, I don't respond, they email again...feelings get hurt.
I'm not intentionally ignoring anyone; I get anywhere between 200-350 emails a day and I try to wade through them as best I can, but some fall through the cracks, some get shuffled into my spam folder and I don't check that as often as I should, some I tell myself I'll answer after I get to business email...some I have no idea what happened.
But I truly am not intentionally ignoring you, if you're someone who has emailed and expected a response.
If you are someone I've failed to respond to, I am truly sorry. You haven't offended me; I'm simply not as organized as I should be. I could use the excuse that I'm juggling my work, Max's work, the writers I work with, networking and marketing, but the truth is I'm often inattentive and I just lose track.
I am sorry, though; genuinely sorry.
2014 I will endeavor to do better, but I won't promise, because I am easily distracted by shiny things, and life has a lot of shiny things to show me.
Wednesday
18 December 2013
This guy
has dozens of different meows, and one of them sounds almost like "Yeah." Sort of a Mmyeah sound.
It makes for fun conversations with him sometimes, usually when it's time for food and he's working hard to get me to get up and open a can.
"Are you a hungry boy?"
Mmyeah.
"Do you want me to feed you?"
Mmyeah.
Tonight he started in on me early, about 45 minutes before snack time. It was non-stop whining, and I did my best to tune him out, not even acknowledge him, lest I encourage him to jack up the volume.
At about 9:55, five minutes before snack, he jumped up onto the back of my chair and stretched out...and finally shut up.
At 9:59 I told him it was time for snack, but he sure as hell had been awfully bitchy about it. And then I asked, "Are you a little bitch?"
Mmyeah.
At least he's honest. I kind of had to feed him after that.
has dozens of different meows, and one of them sounds almost like "Yeah." Sort of a Mmyeah sound.
It makes for fun conversations with him sometimes, usually when it's time for food and he's working hard to get me to get up and open a can.
"Are you a hungry boy?"
Mmyeah.
"Do you want me to feed you?"
Mmyeah.
Tonight he started in on me early, about 45 minutes before snack time. It was non-stop whining, and I did my best to tune him out, not even acknowledge him, lest I encourage him to jack up the volume.
At about 9:55, five minutes before snack, he jumped up onto the back of my chair and stretched out...and finally shut up.
At 9:59 I told him it was time for snack, but he sure as hell had been awfully bitchy about it. And then I asked, "Are you a little bitch?"
Mmyeah.
At least he's honest. I kind of had to feed him after that.
Monday
Wednesday
11 December 2013
Remember this?
It was my awesome (shuddup) first sketch of the tattoo I wanted to get in remembrance of my parents.
Then it became this:
and it morphed a couple more times, until I had a scribbled-out sketch of 2 cats that looked less like chipmunks, sitting under a tree, in front of the moon.
I took it to Big Greg, who did not laugh at my artistic endeavors.
He knew what I wanted from it: lots of color, and two cats, one leaning into the other; my parents were cat people, it made sense to represent them that way.
He had his own ideas, which sounded good because hey, he knows what works on the skin and how well certain things mesh together. HE said he'd come up with something kick-ass for me, and today was the day.
It was kick-ass, all right.
It blew me away, and that was before I saw the color.
He had an idea of two cats in the tree, a tree in full foliage, springing forth from a book...the story of their lives. And they're gazing into the sunset, together, where they should be.
He captured exactly what I hoped for.
It's on my left arm to the side of my bicep, near my tattoos for The Spouse Thingy's dad and mom.
My folks might not have liked tattoos, but I think they would appreciate this one, and how beautiful it turned out.
I couldn't be happier with it.
And no, I'm not done. There are more tattoos in my future, as I embark upon becoming the kind of person my mother was afraid of ;)
Then it became this:
and it morphed a couple more times, until I had a scribbled-out sketch of 2 cats that looked less like chipmunks, sitting under a tree, in front of the moon.
I took it to Big Greg, who did not laugh at my artistic endeavors.
He knew what I wanted from it: lots of color, and two cats, one leaning into the other; my parents were cat people, it made sense to represent them that way.
He had his own ideas, which sounded good because hey, he knows what works on the skin and how well certain things mesh together. HE said he'd come up with something kick-ass for me, and today was the day.
It was kick-ass, all right.
It blew me away, and that was before I saw the color.
He had an idea of two cats in the tree, a tree in full foliage, springing forth from a book...the story of their lives. And they're gazing into the sunset, together, where they should be.
He captured exactly what I hoped for.
It's on my left arm to the side of my bicep, near my tattoos for The Spouse Thingy's dad and mom.
My folks might not have liked tattoos, but I think they would appreciate this one, and how beautiful it turned out.
I couldn't be happier with it.
And no, I'm not done. There are more tattoos in my future, as I embark upon becoming the kind of person my mother was afraid of ;)
Monday
9 December 2013
The Spouse Thingy wanted a big tree. I wanted a small tree.
He wanted a nicely decorated big tree. I wanted a geeky Doctor Who themed tree.
We both got what we wanted.
I have my little tree that fits near the fireplace, decked out in Daleks, Cybermen heads, K-9s, and the TARDISes. At the very top is the 11th Doctor's sonic screwdriver. And around the fireplace and over the archway are lots of little TARDIS lights.
Merry Whovimas.
The tree in the front room--placed in front of the window so that it shows outside--is loaded with traditional ornaments and has a nice, soft, thick felt skirt. It's nine feet tall, the tallest I think we've ever had. The tree skirt is mostly for the cats, because in years past they've loved napping under the tree...which means that so far this year, there's been zero cat napping there.
But you notice, don't you, that I've only referred to them as trees. No adjective attached. Just trees.
Why? Because I can't fathom why anyone cares what I call my trees. And I can't fathom the annual outrage about what people "should" call their trees and how we should greet people this time of year.
"But it's Christmas!"
So?
"They're CHRISTMAS trees!"
Not really. The bringing inside of a tree and calling it a Christmas tree is a relatively new concept, starting somewhere around the 16th century. Pagans used trees for holiday rituals long before Christians co-opted them. I don't seen an uprising of Pagans over this; they're trees, why the heck shouldn't we all enjoy them?
(aside: if you're looking to the Bible, take a peek at Jeremiah 10:2-4, wherein it pretty much says that heathens are the ones who cut down trees, drag 'em inside, and decorate them with shiny things.)
I've known a few Jewish people over the years who have used decorated trees in their house to celebrate that time period from Thanksgiving to New Year's...for the holidays. Should they not be allowed?
Now, the tree in our front room is a Christmas tree. Because that's what we celebrate.
The tree in the living room? That's a Whovimas tree, because that's just cool--the Doctor Who Christmas Special will play on the 25th, and you can be sure we're going to watch it.
I don't care what my neighbors call their trees, if they have them.
I don't care what you call your tree, even if you call it George. (If you have a "real" tree, you can ask everyone in the house, "Hey, did you water George today? Anyone feed George?" New holiday fun for the family...the running, groaner of a dad-joke.)
I also don't care if you say Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, or Have a Nice Day. Not as long as you're nice about it.
My feelings might be hurt if you tell me to shove that Merry Christmas up my asterisk, but maybe not. Depends on how annoying I've been.
I'm not 8 years old; I'm not easily offended; I'm not walking around with a giant Christmas stick up my ass. I understand that a whole bunch of things a whole bunch of people try to claim as Christian have roots elsewhere. I'm not going to pretend that it really matters what you call your tree or how you greet people right now.
Because it really doesn't matter.
Oh, and if you're having a stroke about it because THIS IS CHRISTMAS, go hang a beautiful wreath on your door to compliment your tree. And know that the roots of that wreath are Wiccan.
Happy Holidays.
Heh.
He wanted a nicely decorated big tree. I wanted a geeky Doctor Who themed tree.
We both got what we wanted.
I have my little tree that fits near the fireplace, decked out in Daleks, Cybermen heads, K-9s, and the TARDISes. At the very top is the 11th Doctor's sonic screwdriver. And around the fireplace and over the archway are lots of little TARDIS lights.
Merry Whovimas.
The tree in the front room--placed in front of the window so that it shows outside--is loaded with traditional ornaments and has a nice, soft, thick felt skirt. It's nine feet tall, the tallest I think we've ever had. The tree skirt is mostly for the cats, because in years past they've loved napping under the tree...which means that so far this year, there's been zero cat napping there.
But you notice, don't you, that I've only referred to them as trees. No adjective attached. Just trees.
Why? Because I can't fathom why anyone cares what I call my trees. And I can't fathom the annual outrage about what people "should" call their trees and how we should greet people this time of year.
"But it's Christmas!"
So?
"They're CHRISTMAS trees!"
Not really. The bringing inside of a tree and calling it a Christmas tree is a relatively new concept, starting somewhere around the 16th century. Pagans used trees for holiday rituals long before Christians co-opted them. I don't seen an uprising of Pagans over this; they're trees, why the heck shouldn't we all enjoy them?
(aside: if you're looking to the Bible, take a peek at Jeremiah 10:2-4, wherein it pretty much says that heathens are the ones who cut down trees, drag 'em inside, and decorate them with shiny things.)
I've known a few Jewish people over the years who have used decorated trees in their house to celebrate that time period from Thanksgiving to New Year's...for the holidays. Should they not be allowed?
Now, the tree in our front room is a Christmas tree. Because that's what we celebrate.
The tree in the living room? That's a Whovimas tree, because that's just cool--the Doctor Who Christmas Special will play on the 25th, and you can be sure we're going to watch it.
I don't care what my neighbors call their trees, if they have them.
I don't care what you call your tree, even if you call it George. (If you have a "real" tree, you can ask everyone in the house, "Hey, did you water George today? Anyone feed George?" New holiday fun for the family...the running, groaner of a dad-joke.)
I also don't care if you say Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, or Have a Nice Day. Not as long as you're nice about it.
My feelings might be hurt if you tell me to shove that Merry Christmas up my asterisk, but maybe not. Depends on how annoying I've been.
I'm not 8 years old; I'm not easily offended; I'm not walking around with a giant Christmas stick up my ass. I understand that a whole bunch of things a whole bunch of people try to claim as Christian have roots elsewhere. I'm not going to pretend that it really matters what you call your tree or how you greet people right now.
Because it really doesn't matter.
Oh, and if you're having a stroke about it because THIS IS CHRISTMAS, go hang a beautiful wreath on your door to compliment your tree. And know that the roots of that wreath are Wiccan.
Happy Holidays.
Heh.
Saturday
30 November 2013
Yesterday it seemed like the Intertoobs were all a-twitter over some reality show producer who live-tweeted someone else’s meltdown on an airplane he was suck in. And the general consensus iseems to be that the guy, Eli Langer, is some sort of heroic figure and damned funny to boot, having put that person in her place.
I enjoy reading Teh Funny, so I followed the link everyone was sharing and prepared to laugh my ass off.
I didn’t.
I didn’t even chuckle.
Instead, I spent some time trying to figure out what was so amusing about a guy taking to Twitter in order to show what a giant douche he can be. Because in the end, that’s all I saw. Someone who finds joy in picking on other people.
That’s what he did, folks. He wasn’t some champion of the Airplane Oppressed. He acted like a prepubescent troll, and offered it up live for mass consumption. And for God knows what reason, people found it funny.
Here’s the link [clicky here]. Go take a look. Laugh if you want to, but then really soak in what you’re reading.
The first few tweets are, I admit, a little interesting. They’re just over the top enough to wonder if he’s making it all up, but real enough to not care. Some woman is having a meltdown; all she wants is to get to her family for Thanksgiving, the flight is delayed, and she’s obviously a dozen kinds of upset and taking it out on the crew and everyone around her.
I was on his side (but not finding it funny) right up until the picture of the wine and first note he sent her. After that…you’re a jerk, mister. You had the chance to be nice, be the better person, to offer her the wine and a note that, while sympathetic, also let her know that enough was enough.
You can do stuff like that with kindness, you know. Instead he told her “Hopefully if you drink it, you won’t be able to use your mouth to talk.”
Real classy there.
He follows it up with two bottles of vodka. Sure, it pisses her off, and he thinks that’s just fine and dandy. She sends him a note telling him what she thinks, and for him, “this means war.”
And this is wear we learn a little bit about the woman. Her name is Diane, and she’s wearing a medical mask over her “idiot face.”
The medical mask wasn’t a clue? Like perhaps she’s got more crap going on than the stress of holiday travel? Like this trip wasn’t just important but important and that’s why she’s melting down?
So hey, let’s send her another note! Only this time, tell her “I hate you very much. Eat my dick.”
Let it go at that?
Of course not. Keep poking the bear. And make another dick-eating comment, because the first one was so mature.
I don’t see the humor in any of it. What I see is some guy bullying a woman who really can’t fight back.
Is she a douche, too?
Probably. The thing with this is we don’t get to know her side of the story. We get a narrow, one-sided look at a woman taking out her Very Bad Day on people who don’t deserve it.
And truly no one in that plane deserved it.
But that doesn’t mean it’s all right to bully her, and it’s really not all right to let the rest of the world pile on.
People like Diane are irritating. No one wants to be stuck where she is, complaining like she is, and it’s easy to say she got what she deserved.
We all think about doing just what Elan did, giving her a taste of her own medicine.
The problem with that? It’s mean. It makes us no better than the person at whom we’re poking back.
Elan Langer isn’t a hero.
He’s a jerk and a bully.
Picture yourself having a horrible, awful day; a soul crushing, can’t-get-much-worse-day. And you slip up, have a few minutes of a selfish, tantrum-tinged meltdown because you've hit your breaking point. Then someone like him comes along…
It’s not funny anymore, is it?
I enjoy reading Teh Funny, so I followed the link everyone was sharing and prepared to laugh my ass off.
I didn’t.
I didn’t even chuckle.
Instead, I spent some time trying to figure out what was so amusing about a guy taking to Twitter in order to show what a giant douche he can be. Because in the end, that’s all I saw. Someone who finds joy in picking on other people.
That’s what he did, folks. He wasn’t some champion of the Airplane Oppressed. He acted like a prepubescent troll, and offered it up live for mass consumption. And for God knows what reason, people found it funny.
Here’s the link [clicky here]. Go take a look. Laugh if you want to, but then really soak in what you’re reading.
The first few tweets are, I admit, a little interesting. They’re just over the top enough to wonder if he’s making it all up, but real enough to not care. Some woman is having a meltdown; all she wants is to get to her family for Thanksgiving, the flight is delayed, and she’s obviously a dozen kinds of upset and taking it out on the crew and everyone around her.
I was on his side (but not finding it funny) right up until the picture of the wine and first note he sent her. After that…you’re a jerk, mister. You had the chance to be nice, be the better person, to offer her the wine and a note that, while sympathetic, also let her know that enough was enough.
You can do stuff like that with kindness, you know. Instead he told her “Hopefully if you drink it, you won’t be able to use your mouth to talk.”
Real classy there.
He follows it up with two bottles of vodka. Sure, it pisses her off, and he thinks that’s just fine and dandy. She sends him a note telling him what she thinks, and for him, “this means war.”
And this is wear we learn a little bit about the woman. Her name is Diane, and she’s wearing a medical mask over her “idiot face.”
The medical mask wasn’t a clue? Like perhaps she’s got more crap going on than the stress of holiday travel? Like this trip wasn’t just important but important and that’s why she’s melting down?
So hey, let’s send her another note! Only this time, tell her “I hate you very much. Eat my dick.”
Let it go at that?
Of course not. Keep poking the bear. And make another dick-eating comment, because the first one was so mature.
I don’t see the humor in any of it. What I see is some guy bullying a woman who really can’t fight back.
Is she a douche, too?
Probably. The thing with this is we don’t get to know her side of the story. We get a narrow, one-sided look at a woman taking out her Very Bad Day on people who don’t deserve it.
And truly no one in that plane deserved it.
But that doesn’t mean it’s all right to bully her, and it’s really not all right to let the rest of the world pile on.
People like Diane are irritating. No one wants to be stuck where she is, complaining like she is, and it’s easy to say she got what she deserved.
We all think about doing just what Elan did, giving her a taste of her own medicine.
The problem with that? It’s mean. It makes us no better than the person at whom we’re poking back.
Elan Langer isn’t a hero.
He’s a jerk and a bully.
Picture yourself having a horrible, awful day; a soul crushing, can’t-get-much-worse-day. And you slip up, have a few minutes of a selfish, tantrum-tinged meltdown because you've hit your breaking point. Then someone like him comes along…
It’s not funny anymore, is it?
Thursday
Friday
22 November 2013
From a friend, no context, no explanation, but worth sharing (and done so with permission...)
…in all those warnings from so-called friends about the “gay lifestyle” and how it meant drugs and promiscuity and heartache, I always wondered why, and how did their kids fall into that. Not being gay, but that “lifestyle.” But then my 14 year old son brought home his first boyfriend, and I realized something: he had no fear because he’s known his entire life that whomever he had a crush on, whomever he dated, whomever he fell in love with, we not only would accept it, we would cherish the person who cared that much about him. Our expectations, the things we’ve taught our children, are of respect, kindness, and family. Do I worry? Yes, I worry he’ll get his heart broken, even though I realistically know that will happen a time or two. But I don’t worry about that “lifestyle” because he knows the love he has here isn’t conditional; he knows he is free to be himself, love whom he loves, and we won’t bat an eye. He’s been raised to believe in commitment and family, but he’s also been raised to know that we don’t have the right or the will to define for him how that future family takes shape. We hold him to the same rules as his siblings: the curfew, the meeting of friends’ and potential dates families, the not sneaking around, the general obeying of the rules of the house. And the first rule of this house is that we love first, ask questions later, and the end result is, I hope, that there will be no drugs, no promiscuity, and the only heartache will come from the pains of growing up and having crushes and first loves. It won’t be because he’s gay…
Thursday
21 November 2013
Wherein I was about as rude as I care to get...
I thought I wanted a change from sitting in Starbucks as a place to pretend to work, so I went back to McDonald's. I bought a soft drink, caved into the aroma of fresh fries, and sat at a tiny table near the door. There were larger tables available, and I prefer them, but the lines were long and I didn't want to take up any more space than I felt I was more or less entitled to take.
I wanted to read for a bit while I nommed the fries, before pulling out the laptop to type my afternoon (or an hour or two) away. And as I read, a woman in her 30s, maybe early 40s, sauntered in, and promptly dropped her sunglasses.
The noise of them hitting the flood made me look up, and before I could think, "Hey, she might want to pick those up" she looked at me and said "Pick those up for me."
Not a request, not even the least bit polite. It was an order. Pick them up.
I looked at her again; I'm a good 10-15 years older than she and considerably heavier, but what the hell, technically from my seated position I was closer to the floor. So I shoved my tablet into my backpack--I'm not stupid, I wasn't leaving the table and leaving my tablet and backpack with my laptop just sitting there; I fully intended to keep control of my possessions--and started to get up with the intent of picking up her damned glasses. But that apparently was not the correct action in the Princess's eyes, as she blurted out, "Where are you going? I need you to pick up my sunglasses."
All right, maybe she did need me to. Maybe there's something wrong with her spine and she can't bend over. But ordering me the first time was wrong enough; berating me and presuming I was going to leave was just the thing to do to keep me from picking them up.
"Um, no,"
Her eyes went wide. "Pick.Them.Up."
Now I'm thinking there's something seriously wrong with this person and that everyone's day would go a little better if I picked them up, but instead of asking her why she NEEDED me to, I sneered and told her to frak off.
Except, you know, I didn't say "frak."
I really thought she was going to sling her purse at my head. Instead, she looked to the teenager just behind me and ordered him to pick them up.
And he did.
He got up from his table, picked up her sunglasses, took two steps beyond her, and shoved them into the trashcan.
It occurred to me as I laughed my way out the door and to my car that I might have just been royally punked, but the greater chance is that I just happened to be there when the Princess wandered in, and having a Very Bad Day, she lost all common sense and civility. It happens. I can't imagine taking my Very Bad Day out on anyone in quite that manner, but who knows? I can get unintentionally bitchy at times.
So I went back to Starbucks, where there was a shortish line and lots of people milling about, and where Pete the barista made my drink as I was ordering it, so I didn't have to wait more than 5 seconds to get it, and where one of my favorite tables was open. I even went to the restroom and it was still open when I came back out.
'Course, now it occurs to me that I left my fries sitting on the table at McD's, but I'll survive that disappointment. Though I kind of wish I'd stuck around to see the fallout from the sunglasses being shoved into the very full, post-lunch-rush trash can.
I bet she screamed.
I thought I wanted a change from sitting in Starbucks as a place to pretend to work, so I went back to McDonald's. I bought a soft drink, caved into the aroma of fresh fries, and sat at a tiny table near the door. There were larger tables available, and I prefer them, but the lines were long and I didn't want to take up any more space than I felt I was more or less entitled to take.
I wanted to read for a bit while I nommed the fries, before pulling out the laptop to type my afternoon (or an hour or two) away. And as I read, a woman in her 30s, maybe early 40s, sauntered in, and promptly dropped her sunglasses.
The noise of them hitting the flood made me look up, and before I could think, "Hey, she might want to pick those up" she looked at me and said "Pick those up for me."
Not a request, not even the least bit polite. It was an order. Pick them up.
I looked at her again; I'm a good 10-15 years older than she and considerably heavier, but what the hell, technically from my seated position I was closer to the floor. So I shoved my tablet into my backpack--I'm not stupid, I wasn't leaving the table and leaving my tablet and backpack with my laptop just sitting there; I fully intended to keep control of my possessions--and started to get up with the intent of picking up her damned glasses. But that apparently was not the correct action in the Princess's eyes, as she blurted out, "Where are you going? I need you to pick up my sunglasses."
All right, maybe she did need me to. Maybe there's something wrong with her spine and she can't bend over. But ordering me the first time was wrong enough; berating me and presuming I was going to leave was just the thing to do to keep me from picking them up.
"Um, no,"
Her eyes went wide. "Pick.Them.Up."
Now I'm thinking there's something seriously wrong with this person and that everyone's day would go a little better if I picked them up, but instead of asking her why she NEEDED me to, I sneered and told her to frak off.
Except, you know, I didn't say "frak."
I really thought she was going to sling her purse at my head. Instead, she looked to the teenager just behind me and ordered him to pick them up.
And he did.
He got up from his table, picked up her sunglasses, took two steps beyond her, and shoved them into the trashcan.
It occurred to me as I laughed my way out the door and to my car that I might have just been royally punked, but the greater chance is that I just happened to be there when the Princess wandered in, and having a Very Bad Day, she lost all common sense and civility. It happens. I can't imagine taking my Very Bad Day out on anyone in quite that manner, but who knows? I can get unintentionally bitchy at times.
So I went back to Starbucks, where there was a shortish line and lots of people milling about, and where Pete the barista made my drink as I was ordering it, so I didn't have to wait more than 5 seconds to get it, and where one of my favorite tables was open. I even went to the restroom and it was still open when I came back out.
'Course, now it occurs to me that I left my fries sitting on the table at McD's, but I'll survive that disappointment. Though I kind of wish I'd stuck around to see the fallout from the sunglasses being shoved into the very full, post-lunch-rush trash can.
I bet she screamed.
Wednesday
20 November 2013
About this thing going around:
If you have ever gone out to eat on Thanksgiving—
Gone to a movie on Thanksgiving—
Run to the grocery store for that one dinner thing you forgot—
Gotten gas on your way to see family on Thanksgiving—
Stayed in a hotel on Thanksgiving—
Made a phone call on Thanksgiving—
Watched TV, listened to the radio, used the Internet on Thanksgiving—
If you’ve ever done any of that on Thanksgiving, then you kinda need to stop being so self-righteous about retail stores being open and grousing how you're protecting the holiday for other people and preserving their right to have the day with their families. Because if you’ve done any of those—or any of a plethora of other things—you’re a hypocrite. Every single one of those requires that someone else works on Thanksgiving.
Theaters don’t open and the movies don’t run on magic. Grocery and convenience stores and gas stations all have to be staffed by living, breathing people. All those entertainment things you use in your own home—your phone, your TV, your Internet, the electricity that powers them all—are all run by someone who is at work.
Here’s the thing about the holiday shopping season: it traditionally starts the day after Thanksgiving, with Black Friday insanity. The problem with that is this year, Thanksgiving is several days later than usual, which seriously cuts into revenue generated.
For a lot of businesses, the revenue made during the holiday shopping season is make-or-break; with fewer days to make those sales, they have fewer opportunities to make money—money that in turn funds the economy and keeps people working.
So yes, businesses are going to open on Thanksgiving this year because the season is so shortened, so that they have the chance to make the money that keeps people working. Is it greed? Partly. Largely, it's a business decision.
It’s not a crime. It’s not a mortal sin. It’s the reality of business, and the reality of what creates jobs.
And you can flip the whole thing over to look at the other side, too: not everyone wants to sit at home on Thanksgiving, dealing with relatives they don’t really like. Not everyone HAS family to spend the day with. Not everyone celebrates Thanksgiving. And a whole lot of people like working on it because it means holiday pay, 8-10 hours of pay and time and a half or better. For some it means much bigger tips than on other days. That holiday pay, the large tips, that might mean that their kids get more for Christmas than disappointment.
It’s not a cut and dried issue. Stay home if you want; go out if you want. But don’t pretend that it’s such a horrible thing if Macy’s is open and selling overpriced jeans or if Denny’s is open feeding people who don’t want to cook. Chances are, you’ve contributed to someone else working on Thanksgiving as it is…and the outcry is actually kind of absurd.
Gone to a movie on Thanksgiving—
Run to the grocery store for that one dinner thing you forgot—
Gotten gas on your way to see family on Thanksgiving—
Stayed in a hotel on Thanksgiving—
Made a phone call on Thanksgiving—
Watched TV, listened to the radio, used the Internet on Thanksgiving—
If you’ve ever done any of that on Thanksgiving, then you kinda need to stop being so self-righteous about retail stores being open and grousing how you're protecting the holiday for other people and preserving their right to have the day with their families. Because if you’ve done any of those—or any of a plethora of other things—you’re a hypocrite. Every single one of those requires that someone else works on Thanksgiving.
Theaters don’t open and the movies don’t run on magic. Grocery and convenience stores and gas stations all have to be staffed by living, breathing people. All those entertainment things you use in your own home—your phone, your TV, your Internet, the electricity that powers them all—are all run by someone who is at work.
Here’s the thing about the holiday shopping season: it traditionally starts the day after Thanksgiving, with Black Friday insanity. The problem with that is this year, Thanksgiving is several days later than usual, which seriously cuts into revenue generated.
For a lot of businesses, the revenue made during the holiday shopping season is make-or-break; with fewer days to make those sales, they have fewer opportunities to make money—money that in turn funds the economy and keeps people working.
So yes, businesses are going to open on Thanksgiving this year because the season is so shortened, so that they have the chance to make the money that keeps people working. Is it greed? Partly. Largely, it's a business decision.
It’s not a crime. It’s not a mortal sin. It’s the reality of business, and the reality of what creates jobs.
And you can flip the whole thing over to look at the other side, too: not everyone wants to sit at home on Thanksgiving, dealing with relatives they don’t really like. Not everyone HAS family to spend the day with. Not everyone celebrates Thanksgiving. And a whole lot of people like working on it because it means holiday pay, 8-10 hours of pay and time and a half or better. For some it means much bigger tips than on other days. That holiday pay, the large tips, that might mean that their kids get more for Christmas than disappointment.
It’s not a cut and dried issue. Stay home if you want; go out if you want. But don’t pretend that it’s such a horrible thing if Macy’s is open and selling overpriced jeans or if Denny’s is open feeding people who don’t want to cook. Chances are, you’ve contributed to someone else working on Thanksgiving as it is…and the outcry is actually kind of absurd.
Monday
Saturday
Thursday
7 November 2013
This little shit...
...decided that my fingers tapping away on the keyboard was an invitation to jump in my lap and give writing a try of his own.
I don't know what he did, but Word opened a couple of extra windows...and closed out the one I was working in.
No horrible loss, I'd only tapped out about 1200 words and they were not great, so it was only an evening's worth of work. I poked his bony ass and made him move, closed out the extra windows, and opened the directory to where the manuscript is saved.
I opened the file...
...and nothing. Nothing since November 2nd.
Buddah managed to delete about 7,500 words worth of work. I was already behind on NaNo, now I'm really behind.
I was mad for about 15 seconds, and not at Buddah; he didn't do it on purpose, and I should have saved it to more than once source, like I did the first 1500 words, the ones I still have, in a cloud file.
Rather than throw the laptop across the room, I put it down, fed the cats 20 minutes early, eyed the booze in the fridge, and then decided the hell with it. What I'd written was nowhere near what I intended in the first place, and there are still 3 weeks left in NaNo. I've written a hell of a lot more than 50,000 words in less time before.
So it's a challenge.
I start over.
...decided that my fingers tapping away on the keyboard was an invitation to jump in my lap and give writing a try of his own.
I don't know what he did, but Word opened a couple of extra windows...and closed out the one I was working in.
No horrible loss, I'd only tapped out about 1200 words and they were not great, so it was only an evening's worth of work. I poked his bony ass and made him move, closed out the extra windows, and opened the directory to where the manuscript is saved.
I opened the file...
...and nothing. Nothing since November 2nd.
Buddah managed to delete about 7,500 words worth of work. I was already behind on NaNo, now I'm really behind.
I was mad for about 15 seconds, and not at Buddah; he didn't do it on purpose, and I should have saved it to more than once source, like I did the first 1500 words, the ones I still have, in a cloud file.
Rather than throw the laptop across the room, I put it down, fed the cats 20 minutes early, eyed the booze in the fridge, and then decided the hell with it. What I'd written was nowhere near what I intended in the first place, and there are still 3 weeks left in NaNo. I've written a hell of a lot more than 50,000 words in less time before.
So it's a challenge.
I start over.
Monday
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