Tag: let’s do the Time Warp

Ice Cream Sunday

Sunday, damp and sullen.

Wrote 1300 words this morning, bringing the WIP entirely to 35,865. More or less. My fingers apparently know more about where this is going than I do. Possibly Steve finally figured it out.

I’ve been listening to various of the Liaden books, and more than once (or twice, or a dozen times) I find myself saying things like, “How did I know that? I don’t know that.” I listen to my colleagues talking about writing and they all sound so controlled, making such deliberate storytelling decisions as they progress. While I? I can remember writing this scene or that, but if anyone is actually making calm, reasoned, and adult decisions about the story, it’s not me.

Yesterday, I made it my business to vacuum and do some minor amount of house pickup. I am today of course achy and ill-tempered. Sarah will be arriving on Friday to do a real cleaning, but, between double-scheduling on my part and the family vacation on hers, not to mention those 10 days when things just stayed where I dropped them (Well. Not the cats. Cats hardly ever stay where you drop them.), and, yeah, there was work to be done. You could sculpt a bobcat from the fur the vacuum took up.

Also, in a Personal Best, yesterday, I dropped my phone on my face, and now I have a shiner.

After that, I did some work toward my writing course, in case anybody actually signs up, which — I fear it’s going to be a very strange course. OTOH, it could hardly be otherwise.

I’m remembering something I read a long time ago, about two writers on a panel — one a professional essayist/news writer, the other another sort of professional who has embraced fiction writing as an avocation. The panel is asked questions like, “Do you rewrite?” and “Is writing hard?” and “What do you do if you don’t feel like writing,” and the fiction writer gives all the Breezy Answers: No, he doesn’t rewrite. Writing isn’t hard, it’s a blessing, a release. If he doesn’t want to write one day, well, then, he doesn’t; there’s no forcing the muse, after all.

The essayist is left in the position of saying exactly the opposite: Yes, writing is hard. Rewriting is a necessary part of the craft. When you have an assignment, that means you have a deadline, so you sit down and write, even if you don’t feel like it.

And the thing is? Neither one of them is wrong. And neither of them is right.

Yeah. Strange course coming up.

So! The cats are in Steve’s office, indulging in a Sunday afternoon nap. I’m tidying my desk in anticipation of next week, and waiting for the pot of rice to finish cooking before I go downstairs to do my duty to the cats.

What’s going on in your life that’s both magical and mundane?
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Spent some time this afternoon sorting photos, and came to the dismal conclusion that I’m going to have to dedicate an entire box to cat pictures.

Have also happened upon two discussions of weight and BMI in “Elders,” which suggests that said “Elders” benefit from carrying more weight. If true, I will have gone from, Fine, you’re healthy; was that so hard? to Good GHOD woman, eat some ice cream!

This does not, mind, take into account the stated preference of the Cancer Ladies for thinner, as opposed to thicker, survivors.

On the other hand, one doesn’t need to be told to eat ice cream more than once, and I had a banana that needed to be used, so! Banana split it was.

And on that note — everybody have a good evening. I’ll check in tomorrow.

Monday Evening

So, Rookie is at the vet. I stopped at the food store on the way back and took on supplies. Came home, put said supplies away (It had used to be, in the Beforetimes, when only one of us went to the store, that, when they returned, they would call, “Lucy! I’m home!” and thus gain assistance in the Putting Away, which also served to inform They Who Had Not Shopped what was new in inventory. Hard habit to break).

I have consulted with Firefly in her melant’i as Top Cat, confirming that staffing is reduced, but that I will be away for parts of the day, so the workload balance for those present will still be within the Union guidelines. I also confirmed that she is not required to redraw the Organizational Chart at this time.

Since I was at the store, I bought cookies, that being one of the necessities I was out of, and have performed a Quality Control test consisting of half a cookie (they’re big cookies), and will now proceed with Monday’s chores, of which the first is!

Writing to my physician.
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Sigh.

Meant to say that the perambulating package is on the truck to be delivered today.

Also meant to say that both Hummer Bars are enjoying good patronage.
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Home from bookclub. Our next book is Edison’s Eve by Gaby Wood. I have read this before, but it’s been a decade, so I’m looking forward to re-reading. I was Riveted when I first read it.

I have! An appointment for a haircut on Saturday at 9 am.

I have! One very damp and extremely cranky black Maine Coon Teenager, who reportedly sat in the vet’s back room and swore non-stop the entire time he was there, and growled at his vet.

The good news — there’s nothing wrong with his mouth or throat. He has a lot of gas, and theory at this point is that he has — a stomachache. Vet administered an anti-nausea, and I’m to report in tomorrow morning.

It’s hot out.

I should probably get a little something to eat…
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Who had “sent back to the sorting center” in the Perambulating Package Pool? If it was you, hold onto that ticket!

When last we heard from the package, it was inside my local post office, and this morning it was promised to be delivered by 9 pm.

However! In a shocking turn of events! When the mail arrived, the package was not among the pieces delivered.

I came back into the house, brought up Informed Delivery — and found that the package was on its way to Augusta — South, in other words.

I have spoken with a live human at the local post office, who has the tracking number, my name, and phone number and is going to be “monitoring” this delivery for me.

Whatever that means.

In other news, we’re to the chopping and freezing onions part of the festivities. Rookie came up to my lap on his own and let me dry him off. He’s still drooling but only a very tiny amount, so maybe the anti-nausea was what he needed.
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We were just having a conversation about home inspections for what was called when we moved to Skowhegan “town housing,” the direct descendant, as I believe I understand the matter, of the “town farm.”

In any case, housing inspections, and the things inspectors might look for — holes in the walls, garbage just lying around, too! much! stuff! imperiling foot traffic, dirty dishes in the sink…

All of which seems reasonable, except — I’m going to need to leave dirty dishes in the sink for the second day in a row — those being yesterday’s dishes — because my back wishes to register a complaint. I will therefore remake the bed, so I can sleep in it tonight, and then retire to a comfy chair with a heating pad, a book, and a glass of iced tea.

And remember to be grateful that I am not in a situation that means I have housing inspectors in my life.
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Evening wrap-up.

Fans of Rookie will be encouraged to learn that he has stopped drooling, his stomach is soft, and he had sweet words of flattery in his mouth when he came into my lap as I was reading. Apparently, I’m to be rewarded as a Hero for breaking him out of That Place. I was also allowed to comb the random sticky bits out of his mane. He and the girls have just finished a good happy hour and are now taking their ease in Steve’s office.

Back pain is slightly above the Ignorable Level, which is not what we prefer, and I’m kind of tired, so it will likely be an Early Night for This Hoomin.

The Perambulating Package is “processing” at the USPS in Augusta, 20 miles in a southwardly direction.

Tomorrow, I need to organize my reading. I have a little less than 100 pages left to read of Horngard before I may craft a quote that is a little more substantive than “Read this book, it’s good!” I also need to read the WIP to date and start (re)reading Edison’s Eve. Hopefully, I will be able to attend the craft meeting tomorrow evening. Oh. And I need to do the dishes.

Everybody have a good evening. I’ll check in tomorrow.

Saturday morning

Saturday, dim and damp. First cup of tea — Russian Caravan, for those keeping track — to hand. Firefly is curled up in the comfy chair here in my office. Breakfast may be another cup of tea at the computer in Steve’s office.

Many thanks to the people who found Uncle Rusko’s given name. I wonder why everybody calls him Rusko? Maybe he doesn’t like Benin.

I last night finished reading Sourdough, which was fine until I got to the (what feels to me to be tacked on, and is probably the reason the writer wrote the book and the conceit that vaults it to brilliance, if only I were Clever Enough, which I so rarely am, and now we know why I write mere space opera) suitcase clone.

I also finished reading Dragon in Exile, which remains rough throughout, which leads me to wonder what was happening in 2014, when it would have been written. Possibly that was one of the years that Steve was in Baltimore on family business. Well. It gets the job done, though I guess I could have wished for a more attentive editor.

So! First cup of tea is gone. I am not feeling the breakfast love, so I do believe I’ll brew a second cup of tea and head for the writing desk.

What’s everybody doing today?

Steve Miller conversing with Ur Sid.  Trade Secret book tour 2013.  Photo by Christie Meierz.

Got a cobra snake for a necktie

Tuesday. Raining.

The trash ought to be migrated to the curb, but…maybe not. I’ll see how I feel about getting wet after breakfast and a second cup of tea.

In the meantime, I had intended to do Errands today, but have taken the Executive Decision to Do That Tomorrow, ref “rain” above.

So! Amended schedule: oatmeal and blueberries for breakfast. More tea! A couple hours with the WIP, lunch, chores, craft club.

Nothing the matter with that day, is there?

This morning, FB served up a guy who comes up pretty often in my feed lately, who has taken it on himself to “mansplain” women to men, taking the distaff side, and not doing too bad a job of it. This morning’s episode started with a joke, an “overhead conversation” between two women. The first says to her friend, “I don’t understand why you’re single! You’re smart, and funny, you’ve got a good job — what are men thinking?” And the friend says, “Well. I’m overqualified.”

pause for laughter

Social media keeps telling me that there are a lot of hurtin’ guys out there, and I am once again grateful, because the men in my life were largely supportive of me; taught me things (my father taught me how to change a tire; my grandfather taught me how to feed ducks; Jack Robinson, despite bearing seeping internal injuries from The War, taught me how to play cards; Danny-who-owned-the-bar (also wounded, but hiding it better) taught me the Japanese words that meant his guard dogs knew I filed under ‘to be guarded’ and not ‘to be guarded AGAINST.’), and celebrated my victories. Women didn’t like me, but that’s another essay.

Steve thought having a smart, creative, tough partner was all to his benefit, and if there were things he knew that I didn’t, well. He didn’t know everything either, now did he? Neither one of us was The Boss, and God She knows I was never “trad woman” material. Each of us was, as we told eluki on one occasion, half a good pilot. She used that in one of the Hellflower books, exemplary writer that she was.

. . . not really sure where I’m going with this. Random Tuesday Rainy Thoughts, I guess.

So! Good morning! How’s everybody doing today?

Today’s blog title brought to you by Lonesome George Thorogood:  “Who do you love?”

Let’s do the Time Warp, again

I’m reminded this morning of our salad days when we traveled to cons and gave away pins and talked to all kinds of people.

This happened either at a Boskone or at a Boston Worldcon.  The same con where Robert Silverberg told me not to stand behind a vendor table to sell books.  Oh, and the hotel was connected to a mall and there was the Marche, a kind of upscale and very well-behaved Lexington Market.

Against the advice of my elder, I was behind the Meisha Merlin table, selling books and talking trash, and this guy came by and we talked about books. Very pleasant talk, as I recall it. I sold him a book, perhaps. And, since the conversation had been pleasant, I got out of my pocket one of the tree-and-dragon lapel pins and offered it to him.

I should mention that this person was dressed like a Viking. He looked at that seeming silver pin on my palm, and I could see he wanted it. But he hesitated.  Then, he reached to his cloak where there were several pins, detached one, laid it in my palm, and picked up the tree-and-dragon pin.

“I’m a Viking,” he said. “We don’t take gifts, we trade.”

And as I discovered this morning, I still have his trade pin.

Let’s see what happens

Sunday. Rainy and Imma say “cold.”

Breakfast was eggs scrambled with veggies and cheese, and a side of toast. Hit the keyboard a little late, but still came away with 1,000 words, bringing the WIP to +/-2,045 total words.

Lunch was soup (ref rainy and “cold”) with cheese and crackers. I need to do my duty to the cats and take a walk in the basement, then I’m either working on my lesson conceits for the course I’m teaching in the fall (assuming anybody signs up), or coloring while I listen to Fledgling. I fear I’ll fall on the coloring-and-listening side of the coin. My father always said I was lazy.

Speaking of lazy. I read an article this morning about late bloomers, and how we celebrate the Brilliant Youth, but fail to celebrate the Elder who has worked an entire lifetime in order to hone themselves to a sharp edge in their chosen field. “Young people,” according to the well-known sage Mark Zuckerberg, “are just smarter.”

Why has no one ever slapped that boy?

Ahem.

Anyhow, I come before you as both a late bloomer, even a very late bloomer, and one of those tiresome personalities who cannot be bribed to do something that doesn’t interest them — a creature who becomes Deeply Entrenched in a subject (yes, I was the kid who would’ve told you all about the rocks, if I’d talked, which mostly, I didn’t), and learns everything there is to know, but ignores the five bucks offered to go do that Stoopid Thing Over There.

Apparently, late bloomers are also often “Let’s see what happens,” personalities, and this is where it gets interesting, at least to me.

When I met Steve, I was still very much struggling to understand most of the things around me. I had the rules for being a secretary and I was a good secretary. The rest of my rule sets weren’t delivering what I wanted, but I didn’t know how to find better ones.

Just throwing the rules out never occurred to me.

Steve was an instance of Chaos, a “Let’s see what happens” with whipped cream and a cherry on top. He knew how things worked, was a keen observer of almost everything, and? He could explain things, and didn’t think I was dumb for not knowing any particular something. You, perhaps, have no idea how attractive, “Let’s see what happens” is to somebody who had been taught to operate according to the rules. That all there is, are rules.

I knew I wanted to be a writer — I’d always known I wanted to be a writer — and I did know some of those rules, but the other rule sets like, oh, “talking to imaginary people is weird,” got in the way.

So, anyway, Steve taught me a lot, and, eventually, I grew into myself. His “Let’s see what happens,” steered him into side quests, but he always came back to writing, while I never found anything so fascinating as telling stories about the imaginary people I talked to. For years, we ran as partners, complementing each other, swapping what-ifs and let’s sees on the fly.

It happened slowly, but it did happen. One day I heard Steve say, “But I don’t know how that works,” and I heard myself answer, “Neither do I. Let’s try it and see what happens.”

I realized then that we had swapped places.

Which was a Moment.

Life, come to discover is all about Moments, spinning out, until they stop.

Social Saturday

Saturday. Rainy and cool.

Just back from the TJ Maxx members party. I’m old enough to remember going with my Flapper Grandmother (as distinct from my Church Grandmother) to the big department store galas in downtown Baltimore.

This? Was not that. For the Big Department Stores (for students of history, that would have been: Hecht Company, Hochchild Kohn, Hutzler’s, and Stewart’s, with Hecht’s being the Lesser and Hochchild’s  being the Greater. My personal favorite was Stewart’s. But I digress.)

For the Big Department Store events, I say, one Dressed. Not in evening wear, but in what my grandmother styled as Afternoon Clothes. For me at that time, it was the pickiest, scratchiest dress in my closet, white anklets, and the good patent leather shoes. For my grandmother, the Season had to be taken into account, but I remember her most often in a flowered frock, with matching hat, purse, and shoes. I’ve never seen a woman before or since who loved a flowered frock quite so much.

There was a catered tea, and fashion shows, and cooking demonstrations, and nicely dressed sales people pleased to Direct You, or even take you to this or that visiting expert — it was quite lovely. Almost worth the scratchy dress.

TJ Maxx’s event was not that, though I noted several members dressed in suits. I was in grey jeans, a nice purple fleece pullover, and the hard black shoes, because — raining.

I did get a Free Gift — an insulated lunch bag which will actually be useful. I did not win a door prize. The group was friendly; I was given a quick rundown on what I could expect from the person ahead of me in the line to sign up for the drawing, which was both useful and very kind of her.

I went with the expectation of not buying anything, but! This morning, I discovered that the refrigerator (the sole appliance that came with the house that is still (fingers crossed) functioning) has stopped making ice cubes. So I did need ice cube trays, and I bought a great pair of Oxo ice cube trays with slide-on lids, so I can stack them on a shelf.

It’s a matter for the philosophers, if I actually needed the bath towel, the illustrated guide to the Victorian Language of the Flowers (which replaces one that I had, but apparently gave away), the coloring book, or the embroidery kit (embroider and assemble a canvas bag!  How can anybody resist that?). I can, however, make a good case for the dryer vent brush, the sink stones, and the adjustable chair sliders.  Oh, and the hairbrush.  One does, after all, need to groom oneself.

All of the above, in fact, demonstrate the danger of this particular event — there were so few of us in the store, I felt no pressure to rush or to get out of peoples’ way. I could just moon about in my preferred style, Stare at Stuff, pick it up, establish a relationship with it, and part friends. (It comes to me that the Mooning About Thing is why I love to visit museums, though of course, I’m not allowed to touch stuff.)

So, in sum — a nice hourish outing. I’m home, have greeted the cats, put my purchases away and eaten a cookie. I’m now free to do what seems good to me until 2ish, when I expect a contractor to arrive.

How’s your Saturday starting out?

Dressed to shop:

P.S.  The Big Question on Facebook was “What are sink stones?”  These are sink stones.  They are not the actual sink stones I bought, because — TJ Maxx, but they’re of the family.

My cat is purring, it scratches my skin

The reason for yesterday’s trip to TJ Maxx was to acquire summer weight lap coverings to accommodate the cats. (Firefly and Tali prefer a blanket layer.  Rookie doesn’t appear to care.)

Here you see the lap covering, AKA beach towel, for the comfy chair in my office.

You also see the Tali seal of approval in play.


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LOL!!! Local peeps! If you get the Bangor Daily News, take a look at the Top Maine Towns you Should Live In. Not only does Waterville not make the graphic, but Kennebec County doesn’t even show up on the graph!

Oh, wait.

*whispers* . . . did . . . did Canada adopt us and I missed the memo? Huh? Is that what happened? Tali’s standing on my desk right now, telling me she won’t at all mind being a Canadian Coon Cat.

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So! Tuesday. Which I was for a moment convinced it was Wednesday, but Firefly straightened me out. Sunny and breezy. We here in Kennebec County, Canada, are laboring under a Fire Warning, due to dry air incoming, pushed by excess breeze. Well, there.

Trash and recycling are at the curb, and breakfast has been et.

Today has been A Week, and it’s just past 9 am.

Last night, I noticed that my left ankle, which I had sprained back in God, She Knows. When were we GOHs at ChattaCon? Then. (January 2012; I looked it up. Also — how long ago?) Anyhow, I noticed that ankle was aching last night, but I put it down to having actually been on my feet quite a bit yesterday, In Between It All. Sleep would fix it, I thought.

Well. I woke up this morning and said ankle was swollen, and still, yeah, achy. So I searched out the ankle brace and got that on. Came out and started a cup of chocolate tea, got out the milk while I was waiting for that to finish brewing, opened the windows, prepped the comfy chair, came back to my tea, took it into the kitchen, picked up the milk, absently shook it and!

You’re ahead of me, I can see the smirks.

Yep. Milk everywhere. I did a mop-up, but I still have to wash the utensils (puddles of milk in the kitchen tool holder by the stove. ick.), and make sure I got all the milk, oh, off the wall. Yeah, this may qualify as a Personal Best. I’ll check the record book.

OTOH, there are daffodils.

And how’s Tuesday treating you?

Today’s blog post title brought to you by The Scorpions, “Rock You Like a Hurricane”

 

 

Nope, still a ways to go

So! I found somebody to install the dishwasher when it arrives (actually, the day after it arrives). I had thought that part was going to be the most difficult, after the whole banking mess, but — a pleasant surprise.

The tech from Andersen who was supposed to be here by 12 and then by 1:30 has yet to arrive. He did call when he realized he was running late, so I was able to have lunch.

The laundry is almost finished, and Firefly is sleeping in the comfy chair in my office. Tali and Rook came out to shark at lunchtime, but I think they’ve gone back to Steve’s office.

On the Writing Side of Things, my plan is to finish getting The Fey Duology ready to rock ‘n roll, catch myself up on the Liaden Read Along commentary, and read the Jethri books as a lump.

The last is in service of ensuring that This Idea I Had to finish up that sub-series will actually square with what’s already canon.

This means, yes, I’ll be — adjusting — the order of my complete reread of the Liaden books, but needs must, and at least I’ll still be reading in-Universe.
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On Facebook, someone commented that I had clearly always been a cat, which gave rise to this memory:

You may be on to something. The first time Steve and I went together into a neighborhood strange to both of us, we had barely gotten out of the car when two cats came charging down the street, tails high, ran right up to Steve and started slamming themselves against his knees. He knelt down, administered ear scrubbles, then kinda looked up at me, half-smiling (I might have been staring), and said, “Yeah. Cats like me.”
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So, today didn’t quite work out like I expected, but! Tomorrow’s decks are clear, so I can hop right into The Fey Duology.

Everybody have a good evening. I’ll check in tomorrow.

Cultural Genetics

Monday. Cloudy and damp. Bed’s been stripped, towels are drying, eggs on to be boiled hard, submitted news of LUC6’s imminent publication to MWPA’s newsletter. Sea Shanties streaming. Apparently the week’s theme is Sea Shanties.

Waiting for a friend to come by and pick up a thing, after which I b’lieve I’ll wander out into the day and perform this list of errands.

Many thanks to all (on FB) who weighed in on yesterday’s discussions regarding cultural relativity.

I’m a little past the half-way point in Duainfey. Altimere’s invention has been proved, and I haven’t seen any porn yet. I do see that we were very subtle on the SF underpinings, which is to say, I knew it was a First Contact novel, and Steve knew it was a First Contact novel, but we might’ve been the only ones. Though one of course must feel for poor Charlie Mason, taken up by the Purity League for building his steam carriage. Also, Points to the authors for that very telling discussion of duty in which Altimere likens his care for Becca to her care for her horse.

What else? Not much. Oh. I’m feeling some sharper today, which tells me that not only is writing a book much more wearing using only one brain, but recovery takes longer. Information, I suppose.

How’s everybody holding up?

One of the other things roused up out of muck at the bottom of my brain relative to yesterday’s conversation — there had used to be what were called “racy” or “naughty” novels. The Night Life of the Gods by Thorne Smith is my benchmark “naughty” novel, though Topper will do in a pinch (I adore Topper; I’d read it again, if I wasn’t afraid the book will fall apart on me). It seems to me that there are no more “naughty” novels, though I’d be pleased to be proved wrong (titles, anybody?), that we have various kinds of Romances — sweet, sexy, hot, and so on — and of course we have porn, but nothing that’s just … bawdily flirtatious.

Someone in yesterday’s discussions mentioned Nick and Nora Charles, who were more flirtatious than naughty; they teased each other: elegantly, wittily, playfully, sexually. It was play, and illustrated that they each felt safe in their partnership and with each other.

One of the things that continually startles me, in my Brave New World, is how carefree (“carefree” meaning “free of care”) and playful I was able to feel, knowing that I had backup, and genuine affection in my life.

Anyhoots! The eggs are cooling, and I need to get the towels out of the dryer.