Let's see what happens this year. If I hit my goal - I may go through my lists in here and tuck in a few of my good little stories from bloggings past.
We shall see.
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Showing posts with label getting started. Show all posts
Showing posts with label getting started. Show all posts
Sunday, November 2, 2014
This Just In: It's Happening Again!
Got a super slow start - have prepared NOTHING - but after last night (and being unable to sleep for the thoughts and stories clawing at the backs of my eyeballs) I have decided to go for it again. This time? Short stories. A marathon of sprints. I can forsee MANY new hurdles as well as some powerful hand-cramps.
Let's see what happens this year. If I hit my goal - I may go through my lists in here and tuck in a few of my good little stories from bloggings past.
We shall see.
Let's see what happens this year. If I hit my goal - I may go through my lists in here and tuck in a few of my good little stories from bloggings past.
We shall see.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Where I have been
Heh, where haven't I been?
The answer to Where I have Been is largely the same as you'd expect. Here. I've been here. Mostly. It would appear that I sort of had to fall off the planet there for about a month but as you can see I'm now clawing my way back.
In the last month, it would appear, I did something marvelous. By all accounts and standards, and according to several government agencies, I turned 37 years old. How 'bout 'dem apples, eh? I don't dye my hair and I love that the new texture of my "grownup" silvers is a little thicker than my babysoft whispy foof hair that I've been used to for so long now. I'm healthy, so far as I can rightly prove anyway. I don't really work out but the exercise I do get is keeping me at the same weight I've been hovering around for about ten years. My BMI is in the healthy range but I'd like to take it one or two steps down toward REALLY healthy. I'm happy with my strength, my shape, my ability to see and hear and reach and laugh and largely I am, as most people would probably tell you, a happy person.
So that's great.
You might expect a big fat POOR ME episode around birthday season but the truth is that my absence had nothing to do with that. I got older, so YAY! My beloved husband and I went to a super nice Tappas dinner downtown and I wore a dress and everything.
Other stuff happened over the month too. I got a lot of tidying up done on my next book. I got a lot of actual work done at a place of employment which is happy to compensate me with actual legal tender for my efforts.
I went places, did things, saw stuff and was generally quite peacefully boring for the entire month.
So you know.... YAY!
I do feel like I'm missing something, however, and I think today is a big part of what's been missing. The new book, my Giant story, is kindof hanging over my head recently and I'm having a hard time focusing on it. I'm reading oodles of other books, too, and I'm horrified at the thought that my own writing might be plagiarist-ically informed by the magnificence of others. You know? So I'm trying to really slow myself down and focus - which as we all know is something that my little bowl of noodles does not want to do at all.
And that's when I start thinking about solutions. I have so many great ideas, you know? But I never share them. I can't tell you how many little blog posts I DIDN'T write over the last month because I was either in the midst of something else, about to be in the midst of something else, or in the throes of 'Zero Inertia' to the degree that getting anything actually productive done became Moot.
My point is that I missed writing. I missed emptying the contents of my head. My head missed being emptied. I have happy thoughts, angry thoughts, miserable thoughts and utterly nonsensical thoughts. And they're all fighting for sunlight and I think that this blog has really become a way for me to sort of beat most of those little voices back into submission. It helps me be more normal.
Well, normal enough.
So I'm going to try, real hard. You know.... AGAIN.... to get back in here regularly and tell you more about the cat fur, the bugs, the timelords, the gods, the nail polish and the cherry pits.
I remember posting every day for a month not long ago and HOLY CRAP that took a lot out of me. Perhaps I'll find a happy medium in here someplace. Is a few times a week to much to ask of myself? I don't know. Let's find out, shall we?
The answer to Where I have Been is largely the same as you'd expect. Here. I've been here. Mostly. It would appear that I sort of had to fall off the planet there for about a month but as you can see I'm now clawing my way back.
In the last month, it would appear, I did something marvelous. By all accounts and standards, and according to several government agencies, I turned 37 years old. How 'bout 'dem apples, eh? I don't dye my hair and I love that the new texture of my "grownup" silvers is a little thicker than my babysoft whispy foof hair that I've been used to for so long now. I'm healthy, so far as I can rightly prove anyway. I don't really work out but the exercise I do get is keeping me at the same weight I've been hovering around for about ten years. My BMI is in the healthy range but I'd like to take it one or two steps down toward REALLY healthy. I'm happy with my strength, my shape, my ability to see and hear and reach and laugh and largely I am, as most people would probably tell you, a happy person.
So that's great.
You might expect a big fat POOR ME episode around birthday season but the truth is that my absence had nothing to do with that. I got older, so YAY! My beloved husband and I went to a super nice Tappas dinner downtown and I wore a dress and everything.
Other stuff happened over the month too. I got a lot of tidying up done on my next book. I got a lot of actual work done at a place of employment which is happy to compensate me with actual legal tender for my efforts.
I went places, did things, saw stuff and was generally quite peacefully boring for the entire month.
So you know.... YAY!
I do feel like I'm missing something, however, and I think today is a big part of what's been missing. The new book, my Giant story, is kindof hanging over my head recently and I'm having a hard time focusing on it. I'm reading oodles of other books, too, and I'm horrified at the thought that my own writing might be plagiarist-ically informed by the magnificence of others. You know? So I'm trying to really slow myself down and focus - which as we all know is something that my little bowl of noodles does not want to do at all.
And that's when I start thinking about solutions. I have so many great ideas, you know? But I never share them. I can't tell you how many little blog posts I DIDN'T write over the last month because I was either in the midst of something else, about to be in the midst of something else, or in the throes of 'Zero Inertia' to the degree that getting anything actually productive done became Moot.
My point is that I missed writing. I missed emptying the contents of my head. My head missed being emptied. I have happy thoughts, angry thoughts, miserable thoughts and utterly nonsensical thoughts. And they're all fighting for sunlight and I think that this blog has really become a way for me to sort of beat most of those little voices back into submission. It helps me be more normal.
Well, normal enough.
So I'm going to try, real hard. You know.... AGAIN.... to get back in here regularly and tell you more about the cat fur, the bugs, the timelords, the gods, the nail polish and the cherry pits.
I remember posting every day for a month not long ago and HOLY CRAP that took a lot out of me. Perhaps I'll find a happy medium in here someplace. Is a few times a week to much to ask of myself? I don't know. Let's find out, shall we?
Monday, May 20, 2013
Starting a New Week
Well, there's loads going on in these parts, and yet... nothing at all.
That is, I'm trying to get some things started but still feeling rather tapped out in the inspiration department.
Compounding that is my utter inability to keep to a healthy bed time. My 10 bed time has crept way past midnight and my daytime alertness is suffering. Time to roll it back again.
Oh and also, the RLS (Restless Leg Syndrome) is kicking my keister too. Every now and then I get the itchy bones - you know? Specifically in my thighs and I'll be lying down all snuggly and sleepy and then all of the sudden my thighbones are like "YOU WANT TO JUMP!!!!" and I'm like "screw you, legs, go to sleep" and my legs are like "JUMP-A-JUMP-A-JUMP-A!" and then I have to kick or scootch or tense or do something to make the sensation go away.
For like eight billionths of a picosecond.
And then I get mad. And we all know how good MAD is when it comes to falling asleep.
So I'm going to take my damned itchy leg bones on some walkies today and see if we can't just beat them back into sloppy submission.
And in the mean time, because we all need a little dose of badass everynow and then...
I certainly do!
I give you one of my alltime favorite standby music videos: Christopher Walken dancing to Weapon of Choice, by Fatboy Slim.
That is, I'm trying to get some things started but still feeling rather tapped out in the inspiration department.
Compounding that is my utter inability to keep to a healthy bed time. My 10 bed time has crept way past midnight and my daytime alertness is suffering. Time to roll it back again.
Oh and also, the RLS (Restless Leg Syndrome) is kicking my keister too. Every now and then I get the itchy bones - you know? Specifically in my thighs and I'll be lying down all snuggly and sleepy and then all of the sudden my thighbones are like "YOU WANT TO JUMP!!!!" and I'm like "screw you, legs, go to sleep" and my legs are like "JUMP-A-JUMP-A-JUMP-A!" and then I have to kick or scootch or tense or do something to make the sensation go away.
For like eight billionths of a picosecond.
And then I get mad. And we all know how good MAD is when it comes to falling asleep.
So I'm going to take my damned itchy leg bones on some walkies today and see if we can't just beat them back into sloppy submission.
And in the mean time, because we all need a little dose of badass everynow and then...
I certainly do!
I give you one of my alltime favorite standby music videos: Christopher Walken dancing to Weapon of Choice, by Fatboy Slim.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Okay, Sandy, whaddya got?
Kitty is doing very well. She had a very rough night and then roughly three hours before the vet opened for business... she perked up and her "pain" went away as did her grumptacular new lease on life and now... well... by the gods she's a whole new cat. I can still "palpate" (that's the right word, right?) some kind of mass in her tummy, but it seems lower down in her digestive system than it was before; moving away from her ribs and toward her patootie.
Poor patootie. Today or tomorrow, that patootie is going to get a workout - as with all things, this too appears that it shall pass.
And Sandy the Hurricane that now answers to "Frankenstorm"... well she's on her way Virginia-ward too. We're all ready for her though and we're feeling safe and prepared and as solid as can be. Everything we CAN control, we have a handle on. If power goes out, well, we can read and there are flashlights. There's lots of water stored up now, food in the pantry for days, gas in the car, firewood galore. We're as ready as we can be.
Now it's up to the gods, frankly, and while it appears that they might have a little fun at our collective public-service expense, I'm going to boldly state with naive confidence that this big storm (which shall be a doozy) will not be the end of us.
Pictures and updates as events warrant; and of course as power grids permit.
My zipcode is 22304 if you'd like to read along with us on the weather channel. I'm sure your internet access will be far more reliable than mine over the next few days.
Kitty is healthy and perky again, however, so come what may I have everything in this very apartment that I could ever dream to ask for. And then some.
See you on the other side!
Poor patootie. Today or tomorrow, that patootie is going to get a workout - as with all things, this too appears that it shall pass.
And Sandy the Hurricane that now answers to "Frankenstorm"... well she's on her way Virginia-ward too. We're all ready for her though and we're feeling safe and prepared and as solid as can be. Everything we CAN control, we have a handle on. If power goes out, well, we can read and there are flashlights. There's lots of water stored up now, food in the pantry for days, gas in the car, firewood galore. We're as ready as we can be.
Now it's up to the gods, frankly, and while it appears that they might have a little fun at our collective public-service expense, I'm going to boldly state with naive confidence that this big storm (which shall be a doozy) will not be the end of us.
Pictures and updates as events warrant; and of course as power grids permit.
My zipcode is 22304 if you'd like to read along with us on the weather channel. I'm sure your internet access will be far more reliable than mine over the next few days.
Kitty is healthy and perky again, however, so come what may I have everything in this very apartment that I could ever dream to ask for. And then some.
See you on the other side!
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Seven Hundred And Three
ideas for short stories taken from my very own life
Did I ever tell you about the time that I was so angry that Cereberus himself bowed his head(s) and allowed me to pass through the gates of hell carrying nothing but my fury on my shoulders?
Did I ever tell you about the time I sat next to a time lord on the bus to work?
Did you know about the wish that Santa granted for me?
Have I told you about the laughing man and his underground caves of the subways of Paris?
Did you know I was once so bereft of hope that I let a giant wolf eat up the whole world?
Did you hear aout how I discovered that my closet was a portal to the never-never?
Do you remember when my very bones burst into flame?
Have you heard about the time I got a hug from Buddha?
Did I tell you about how I got swindled by a secret agent?
Did I tell you about the day the sun fell clean out of the sky?
Did you know that the Easter Bunny owes me six bucks?
Did I tell you about the time a mermaid stole my memory?
Have I told you about the night I kissed the moon but then she cried?
Did I tell you about the time I defeated the Goblin King?
Did you hear about how I dared the devil to find me and what I happened to him when he did?
Have I told you about the time I danced for a room full of sparkling angels?
Do you remember when the monkey king stole my car?
I should tell you about those things someday. I bet there's a book in there somewhere. D'you think?
Somewhere between Mab, the Fairy Queen of Dreams (and the day we played cards) and the Duke and Duchess of Apple Blossoms (and how we fought away the nothing)... I bet there's a book in there. Yessiree.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
To Begin. Again.
Well, here we are. It's ... today. And today is the day I ran out of things to distract myself with. It's the day I ran out of dilly-dally-ing techniques (all of them)(and no shit the living room looks great!)...
This is the day when I began *gulp* the research and data-collecting stage that preceeds the ultimate ground-zero of November 1 novel-writing. Oh yes, kids and cats, I'm doing it allllll again. And OH how my stomach doth turn with anticipation and horror.
I must be doing something right, eh?
So now, scattered across my apartment floor you would see layers of books concerning the world as it was at any given point during the early 1940's, and the denizens thereof. Particularly the north-atlantic denizens. Denizens. You heard me. There are books about wildfires too... as there are parts of the ol' hometown that I STILL can't seem to shake (not that I really want these last bits to be TOTALLY dislodged, mind you.)
Okay okay, what's it all about, right? You're clawing at the screen, sick to death of teasers and you want a little co'ax-cable-dip into the plans of your beloved lil' KJ (aka KF) and you want to know what exactly this next monstrosity is going to be about. What on EARTH am I going to make you sit through next. Right? Well fine.
So I'll tell you.
Many of you know already. But now you all do. All you stalkers and minions of mine, rejoice! For today is the day of my undoing as I dedicate and wholly settle myself into telling the following story:
It's a one-sided interview situation. Memoirs, kindof. As told by the grandson of a character we call "Granddad". Granddad will be familiar to many, as he will have a great many Odin-like qualities about him. And We are going to be listening to grandson as he tells Granddad's stories about the time he saved one of the world's last giants, a real Jotun (allbeit a young one), by transporting him from the wilds of Minnesota (or New Mexico?) to the only wildlife preserve in the world that could handle such a creature; Norway's Jotunheim. NB: Jotunheim means "home of the giants" and is a no-shit real place. It exists. I've been there. It delivers on every note of perfection and spectacular that you'd expect from such a place. To wit: Linkage.
Along the way we will learn (hopefully in a non-hamfisted manner) about the nine noble virtues of Norse Heathenry (see? I capitalized it!) and how to go about being a good person in spite of the whole world going to shit in a grenade-basket AND in spite of the whole "none of my leads are going to be monotheistic" situation.
I know, right? Spelled out like that and it looks like I've bitten off waaaaaaay more than I can chew. Especially since the rules of this engagement dictate that I MUST NOT have anything written in advance of my start date (NaNoWriMo... check it out!). However I can take notes. I can keep outlines. I can do research. I can build thoughts and plans and maps and ideas and find solutions for things (ie: how in the name of zeus am I getting these kids on a boat to norway as WWII is just getting all started up...) I can plan.
If there is one thing in this whole world that I am good at... it's planning. Well, and overthinking things. So that's two things. There are two things in this world that I'm damnedably good at: Planning and overthinking things.
So that's the stage I am in now. Day one: Plan. Overthink it. Plan some more.
Should probably stretch out my typing corpusles too - I think I remember a nasty case of clicky-wrist last time I tried any kind of nonsense like this.
Whoo. yeah. Big steps. Back to Planning and Overthinking I go!
This is the day when I began *gulp* the research and data-collecting stage that preceeds the ultimate ground-zero of November 1 novel-writing. Oh yes, kids and cats, I'm doing it allllll again. And OH how my stomach doth turn with anticipation and horror.
I must be doing something right, eh?
So now, scattered across my apartment floor you would see layers of books concerning the world as it was at any given point during the early 1940's, and the denizens thereof. Particularly the north-atlantic denizens. Denizens. You heard me. There are books about wildfires too... as there are parts of the ol' hometown that I STILL can't seem to shake (not that I really want these last bits to be TOTALLY dislodged, mind you.)
Okay okay, what's it all about, right? You're clawing at the screen, sick to death of teasers and you want a little co'ax-cable-dip into the plans of your beloved lil' KJ (aka KF) and you want to know what exactly this next monstrosity is going to be about. What on EARTH am I going to make you sit through next. Right? Well fine.
So I'll tell you.
Many of you know already. But now you all do. All you stalkers and minions of mine, rejoice! For today is the day of my undoing as I dedicate and wholly settle myself into telling the following story:
It's a one-sided interview situation. Memoirs, kindof. As told by the grandson of a character we call "Granddad". Granddad will be familiar to many, as he will have a great many Odin-like qualities about him. And We are going to be listening to grandson as he tells Granddad's stories about the time he saved one of the world's last giants, a real Jotun (allbeit a young one), by transporting him from the wilds of Minnesota (or New Mexico?) to the only wildlife preserve in the world that could handle such a creature; Norway's Jotunheim. NB: Jotunheim means "home of the giants" and is a no-shit real place. It exists. I've been there. It delivers on every note of perfection and spectacular that you'd expect from such a place. To wit: Linkage.
Along the way we will learn (hopefully in a non-hamfisted manner) about the nine noble virtues of Norse Heathenry (see? I capitalized it!) and how to go about being a good person in spite of the whole world going to shit in a grenade-basket AND in spite of the whole "none of my leads are going to be monotheistic" situation.
I know, right? Spelled out like that and it looks like I've bitten off waaaaaaay more than I can chew. Especially since the rules of this engagement dictate that I MUST NOT have anything written in advance of my start date (NaNoWriMo... check it out!). However I can take notes. I can keep outlines. I can do research. I can build thoughts and plans and maps and ideas and find solutions for things (ie: how in the name of zeus am I getting these kids on a boat to norway as WWII is just getting all started up...) I can plan.
If there is one thing in this whole world that I am good at... it's planning. Well, and overthinking things. So that's two things. There are two things in this world that I'm damnedably good at: Planning and overthinking things.
So that's the stage I am in now. Day one: Plan. Overthink it. Plan some more.
Should probably stretch out my typing corpusles too - I think I remember a nasty case of clicky-wrist last time I tried any kind of nonsense like this.
Whoo. yeah. Big steps. Back to Planning and Overthinking I go!
wish me luck!
denizens
denizens
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Okay so let's talk about this: TRAVEL
BO-RING, right?
I know. Who wants to read about me and my poor-me attitude about my travel angst?
(I mean, apart from you, so thank you, and I love you and mmmmwah and have you done something with your hair because it looks great today!)
*ahem*
So me and the beloved are flying back home tomorrow for a week. It'll be the first time we've been home in just under a year. It seems like I should be more homesick when I write it all out like that. And to be honest, I really really am. I just don't tell myself so. You know?
Then the page turns and it's already TOMORROW that we're flying [to my] home of 350 years and I'm stuck with this pitterpattery heart, this tension just behind my sternum, this fluffy "i want to cry" sensation in my spine, and this blasted ringing in my ears which can't possibly be related to anything but that stupid cold I just got over.
Angst. I haz it. It's what I do, y'all. I overthink things and work myself into this little walnut of angst and then whatever it is I'm worked up about comes and goes and afterwards I'm like "oh that was neat!" and then something big and fun comes up again and it's back to the beginning.
Maybe it's not angst. Maybe it's just unfettered excitement and... dare I say it? "Happy"
It's an alarming kind of happy though. It's the kind of happy that I'm not used to. It's the kind of happy that says "oh things could go really great" and then silently narrows it's eyes and says to itself "how much you wanna' bet she f-'s this up".
I ask myself: What if nobody comes to see me at the book things?
I tell msyelf: what do I care? I'll be home, on vacation at home, in great weather in a peaceful area with lots of great friends at hand and lots of super fun family time ahead.
I ask myself: What if EVERYONE comes and you run out of books and feel like an unprepared moron?
I tell myself: what's new? I'm always f-ing something up (occupational hazard of being a fluffly little clumsy idiot, I'm afraid) and by now I'm so good at it that I have JUST enough grace to march boldly forward anyway. IF we run out, I'll have order forms available. IF we don't, that's fine too.
I ask myself: What if the house is a broken down disaster and you have to do... you know...
I tell myself: shut up you. You're just fishing for panic now. You're smarter than that.
And I march boldly forward anyway. I don't buy a word of it, of course, but all the trained professionals say that it takes ages to buy that kind of "I believe in you" crap when you tell it to yourself so I'm going to keep faking it until I get some real traction on it again.
I'm not so much scared of the flight. I'm a little tweaked about getting SICK on the flight, but that passes quickly enough. I'm a little concerned about regressing, or maybe worse than that I think I'm worried that the whole magical little bubble that used to be home is going to be some ill-fitting bathrobe from the back of the closet that no longer covers, nor warms anything for which it was initially designed. You know the one, the avocado green one with the giant terrycloth turtle on the back? *shudder*
It'll be fine, of course. And academically I know that. NO really I do. Once I get there, all shall be fine and it will all work out and I will have oh so many wonderful tales to tell. THIS guy, you see did THIS. And oh THAT one, you should have seen THAT one. It's why you and I gather here. Because things work out. And I get to tell you that they did. And collectively we can go "ahh" and feel largely better about the world for a short time.
So in the end, there will be lots of good stuff to read here. Likely starting sometime Tuesday night. Or Wednesday morning. Until then though, if you listen carefully, you can hear my stomach lining carefully churning away into oblivion and my molars being ground into powder.
It's what I do, after all.
I know. Who wants to read about me and my poor-me attitude about my travel angst?
(I mean, apart from you, so thank you, and I love you and mmmmwah and have you done something with your hair because it looks great today!)
*ahem*
So me and the beloved are flying back home tomorrow for a week. It'll be the first time we've been home in just under a year. It seems like I should be more homesick when I write it all out like that. And to be honest, I really really am. I just don't tell myself so. You know?
Then the page turns and it's already TOMORROW that we're flying [to my] home of 350 years and I'm stuck with this pitterpattery heart, this tension just behind my sternum, this fluffy "i want to cry" sensation in my spine, and this blasted ringing in my ears which can't possibly be related to anything but that stupid cold I just got over.
Angst. I haz it. It's what I do, y'all. I overthink things and work myself into this little walnut of angst and then whatever it is I'm worked up about comes and goes and afterwards I'm like "oh that was neat!" and then something big and fun comes up again and it's back to the beginning.
Maybe it's not angst. Maybe it's just unfettered excitement and... dare I say it? "Happy"
It's an alarming kind of happy though. It's the kind of happy that I'm not used to. It's the kind of happy that says "oh things could go really great" and then silently narrows it's eyes and says to itself "how much you wanna' bet she f-'s this up".
I ask myself: What if nobody comes to see me at the book things?
I tell msyelf: what do I care? I'll be home, on vacation at home, in great weather in a peaceful area with lots of great friends at hand and lots of super fun family time ahead.
I ask myself: What if EVERYONE comes and you run out of books and feel like an unprepared moron?
I tell myself: what's new? I'm always f-ing something up (occupational hazard of being a fluffly little clumsy idiot, I'm afraid) and by now I'm so good at it that I have JUST enough grace to march boldly forward anyway. IF we run out, I'll have order forms available. IF we don't, that's fine too.
I ask myself: What if the house is a broken down disaster and you have to do... you know...
I tell myself: shut up you. You're just fishing for panic now. You're smarter than that.
And I march boldly forward anyway. I don't buy a word of it, of course, but all the trained professionals say that it takes ages to buy that kind of "I believe in you" crap when you tell it to yourself so I'm going to keep faking it until I get some real traction on it again.
I'm not so much scared of the flight. I'm a little tweaked about getting SICK on the flight, but that passes quickly enough. I'm a little concerned about regressing, or maybe worse than that I think I'm worried that the whole magical little bubble that used to be home is going to be some ill-fitting bathrobe from the back of the closet that no longer covers, nor warms anything for which it was initially designed. You know the one, the avocado green one with the giant terrycloth turtle on the back? *shudder*
It'll be fine, of course. And academically I know that. NO really I do. Once I get there, all shall be fine and it will all work out and I will have oh so many wonderful tales to tell. THIS guy, you see did THIS. And oh THAT one, you should have seen THAT one. It's why you and I gather here. Because things work out. And I get to tell you that they did. And collectively we can go "ahh" and feel largely better about the world for a short time.
So in the end, there will be lots of good stuff to read here. Likely starting sometime Tuesday night. Or Wednesday morning. Until then though, if you listen carefully, you can hear my stomach lining carefully churning away into oblivion and my molars being ground into powder.
It's what I do, after all.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
My What, Now?
Today, with what feels like my entire home state of Colorado ablaze (roughly 1% of it, actually), allow mw to distract us all, my beloved minions and slavering stalkers alike, with a new little linkiedoo up there at the toppotha screen there.
You see that?
It says I have a book and stuff.
to wit as of June 29 2012: you can find it on Amazon.com.
How about that, eh?
It even kinda says a lot on there so if you wanna go give her a test drive, you just hop right in, kids. Of course, this is just a teaser because you and I both know that it won't be available for a few weeks. However if you're willing to hold tight, I will post all kinds of fun stuff in there.
Like, oh, I don't know... book signing dates. Pictures from such sordid events as the above mentioned book signings. And lots and lots of drivelly navel-gazingly-dull entries about... perchance... where other book signing dates might come up in our busy busy calendars.
I might even list locations and stuff so YOU, yes YOU my adoring public, can come and see me in person and sneer and wave your lemon-scented fingers at me in such a manner as to suggest that you'd not only never be caught dead with a copy of my printed brain-ooze, but that you also think I have invisible stink lines emanating from my forehead. That's okay. As long as you buy a cup of coffee from the place that's hosting me, you do whatever makes you happy, kids.
For you others out there, all of you clawing at the screen and begging me for linkage and annointage that will get you your advanced copies and ebooks already ...
well gang, you just gots ta wait like me.
We're roughly two weeks out y'all.
How FRIKKING insane is that?
Say - if you'd like to suggest a location or three where we could have a finger-waggling & book-signing... you just drop me a note here and let's just see if I can't make it happen.
Locations already on my to-do list are:
Somewherez in the DC/Virginia/Maryland area
Somewherez in the Denver/GreenValleyRanch area
Somewherez in the greater Idaho Springs area
provided most of these locations haven't burst into flame between now and then.
Updates forthcoming! You know I can't keep a good "me" story down!
You see that?
It says I have a book and stuff.
to wit as of June 29 2012: you can find it on Amazon.com.
How about that, eh?
It even kinda says a lot on there so if you wanna go give her a test drive, you just hop right in, kids. Of course, this is just a teaser because you and I both know that it won't be available for a few weeks. However if you're willing to hold tight, I will post all kinds of fun stuff in there.
Like, oh, I don't know... book signing dates. Pictures from such sordid events as the above mentioned book signings. And lots and lots of drivelly navel-gazingly-dull entries about... perchance... where other book signing dates might come up in our busy busy calendars.
I might even list locations and stuff so YOU, yes YOU my adoring public, can come and see me in person and sneer and wave your lemon-scented fingers at me in such a manner as to suggest that you'd not only never be caught dead with a copy of my printed brain-ooze, but that you also think I have invisible stink lines emanating from my forehead. That's okay. As long as you buy a cup of coffee from the place that's hosting me, you do whatever makes you happy, kids.
For you others out there, all of you clawing at the screen and begging me for linkage and annointage that will get you your advanced copies and ebooks already ...
well gang, you just gots ta wait like me.
We're roughly two weeks out y'all.
How FRIKKING insane is that?
Say - if you'd like to suggest a location or three where we could have a finger-waggling & book-signing... you just drop me a note here and let's just see if I can't make it happen.
Locations already on my to-do list are:
Somewherez in the DC/Virginia/Maryland area
Somewherez in the Denver/GreenValleyRanch area
Somewherez in the greater Idaho Springs area
provided most of these locations haven't burst into flame between now and then.
Updates forthcoming! You know I can't keep a good "me" story down!
Monday, June 18, 2012
Book? Book?
Hey there, no, no book yet - but it's "out there" getting all formatted and aligned and crap so we're super close. I have a big-girl ISBN now, and a copyright number and all that other good stuff... so it's nigh. Like, sandwichboard on main-street: NIGH.
Seriously!
AND the package I've chosen for my *gasp* self publishing get-up includes cards and posters and things... so I can do some book signings. Back home, naturally, for my audience of 12 who must not only be desperately awaiting my title's appearance on Amazon.com... but who are also on pins and needles about anything else I write. Bless them. All 12 of them. My slavering minions. I adore ye.
But without much else to add to that, I'll leave that teaser there. Oh, and here... here's a teaser!
Ha ha! Maybe I'll be up to like, eighteen minions after that. You think?
Well, whatever. I've been silent for a spell, as I am wont to do when I'm fidgetty about something. And lo, slavering minions, I am fidgetty. About...
Something.
I have to go in and get a follow up to my big annual-exam related procedure (of which we will not speak) to see what, exactly, my fussy little interstitial cells have been up to lately.
And frankly... Like Wyle-E Coyote hovering over a chasm before he remembers how gravity works... I'm avoiding the inevitable as long as I can. I'm even holding a little sign that says " *eep* "
The good news is, everything is "Probably Fine."
The bad news is, everything was supposed to be "Probably Fine." last time.
The less bad news is, if everything "Is. Not. Fine." They'll knock my shit right out and dig around in the caves of denial on their own and I won't have to actually be there for it like I was last time.
The vaguely less-less bad news is, no matter what, I'm covered and it will all work out to be "Probably Fine."
Lather Rinse Repeat.
Cue the stomach lining.
I just feel like such a kicked puppy. History has given me no real concrete evidence to kindof stand on anymore and go "ahh, I'm fine". I mean, it's not like I've had to undergo chemo or anything... and it's not like the bad-test results have sent me on a home-run-do-not-pass-go all expenses paid trip to cancer-town... but I'm still really really doubting the utility of this next appointment.
Outcome 1: "fine"
me: "orly?"
Outcome 1: "sure. check back in 6 months. for the rest of your life. forever. and oh by the way get used to an army of strangers looking for neanderthal cave art while you hitch your ankles skyward and try to think of flowers."
versus
Outcome 2: "not fine... but with another lil' surgery, back to fine"
me: "ORLY?"
Outcome 2: "well we can't be sure, but we're pretty sure so check back in 6 months. for the rest of your life. forever. and oh by the way get used to an army of strangers looking for neanderthal cave art while you hitch your ankles skyward and try to think of flowers."
You know how they tell you when you're growing up that everyone has "private parts" that should be cherished and held sacred and only shared with a healthy dose of lustful shame?
Bullshit.
My lady bits are not mine. They are the whim-ridden medical playground of doctors and politicians alike. Given their 'druthers, about half of my very own country would like very much to have more control than me over what goes into and what comes out of my lady bits. I might as well carve it all out right now and just let them have it. You know? I'm apparently not smart enough to decide for myself and when I get medical help to get a second opinion that opinion is largely "whunh?" backed up by acres of liability forms and insurance policies.
All that politics aside, I'm still a dead-shy, highly-victorian girl at heart. And while that means that being married and enjoying time with my husband is super awesome... I'm not about to enjoy any time spent with a person I barely know who is being paid great sums of money to run swabs and flashlights through portions of me that I don't even see. I don't even bare my shoulders at work for gods sakes.
SO yeah, I hate hate hate the idea of this followup exam. If something's broken. I want it fixed. One or zero. You know? Especially when it comes to such memorable experiences as I've had on yonder table-of-dignity. Fix it or take it out. I don't need it.
You know?
And moreover, I'd just like to have full reign over my body. Like, all of it. Like I want to be able to have the freedom to make life's decisions for myself and not have some holier-than-thou anyone tell me they know better. I was born here, you know? Doesn't that at least give me a teency weency say?
Oh, now, I heard you out there. That one voice that says "so skip it. Don't go. Fuck science. You feel fine. don't go to the doctor if you have no faith in their decisions."
And I say to you, little voice: Do. Not. Tempt. Me.
That option makes me cry. Literally.
Because I am at a point, right here, right now, this very day... where that causes me no end of cognitive dissonance.
No. End.
Seriously!
AND the package I've chosen for my *gasp* self publishing get-up includes cards and posters and things... so I can do some book signings. Back home, naturally, for my audience of 12 who must not only be desperately awaiting my title's appearance on Amazon.com... but who are also on pins and needles about anything else I write. Bless them. All 12 of them. My slavering minions. I adore ye.
But without much else to add to that, I'll leave that teaser there. Oh, and here... here's a teaser!
Well, whatever. I've been silent for a spell, as I am wont to do when I'm fidgetty about something. And lo, slavering minions, I am fidgetty. About...
Something.
I have to go in and get a follow up to my big annual-exam related procedure (of which we will not speak) to see what, exactly, my fussy little interstitial cells have been up to lately.
And frankly... Like Wyle-E Coyote hovering over a chasm before he remembers how gravity works... I'm avoiding the inevitable as long as I can. I'm even holding a little sign that says " *eep* "
The good news is, everything is "Probably Fine."
The bad news is, everything was supposed to be "Probably Fine." last time.
The less bad news is, if everything "Is. Not. Fine." They'll knock my shit right out and dig around in the caves of denial on their own and I won't have to actually be there for it like I was last time.
The vaguely less-less bad news is, no matter what, I'm covered and it will all work out to be "Probably Fine."
Lather Rinse Repeat.
Cue the stomach lining.
I just feel like such a kicked puppy. History has given me no real concrete evidence to kindof stand on anymore and go "ahh, I'm fine". I mean, it's not like I've had to undergo chemo or anything... and it's not like the bad-test results have sent me on a home-run-do-not-pass-go all expenses paid trip to cancer-town... but I'm still really really doubting the utility of this next appointment.
Outcome 1: "fine"
me: "orly?"
Outcome 1: "sure. check back in 6 months. for the rest of your life. forever. and oh by the way get used to an army of strangers looking for neanderthal cave art while you hitch your ankles skyward and try to think of flowers."
versus
Outcome 2: "not fine... but with another lil' surgery, back to fine"
me: "ORLY?"
Outcome 2: "well we can't be sure, but we're pretty sure so check back in 6 months. for the rest of your life. forever. and oh by the way get used to an army of strangers looking for neanderthal cave art while you hitch your ankles skyward and try to think of flowers."
You know how they tell you when you're growing up that everyone has "private parts" that should be cherished and held sacred and only shared with a healthy dose of lustful shame?
Bullshit.
My lady bits are not mine. They are the whim-ridden medical playground of doctors and politicians alike. Given their 'druthers, about half of my very own country would like very much to have more control than me over what goes into and what comes out of my lady bits. I might as well carve it all out right now and just let them have it. You know? I'm apparently not smart enough to decide for myself and when I get medical help to get a second opinion that opinion is largely "whunh?" backed up by acres of liability forms and insurance policies.
All that politics aside, I'm still a dead-shy, highly-victorian girl at heart. And while that means that being married and enjoying time with my husband is super awesome... I'm not about to enjoy any time spent with a person I barely know who is being paid great sums of money to run swabs and flashlights through portions of me that I don't even see. I don't even bare my shoulders at work for gods sakes.
SO yeah, I hate hate hate the idea of this followup exam. If something's broken. I want it fixed. One or zero. You know? Especially when it comes to such memorable experiences as I've had on yonder table-of-dignity. Fix it or take it out. I don't need it.
You know?
And moreover, I'd just like to have full reign over my body. Like, all of it. Like I want to be able to have the freedom to make life's decisions for myself and not have some holier-than-thou anyone tell me they know better. I was born here, you know? Doesn't that at least give me a teency weency say?
Oh, now, I heard you out there. That one voice that says "so skip it. Don't go. Fuck science. You feel fine. don't go to the doctor if you have no faith in their decisions."
And I say to you, little voice: Do. Not. Tempt. Me.
That option makes me cry. Literally.
Because I am at a point, right here, right now, this very day... where that causes me no end of cognitive dissonance.
No. End.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
This is Important.
http://www.renfrew.org/news-events/news/barefacedandbeautiful.html
Monday, February 27th: This. Is. Important.
Monday. No makeup. Post a picture of yourself out and about. Share your feelings about the experience. Please. Join Me.
Please Join Me in this campaign to raise awareness that being beautiful is not about tits and ass.
Please Join Me in telling the world that you are more than the value of your eyeliner and cupsize.
Please Join Me in showing women and girls in your immediate vicinity that being a valuable person does not start with being passionately, imminently screwable at every breathing moment.
Please, Join Me. Go out Monday with no makeup (or as little as you can stand). Take a picture of yourself. Post it on Facebook or in your reply here or otherwise share it with me or your loved ones. Talk to me about how being "exposed" made you feel. Talk to me about why.
Please Join Me in rejecting the notion that fourteen year old girls MUST diet and wear makeup and have plastic surgery because they are all ugly unless they strive for nothing short of porn-star lustiness.
This is important.
Please.
Join Me.
Monday. Go without your makeup.
Take a picture of yourself.
Share your experience with me.
It's time we take our bodies back, ladies.
And failing that, let's start with our faces.
Monday, February 27th: This. Is. Important.
Monday. No makeup. Post a picture of yourself out and about. Share your feelings about the experience. Please. Join Me.
Please Join Me in this campaign to raise awareness that being beautiful is not about tits and ass.
Please Join Me in telling the world that you are more than the value of your eyeliner and cupsize.
Please Join Me in showing women and girls in your immediate vicinity that being a valuable person does not start with being passionately, imminently screwable at every breathing moment.
Please, Join Me. Go out Monday with no makeup (or as little as you can stand). Take a picture of yourself. Post it on Facebook or in your reply here or otherwise share it with me or your loved ones. Talk to me about how being "exposed" made you feel. Talk to me about why.
Please Join Me in rejecting the notion that fourteen year old girls MUST diet and wear makeup and have plastic surgery because they are all ugly unless they strive for nothing short of porn-star lustiness.
This is important.
Please.
Join Me.
Monday. Go without your makeup.
Take a picture of yourself.
Share your experience with me.
It's time we take our bodies back, ladies.
And failing that, let's start with our faces.
Monday, February 13, 2012
With a ONE and a TWO and a....
Wellsir, here we are again. On the Job Hunt.
Gack. You know?
Which, let's face it, you likely do know. Since, like, everyone and their brother in this country is so catastrophically unemployed that, like, they're considering "Zombie" as an actual resumee entry.
And here am I. Hiding in my little space ship for the last (mumble mumble) months and wrestling with all manner of demons from mental to physical to cat barf and bad cooking.
(bad cooking = mine, le SIGH)
Time to stop hiding. Has been for (mumble mumble) moths but HA HA let's just move on, shall we? I'm combing Craigs' for the low-hanging fruit. I have a shiny new updated ressie and a closet full of work-appropriate clothes that FIT (thanks supergal, you kick ass) and a little tray full of awesome shoes and a head full of things like "yay!" and "wow!" and "holy crap I have to go OUTSIDE? are you shitting me?"
Little bit o' panic has always served me well. Will do so again.
I'll probably even be able to make it to interviews and handsie shakesie meetings without throwing up on anyone, too. So that's always awesome.
There have been so many people pulling for me lately, through this last medical hooplah etc... and so many pray-ers and wish-ers and hope-ers... I want you to know that I absolutely noticed every single one of you and the positive energy out here on this end is magnificent. You have all made a difference for me, every last one of you slathering minions, and I love you all. Thank you so much for getting me wedged out of that little tight spot, and thanks too for coming with me on this new and perfectly mundane fresh adventure.
Many tales of body odor, polyester blends, stinky carpets and absurd filing duties are sure to follow.
Let's do this.
Gack. You know?
Which, let's face it, you likely do know. Since, like, everyone and their brother in this country is so catastrophically unemployed that, like, they're considering "Zombie" as an actual resumee entry.
And here am I. Hiding in my little space ship for the last (mumble mumble) months and wrestling with all manner of demons from mental to physical to cat barf and bad cooking.
(bad cooking = mine, le SIGH)
Time to stop hiding. Has been for (mumble mumble) moths but HA HA let's just move on, shall we? I'm combing Craigs' for the low-hanging fruit. I have a shiny new updated ressie and a closet full of work-appropriate clothes that FIT (thanks supergal, you kick ass) and a little tray full of awesome shoes and a head full of things like "yay!" and "wow!" and "holy crap I have to go OUTSIDE? are you shitting me?"
Little bit o' panic has always served me well. Will do so again.
I'll probably even be able to make it to interviews and handsie shakesie meetings without throwing up on anyone, too. So that's always awesome.
There have been so many people pulling for me lately, through this last medical hooplah etc... and so many pray-ers and wish-ers and hope-ers... I want you to know that I absolutely noticed every single one of you and the positive energy out here on this end is magnificent. You have all made a difference for me, every last one of you slathering minions, and I love you all. Thank you so much for getting me wedged out of that little tight spot, and thanks too for coming with me on this new and perfectly mundane fresh adventure.
Many tales of body odor, polyester blends, stinky carpets and absurd filing duties are sure to follow.
Let's do this.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Interim Update
It is no secret that the gods (or the Universe, if you prefer) ... well, they get kindof an advance notice on what's going on. Some more than others.
And similarly, it is no secret that the success of any message, last week's, for instance, hinges on both timing and delivery.
So let's look at last week, shall we? On a day like today, when I'm about to launch out on another sure-to-be-perfectly-mundane trip to the grocery store, it seems important to kindof analyze what went down.
Here's the short version.
Universe said unto KJ "hang in there kiddo"
KJ reacted with dizzy euphoria and was like "high fives all around!"
meanwhile, back at the lab, KJ's test results were coming in.
The next day, the doctor calls and is like "yeah, we have a problem"
and KJ reacted with panic and angst laced with nuances of what can be largely described as "the fuckits".
Then KJ remembered the message.
Then KJ gave the universe the finger and said "argh. okay, dammit. I'll stop with the panic and crap. Happy now?"
And then the universe went back to regular broadcast programming.
Where does that leave us, gentle reader? well, back in the all-too-familiar crossroads where several paths stand before us. One, we'll call it "Option A" is perfectly "benign" shall we say. And after a particularly awkward extraction process, all shall be taken care of and we shall never speak of this again. "Option B" is... more complicated. "Option C" ... well that's a big fat steel-toed boot to the junk, that is.
None of this can't be survived, and not a single option before me stands to effectively alter my life path to too great a degree.
But I'm still here, on this path, waiting to find out which option I'm headed for and I've got this little silver note in my hand that says "hang in there" and a huge backpack of love and admiration from my family and friends (and minions) and suddenly I feel that as horrified and terrified as I am about this ordeal - I can do it. You know?
Whatever happens, this certainly isn't the worst of it and if it is the worst of it, well, by the gods we live in a magnificent day and age when these sorts of things can be managed with a minimal amount of barbarism.
So, gentle reader, and universe alike... do cross your fingers for me over the next few weeks. That which shall come to pass will do so and there's not a (gods-forsaken, damned) thing we can do about it. We can hope for luck though, and we can hope the norns still have a lot of weaving to do on this little life-thread, and that they're practical jokers to the end with epic senses of timing. And delivery.
And similarly, it is no secret that the success of any message, last week's, for instance, hinges on both timing and delivery.
So let's look at last week, shall we? On a day like today, when I'm about to launch out on another sure-to-be-perfectly-mundane trip to the grocery store, it seems important to kindof analyze what went down.
Here's the short version.
Universe said unto KJ "hang in there kiddo"
KJ reacted with dizzy euphoria and was like "high fives all around!"
meanwhile, back at the lab, KJ's test results were coming in.
The next day, the doctor calls and is like "yeah, we have a problem"
and KJ reacted with panic and angst laced with nuances of what can be largely described as "the fuckits".
Then KJ remembered the message.
Then KJ gave the universe the finger and said "argh. okay, dammit. I'll stop with the panic and crap. Happy now?"
And then the universe went back to regular broadcast programming.
Where does that leave us, gentle reader? well, back in the all-too-familiar crossroads where several paths stand before us. One, we'll call it "Option A" is perfectly "benign" shall we say. And after a particularly awkward extraction process, all shall be taken care of and we shall never speak of this again. "Option B" is... more complicated. "Option C" ... well that's a big fat steel-toed boot to the junk, that is.
None of this can't be survived, and not a single option before me stands to effectively alter my life path to too great a degree.
But I'm still here, on this path, waiting to find out which option I'm headed for and I've got this little silver note in my hand that says "hang in there" and a huge backpack of love and admiration from my family and friends (and minions) and suddenly I feel that as horrified and terrified as I am about this ordeal - I can do it. You know?
Whatever happens, this certainly isn't the worst of it and if it is the worst of it, well, by the gods we live in a magnificent day and age when these sorts of things can be managed with a minimal amount of barbarism.
So, gentle reader, and universe alike... do cross your fingers for me over the next few weeks. That which shall come to pass will do so and there's not a (gods-forsaken, damned) thing we can do about it. We can hope for luck though, and we can hope the norns still have a lot of weaving to do on this little life-thread, and that they're practical jokers to the end with epic senses of timing. And delivery.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Chaos?
I do NOT remember packing this much chaos.
Let us begin this little tour of insanity in the bedroom:
First we were all like "refugee camp"
Yes, that is my buddy Thor keeping watch in the window. Thanks for noticing!
Now we're like "frat house" 
Thor is still there, just at a higher elevation so as to keep a better eye on things.
And then in the office? Where kitty is going to spend her nights? Yeah, we were all like:
Animal shelter playroom!
and now it's more like:
Crazy aunt-cat lady has digital delusions!
Too many computer desks and dining room chairs that are drifting around the place like dust bunnies. GRAGH!
The most interesting progression has happened in the main room. The living room, if you will. The room in which a great majority of living is supposed to take place amongst cozy places to sit, book-ery nook-ery, and probably the ghastly demise of humanity itself: a television.
At first, we got in here and it was all "crack house chic" with all the "chic" and none of the "crack": 
Then, see, we were all like let's go to Ikea and get shelves and crap! Yeah! Shelves! For the book-ery! and the nook-ery! Huzzah! SO what if they weigh about a million pounds, we'll make my beloved husband carry them. "pu-shaw". we said. And then we installed those rutting shelves even though they nearly cost us our shoulder rotators and all feeling in our fingertips. Worth it though. Note the schwanky use of template-age there. We are so clever when installing our uber dense shelves, we are. Clever clever clever.
And then the POD arrived and it was time to get down to the serious business of filling in every last square micrometer of our alloted living space with boxes and boxes of stuff. And a lamp. At which point kitty decided to freak me right the hell out by making herself see-through.
But we weren't done yet, folks! Not by a ding-dang long shot. No sir-ee. We were just getting started. There were couches to move in! Dining room table and chairs! Antiques! Dishes! GOOD GODS SO MANY DISHES! Appliances! Lo, for we had a 5lb box of living space of our very own and we had 10lbs of crap to put in it.
It was time.
It was time to get CREATIVE.
By which I mean: cram it someplace and we'll deal with it later.
You clearly thought I was kidding, eh? You thought "oh, that KJ. She's such a noob at moving, she'll burst into tears long before she gets that POD unloaded." and to be honest, yes... yes I did.
I smacked the hell out of my noggin on the corner of one of our new cabinets and that sent me reeling with pain and tears and fits of tantrums and some of the most satisfying swearing I've done in years.
But when it came to getting all the stuff in, with the gentle persistance of my husband and our two beloved friends in the area, it all got in. After which we had pizza. And wine.
But where's the corkscrew? SHIT! Where's the cork screw? I just saw it... over... um.... oh wait - My beloved husband has a sloution for our problem? oh do tell!
Beloved Husband, take note: You are my hero.
And now, it is officially "later" and I have some serious cardboard paper-cuts to sink into my flesh. Kitty is passed the hell out atop my desk here and is blissfully comfortable with the idea of never setting another paw inside a car again for as long as she lives. I'm totally fine with letting her snuggle down with that idea too. For now.
Besides, there's always "later". You know?
oh. right.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Wow, that was...
Virginia.
I'm here.
I'm still here.
I'm... getting used to it?
Sort of.
But first let us talk quietly, in hushed tones and with brows furrowed about a part of the trip I was dreading. There were many parts, actually, that I was dreading, but this one in particular I think many of you can dread right alongside me with sheilds raised: driving cross country with a cat.
Gadzooks! You know? Who does that? I mean, besides EVERYONE under the sun.
We've all heard the horror stories... cats gone haywire in the yugo and peeing all over everything in site while throwing up on the driver's shoes; cat gone sadistic and clawing everything (humans included) inside the lumbering cab of the moving truck; cat fast asleep who bursts to life the very second the car door opens at a much needed rest stop which turns into a fruitless 4 hour search for kitty who has by then run at light speed back across four states...
We've ALL heard the horror stories.
My kitty cat has a heart condition, so we didn't dare use sedatives which could 1) work just fine, 2) kill her, 3) set her into an opposite reaction of panting and hysteria which would then kill her.
No dice.
We thought about the pheromone thingy that you plug in and is supposed to smell like nothing to humans but like serenity on ice for kitties. We found a coupon for it.
We bought it.
It could be just mineral oil for all I know but for all I care it was pure magic from the gods. We plopped our crate-bound kitty into place in the jam-packed subaru and drove out of denver expecting to hear yowling and horrible, screeching complaints. What we heard was a few whispered grunts, lots of kerfuffled disgust, and naught else. We even opened the door to the crate and she happily explored the seven inches of free space in the car that she had access to. She crept into our laps as we drove (and passenger-ed) and she made wild, wide-eyed faces at passing truckers. She was stressed, to be sure, but NOT hysterical.
She was... as best I could diagnose... serenely distressed.
The cat-oil worked. It was... it was better than magic. It was better than a snow day. It was better than the best sale-priced shoes that fit just-so.
It was Awesome.
Even at the hotels, she was nervous, but calm. She ate. She drank. She pooped heartily. She used the litterbox every time and never missed even though it was so much smaller than she would have liked. (trust me, dog people, you can tell).
On the last day, however, things started to change.
She was incrementally less pleased with the idea of being re-crated and re-inserted like a lego into our little car of chaos. She had previously, however, gotten over that resistance pretty quickly and settled in for a few naps, a few laps around the ever-reducing free space in the car... you know... cat stuff.
But on the last day... the day we had 150 miles to drive to reach our apartment ... she decided to set her boot-up to "batshit". Cat hormones be damned, she wanted OUT and she was going to let all passers-by know.
Which, by the way, was absolutely adorable to all passers-by. To us, not so much, but to the other drivers we must have been the cutest carload of batshit they had seen all week.
Kitty decided that she wanted to go laps around the car. She kersnuffled her way back between our luggage and the back window with no planning as to how she'd get back out. After what had to have been a VERY unpleasant amount of time upside down and smooshed between pointy suitcases and the back hatch of the car... she re-kersnuffled herself (yowling intermittently) back on top of our stuff and started strutting her cramped self toward the driver.
We're in 5-lane traffic by now, gentle readers, driving TOWARD Washington DC. You know, where ALL traffic is rush-hour traffic. She heads toward my beloved husband's shoulder. His left one. Well out of my reach. And decides she'll perch herself there, panting with teeth bared just inches from his face and about twelve miles into his left-side peripheral vision. She was not to be budged. Her breath fogged his glasses.
I begged. I cajoled. I pleaded. She just panted, teeth bared at me. She looked like the world's worst scary-pirate-parrot.
Eventually she made her way SLOWLY to my beloved husband's lap. She took her damned sweet time too. She made sure to flip her tail across his nose and point her little pink asterisk of a butthole directly at his face for as long as she could before I snagged her forcefully and jammed her back into her crate. She had conveyed her message to us. Now all we had to do was go the remaining 20 minutes to the apartment. Traffic was well past "holy shit" and getting into "WTF" territory but at least our little complaining yowl-monster was back in her crate. She clawed at the plastic. She pulled at the sad little silver bars. She panted and coughed into my ear (that's where the crate door kindof ended up).
We arrived at the apartment a little more frazzled than we wanted to be but we got there. WE had about a half hour of paperwork to do at the leasing agent's office before we could let our furry little tyrant out of her crate for good and it was getting hot in the car - so we brought her in with us.
She pawed, she clawed, she mew'ed with piteous sadness and those big disney eyes for the room full of onlookers. They were all convinced we had purchased her for snake food, I'm sure.
Finally, we got to the apartment and let our pathetic little kitty free. I fully expected her to stand full up and kick each of us squah in the shins. She did not. I fully expected her to hide under... well there wasn't anything in there yet to hide under ... but like, in a corner or something. She did not. What she did was yowl once, step onto the brand new carpet, look hard at each of us and the leasing agent, and give the leasing agent a buffling of a lifetime.
We were home.
She knew it.
All is well now. Days later.
She's asleep on top of the new Ikea computer desk and our funiture POD is due to arrive sometime in the next two hours.
Soon we'll have tables and chairs and sofas and books in here and everything will be where it is supposed to be. Not put away, mind you, just here.
Thank the gods, we're here.
We're all here. We made it.
We're here.
and in hindsight, and with the blessed gift of selective memory, it wasn't that bad.
so far.
I'm here.
I'm still here.
I'm... getting used to it?
Sort of.
But first let us talk quietly, in hushed tones and with brows furrowed about a part of the trip I was dreading. There were many parts, actually, that I was dreading, but this one in particular I think many of you can dread right alongside me with sheilds raised: driving cross country with a cat.
Gadzooks! You know? Who does that? I mean, besides EVERYONE under the sun.
We've all heard the horror stories... cats gone haywire in the yugo and peeing all over everything in site while throwing up on the driver's shoes; cat gone sadistic and clawing everything (humans included) inside the lumbering cab of the moving truck; cat fast asleep who bursts to life the very second the car door opens at a much needed rest stop which turns into a fruitless 4 hour search for kitty who has by then run at light speed back across four states...
We've ALL heard the horror stories.
My kitty cat has a heart condition, so we didn't dare use sedatives which could 1) work just fine, 2) kill her, 3) set her into an opposite reaction of panting and hysteria which would then kill her.
No dice.
We thought about the pheromone thingy that you plug in and is supposed to smell like nothing to humans but like serenity on ice for kitties. We found a coupon for it.
We bought it.
It could be just mineral oil for all I know but for all I care it was pure magic from the gods. We plopped our crate-bound kitty into place in the jam-packed subaru and drove out of denver expecting to hear yowling and horrible, screeching complaints. What we heard was a few whispered grunts, lots of kerfuffled disgust, and naught else. We even opened the door to the crate and she happily explored the seven inches of free space in the car that she had access to. She crept into our laps as we drove (and passenger-ed) and she made wild, wide-eyed faces at passing truckers. She was stressed, to be sure, but NOT hysterical.
She was... as best I could diagnose... serenely distressed.
The cat-oil worked. It was... it was better than magic. It was better than a snow day. It was better than the best sale-priced shoes that fit just-so.
It was Awesome.
Even at the hotels, she was nervous, but calm. She ate. She drank. She pooped heartily. She used the litterbox every time and never missed even though it was so much smaller than she would have liked. (trust me, dog people, you can tell).
On the last day, however, things started to change.
She was incrementally less pleased with the idea of being re-crated and re-inserted like a lego into our little car of chaos. She had previously, however, gotten over that resistance pretty quickly and settled in for a few naps, a few laps around the ever-reducing free space in the car... you know... cat stuff.
But on the last day... the day we had 150 miles to drive to reach our apartment ... she decided to set her boot-up to "batshit". Cat hormones be damned, she wanted OUT and she was going to let all passers-by know.
Which, by the way, was absolutely adorable to all passers-by. To us, not so much, but to the other drivers we must have been the cutest carload of batshit they had seen all week.
Kitty decided that she wanted to go laps around the car. She kersnuffled her way back between our luggage and the back window with no planning as to how she'd get back out. After what had to have been a VERY unpleasant amount of time upside down and smooshed between pointy suitcases and the back hatch of the car... she re-kersnuffled herself (yowling intermittently) back on top of our stuff and started strutting her cramped self toward the driver.
We're in 5-lane traffic by now, gentle readers, driving TOWARD Washington DC. You know, where ALL traffic is rush-hour traffic. She heads toward my beloved husband's shoulder. His left one. Well out of my reach. And decides she'll perch herself there, panting with teeth bared just inches from his face and about twelve miles into his left-side peripheral vision. She was not to be budged. Her breath fogged his glasses.
I begged. I cajoled. I pleaded. She just panted, teeth bared at me. She looked like the world's worst scary-pirate-parrot.
Eventually she made her way SLOWLY to my beloved husband's lap. She took her damned sweet time too. She made sure to flip her tail across his nose and point her little pink asterisk of a butthole directly at his face for as long as she could before I snagged her forcefully and jammed her back into her crate. She had conveyed her message to us. Now all we had to do was go the remaining 20 minutes to the apartment. Traffic was well past "holy shit" and getting into "WTF" territory but at least our little complaining yowl-monster was back in her crate. She clawed at the plastic. She pulled at the sad little silver bars. She panted and coughed into my ear (that's where the crate door kindof ended up).
We arrived at the apartment a little more frazzled than we wanted to be but we got there. WE had about a half hour of paperwork to do at the leasing agent's office before we could let our furry little tyrant out of her crate for good and it was getting hot in the car - so we brought her in with us.
She pawed, she clawed, she mew'ed with piteous sadness and those big disney eyes for the room full of onlookers. They were all convinced we had purchased her for snake food, I'm sure.
Finally, we got to the apartment and let our pathetic little kitty free. I fully expected her to stand full up and kick each of us squah in the shins. She did not. I fully expected her to hide under... well there wasn't anything in there yet to hide under ... but like, in a corner or something. She did not. What she did was yowl once, step onto the brand new carpet, look hard at each of us and the leasing agent, and give the leasing agent a buffling of a lifetime.
We were home.
She knew it.
All is well now. Days later.
She's asleep on top of the new Ikea computer desk and our funiture POD is due to arrive sometime in the next two hours.
Soon we'll have tables and chairs and sofas and books in here and everything will be where it is supposed to be. Not put away, mind you, just here.
Thank the gods, we're here.
We're all here. We made it.
We're here.
and in hindsight, and with the blessed gift of selective memory, it wasn't that bad.
so far.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Stuff is just Things
Intuitively, I know it. I'm a rational person, after all. The things that surround me are just things. Books, lamps, furniture, all luxury items and nostalgic trinkets from my life of leisure.
There is a saying: The things you own, own you.
I hate that saying. There are people who say that you only know your full self, your fullest self, when you rid yourself of earthly desires and belongings and become "one" with the universe. Well that's not really yourself, then, is it? It's you+ Universe. It's you, 2.0. You know?
Not that there's anything wrong with that, honestly. I bet it's great to feel that way. To be One. But I'm not One. I'm not ready for One. I'm Many, and I'm MUCH, and I'm LOTS. I'm a lot of lots. Lots and lots of lots, am I. And I need that. On an irrational level, I need all of it.
Like a secret hoarder who has it pretty well under control, I need it. I need the stuff. I crave the stuff. Not in a one-ups-man-ship way, either. I need the pictures on the wall, the schmutz-pile of paperwork I haven't got to YET, the unfinished whatever... I need it. It tells me who I am. It grounds me in a way that my drifty little brainz can't yet fully accomodate.
The stuff, the things, it's all there in front of me whispering "you have responsibilities" and "you have done amazing things" and "you need to be careful that you don't bite off more than you can chew". It suggests to me that I'm human, after all. It tells me that I have a history of my very own, and a life path that is mine and mine alone. Every trinket, every letter, every unmended anything is a reminder that I am ME and I have put myself here and this is the only place for me.
I need to see it when I wake up in the morning, especially. I'm always so disoriented. Now more than ever, with my gooey think-meat awash in stress hormones and anxiety, the nightmares and the hours-long epics keep me on my feet pretty much all night and it takes a good 15-20 minutes to sort out which world I've ended up in when the alarm goes off.
I need to see it when I come home after a long workday too - when I'm convinced I'm a fraud. When I feel like I can't cut it. When I feel like I'm the only idiot in a world full of mensa's and I should really be in a pretty padded room somewhere with lots of fingerpaints and a locked medicine cabinet of my very own. I need these things to remind me that yes, I really did go to Iceland with my beloved. I really did do the Summer School in Oslo thing. I really do wear heels in public, from time to time, and I really can look pretty well put together on the odd day.
I need this stuff. I need it around me. I don't need all of it, and this moving thing is really getting me going on getting rid of a ton of stuff that no longer does me any good.
But when it comes to packing up the stuff that I still want, still need, that's when my anxiety needle starts to crack the glass. Living in an empty room is not good for me (less the situation involving fingerpaints - that'd be super!). Living in a hollow house with room after room of cardboard-ed up memories feels ... too dark for me.
It'll pass. I can survive this. It IS a good thing for me.
However, in the midst of it, the stuff that I'm packing will be glinting fresh agony at me until I can unpack it on the back end. The stuff I'm getting rid of - that feels good. The stuff I'm keeping, that also feels good. I just kinda' want to have a way set up so that I don't have to pack it up.
Stuff is stuff. It's not me. But it grounds me. And when it starts going away - I get really REALLY drifty and loose and ... and it's just not good. For anyone.
There is a saying: The things you own, own you.
I hate that saying. There are people who say that you only know your full self, your fullest self, when you rid yourself of earthly desires and belongings and become "one" with the universe. Well that's not really yourself, then, is it? It's you+ Universe. It's you, 2.0. You know?
Not that there's anything wrong with that, honestly. I bet it's great to feel that way. To be One. But I'm not One. I'm not ready for One. I'm Many, and I'm MUCH, and I'm LOTS. I'm a lot of lots. Lots and lots of lots, am I. And I need that. On an irrational level, I need all of it.
Like a secret hoarder who has it pretty well under control, I need it. I need the stuff. I crave the stuff. Not in a one-ups-man-ship way, either. I need the pictures on the wall, the schmutz-pile of paperwork I haven't got to YET, the unfinished whatever... I need it. It tells me who I am. It grounds me in a way that my drifty little brainz can't yet fully accomodate.
The stuff, the things, it's all there in front of me whispering "you have responsibilities" and "you have done amazing things" and "you need to be careful that you don't bite off more than you can chew". It suggests to me that I'm human, after all. It tells me that I have a history of my very own, and a life path that is mine and mine alone. Every trinket, every letter, every unmended anything is a reminder that I am ME and I have put myself here and this is the only place for me.
I need to see it when I wake up in the morning, especially. I'm always so disoriented. Now more than ever, with my gooey think-meat awash in stress hormones and anxiety, the nightmares and the hours-long epics keep me on my feet pretty much all night and it takes a good 15-20 minutes to sort out which world I've ended up in when the alarm goes off.
I need to see it when I come home after a long workday too - when I'm convinced I'm a fraud. When I feel like I can't cut it. When I feel like I'm the only idiot in a world full of mensa's and I should really be in a pretty padded room somewhere with lots of fingerpaints and a locked medicine cabinet of my very own. I need these things to remind me that yes, I really did go to Iceland with my beloved. I really did do the Summer School in Oslo thing. I really do wear heels in public, from time to time, and I really can look pretty well put together on the odd day.
I need this stuff. I need it around me. I don't need all of it, and this moving thing is really getting me going on getting rid of a ton of stuff that no longer does me any good.
But when it comes to packing up the stuff that I still want, still need, that's when my anxiety needle starts to crack the glass. Living in an empty room is not good for me (less the situation involving fingerpaints - that'd be super!). Living in a hollow house with room after room of cardboard-ed up memories feels ... too dark for me.
It'll pass. I can survive this. It IS a good thing for me.
However, in the midst of it, the stuff that I'm packing will be glinting fresh agony at me until I can unpack it on the back end. The stuff I'm getting rid of - that feels good. The stuff I'm keeping, that also feels good. I just kinda' want to have a way set up so that I don't have to pack it up.
Stuff is stuff. It's not me. But it grounds me. And when it starts going away - I get really REALLY drifty and loose and ... and it's just not good. For anyone.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
My Bravery Face: Let me show you it.
In case you didn’t know, this migration crap is stressful. It can be organized into three distinct categories of stressful events. First, you have the pre-move organization. This includes planning, scheduling jettisoning of ballast, packing and arranging for renters or sale of the current abode. And cleaning. This stage can (but note it doesn’t always) include the search and seizure (if you will) of appropriate accommodations on the other end. Second, you have the actual relocation part, where all your crap is packed into a container and either you, someone you know, or a company you paid will be driving said container of crap from point A to point B. A lot can happen here, including broken axles, flat tires, fuel prices hitting record highs, floods, tornadoes, criminals, massive national-news style highway-crippling accidents, and large quantities of gooey/baked-on insect corpses on various windshields. So, get the insurance is what I’m saying here. Then, finally you have stage three, and that involves the arrival at the new nest, as it were. It involves having a place to move in to (finding one if that step hasn’t been done yet) knowing when move-in is allowed, doing the walk-through to record any existing deposit-killing damage, arranging for the delivery of the container of crap, unloading said crap, recording any damage to said crap, paying movers, paying installments, paying fees, setting up utilities, finding switches and plugins, saying goodbye’s to anyone who helped move who will hereafter be returning to your old stomping grounds, and ultimately beginning the long NEW process of settling in for real and becoming a grown-up new kid on the block.
I’m still in the first step. Each step along the way involves large quantities of panic, distress, exuberance, brilliant ideas, and really shitty days. There shall be pepto, ibuprofen, band-aids, packing tape, cat fur and crates and crates of Kleenex.
Beloved shall journey out by his onesie to find a place for us to live in. I have to work. I trust his judgement since he’s fussier than I am on most things. The day he comes back, his dad and his dad’s new wife (doesn’t seem right to call such a great woman his “stepmother”) will arrive and visit us and help us pack. There shall be a packing day. That same day, his friend from our new location (who he grew up with ) will be coming to see us too, to buy his car which she’ll then drive back to her home. She’s been needing a vehicle, we have two and were going to have to sell one anyway, so that works out well.
I anticipate, this will be the beginning of “live out of a suitcase” time. I’ll save out just enough of my wardrobe to wear to work and then on the road, and then pack the rest. We’ll do the same for our dishes: kill what we can, save out what we NEED, pack the rest.
Beyond that, it’s just a matter of furniture, art, books… and oh yeah, everything that’s not getting moved and is getting stored at my parent’s place.
I solemnly swear, that for the next ten minutes, I have a solid grip on the situation and do not in any way shape or form feel wholly overwhelmed and terrorized by the tiniest details. No sir-ee.
Renters are lined up. Documents are forthcoming. Legal assistance is on the hook to make sure we’re all doing things fairly. By this time next month… I will be using my computer from my new apartment in my whole new world.
And it will have gone very well, in spite of the frustrations and tears and disasters about which I yet know nothing.
This is my brave face. Let me show you it.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
On your mark, Get set,
Let the pack-a-palooza begin!
p.s. barfffff
Well here it is August and I'm no closer to being ready to move across the country than I was at roughly this time last year. Only difference is the miles and miles of internet research I've done concerning places to maybe end up living in, how to get there, where to find packing materials and (egad) how much this whole nonsense is going to cost. Welcome to my new mantra: it's tax-deductible, it's tax-deductible...But yeah, it's August. Let's take a lil' tour around the place, shall we? Bookcases. No problem. Those lift and move easy and we won't be taking ALLL of them. Beds. No problem. Standard issue. Gotta' happen. Dressers. Crap, those look heavy. No worries.
We can do it.
Ancient family heirloom mirror that resembles (in a mid-west lutheran kind of way) the Mirror of Erised.
Pardon me whilest I breathe into a paper bag.
Ah fretting. I've missed you.
What to do about that mirror? Probably move it back to my parent's place. Guh. And the needlepoint that the good doctor hates. As long as I don't open the box, I can give the secret stash of lego toys to my neighbor kids. Sorry, kids, they're dusty as hell.
I am NOT leaving town without my beloved new dining table. Kitchen table can stay. Right? Don't need two in a 2br apartment. Right. Vases. Marching proudly across the top of my kitchen cabinets with darling and shiny precision... okay okay, those stay too. I'll just bring like, two.
Three.
Dishes: Ye gods we have a lot of dishes. (where'd I put that paper bag again?) A lot of those fancy-ass wine glasses gotta' go. I love them. I'm leaving them. Those kitchy old upsidedown sevenup glasses too. (there's my inner 15year old crying again). No sweetheart. Their time is passed. I'm not my stuff. I can do this.
Hmmm.. What next? What's that? In my closet? That groaning zombie noise we hear? Oh yes, that's my wardrobe. It's largely old, ill-fitting stuff that often is older than my house which was built in what - 2003? ish? yeah. Shoes = fine. I have a fine collection of shoes. The rest of it - ooph. There's no damn way I can wear that in public anywhere but here. Right? DC area? Cowgirl jeans? from 10 years ago? prolly not, hunh?
Let's close the door on that little horror show for now, okay? I just... I can't deal with that right now.
What's left then? oh yes. Everything else. Brickabrack. Plants. Books. Movies. Games. Desks and desk chairs. Shelves. Jewellery. Cabinets. Drawers.... the recliner AND the swivel chair that I'm still secretly hoping we can get re-upholstered....
I'm going to need a new paper bag...
And our beloved artworks... the bathroom full of road signs... that four-foot-long poster of the mountains... the kite.... the masks... the calligraphy...
And then the cleaning. The cleaning? (ooh, my inner 25year old just shrieked rather sharply and put something very sharp in my left eyeball.)
Oh dear...
I feel a little....
..........*.............**............woozy... I think I need to....
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
New Beginnings
Have you heard?
We're moving!
I know. I know.
Here's the short version:
My beloved husband, the doctor (hmmm, that's got a nice ring to it), has applied for and interviewed for and been accepted for something that very closely resembles his dream job.
And it's about 40,000 miles away from where I live now. Not really, it's actually just 200 states away. Well, that's a bit hyperbolic, but it's far. It's way far. I'm going away from my mountains again. I'm going to cross the wide, fertile plains of this great country and keep going East. I'm going to find myself in a vortex of American history, natural wonders, and modern city life. There will be suburbs stretching as far as the eye can see. There will be hills and lakes and humidity and spiders the size of my face.
There will be centuries-old battlegrounds, there will be contemporary hyper-political saber rattling, and there will be lots and lots of traffic.
And me and my beloved husband, and our fluffy wonderpants kitty cat, will pick up and move across the country. He will have his job. I will quit mine and go find something out there.
It will be fine. It will be awesome. We're going to love it.
In the mean time, however, I'm going to panic. I'm going to hyperventillate. I'm going to have wicked nightmares and mood swings and I'm going to become mighty, mighty forgetful.
It will be fine. It will be awesome. We're going to love it.
The big relocation is slated for mid-september. For now. It's all big and fluffy and up in the air and refusing to be tied down.
It's terrifying. I'm utterly, utterly terrified.
It's exhillerating. I'm profoundly, impossibly exhillerated.
And lo. The pendulum swings.
The decision is made. We're moving. If I'm good at anything in this world, it's starting over. So shall it be. So say we all.
Here we go, kids. Let's do this.
We're moving!
I know. I know.
Here's the short version:
My beloved husband, the doctor (hmmm, that's got a nice ring to it), has applied for and interviewed for and been accepted for something that very closely resembles his dream job.
And it's about 40,000 miles away from where I live now. Not really, it's actually just 200 states away. Well, that's a bit hyperbolic, but it's far. It's way far. I'm going away from my mountains again. I'm going to cross the wide, fertile plains of this great country and keep going East. I'm going to find myself in a vortex of American history, natural wonders, and modern city life. There will be suburbs stretching as far as the eye can see. There will be hills and lakes and humidity and spiders the size of my face.
There will be centuries-old battlegrounds, there will be contemporary hyper-political saber rattling, and there will be lots and lots of traffic.
And me and my beloved husband, and our fluffy wonderpants kitty cat, will pick up and move across the country. He will have his job. I will quit mine and go find something out there.
It will be fine. It will be awesome. We're going to love it.
In the mean time, however, I'm going to panic. I'm going to hyperventillate. I'm going to have wicked nightmares and mood swings and I'm going to become mighty, mighty forgetful.
It will be fine. It will be awesome. We're going to love it.
The big relocation is slated for mid-september. For now. It's all big and fluffy and up in the air and refusing to be tied down.
It's terrifying. I'm utterly, utterly terrified.
It's exhillerating. I'm profoundly, impossibly exhillerated.
And lo. The pendulum swings.
The decision is made. We're moving. If I'm good at anything in this world, it's starting over. So shall it be. So say we all.
Here we go, kids. Let's do this.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Big Things
I've written before about how much I adore impossibly big things.
Cumulo Nimbus. Even the name sounds big.
Giant tires that are used on giant, yellow caterpillar machines.
Tall buildings. Mountains. Oceans. Big.
I've possibly written before about how the pace of my life works. It's in five-sies and seven-sies. Every five years starts a new chapter in the cycle. Starting in highschool, just before graduation, I really started to notice it. Like cicadas, change comes in flocks and flurries and some years, both kinds happen at once. I think this is just a normal five-sie year, but I can't be sure.
Big changes are already taking place. I got a raise! I love my job. I've been at the same job for just over 2 years now. I love my house. I have a great car and live in a soothing, gentle neighborhood with great neighbors and really good looking landscaping.
My beloved husband got his PhD. He is now Doctor Beloved Husband. He's been throwing himself into loads of interviews lately and charming the absolute pants off of everyone. He's going through is course of obligatory rejections and now has some very prosperous potential dangling out there.
We're just waiting for an official offer.
Should that offer come, it could mean we stay put. It could mean we relocate halfway across the country to a state I visited for 4 days in highschool.
That's so damned big I can't even wrap my fluffy little brains around it.
I love it. It terrifies me. I love it because it terrifies me. It's like the hairy red monster in the bugs bunny cartoons that you're supposed to have nightmares about but you can't be bothered because he wears those adorable sneakers. His name is Gossamer, I believe.
The new chapter is unfolding as we speak. Gears are a-turning. Change is coming. As I told my brother earlier today, if I can handle Hungary by my onesie, I can (by the gods) handle this. Gossamer had big horrible claws and snarling growling teeth, but he was just a big fuzzball. I have more than enough tools at my disposal to handle him.
And this time, I don't have to do it alone.
So now you know. This blog will likely convert from a dimly-lit monologue involving goth-kid navel gazing, into a fascinating butterfly of updates and life news and adjustment periods concerning new lifestyles and standard-of-living comparisons.
BUGS! I'll cry. HUMIDITY! I'll moan.
And we'll all move on in our happy little lives, knowing that the universe isn't done with me by a long shot. The gods have far more in store for me than I'm capable of anticipating. Let's all go along for the ride, shall we?
Because this time, I don't have to do it alone.
Cumulo Nimbus. Even the name sounds big.
Giant tires that are used on giant, yellow caterpillar machines.
Tall buildings. Mountains. Oceans. Big.
I've possibly written before about how the pace of my life works. It's in five-sies and seven-sies. Every five years starts a new chapter in the cycle. Starting in highschool, just before graduation, I really started to notice it. Like cicadas, change comes in flocks and flurries and some years, both kinds happen at once. I think this is just a normal five-sie year, but I can't be sure.
Big changes are already taking place. I got a raise! I love my job. I've been at the same job for just over 2 years now. I love my house. I have a great car and live in a soothing, gentle neighborhood with great neighbors and really good looking landscaping.
My beloved husband got his PhD. He is now Doctor Beloved Husband. He's been throwing himself into loads of interviews lately and charming the absolute pants off of everyone. He's going through is course of obligatory rejections and now has some very prosperous potential dangling out there.
We're just waiting for an official offer.
Should that offer come, it could mean we stay put. It could mean we relocate halfway across the country to a state I visited for 4 days in highschool.
That's so damned big I can't even wrap my fluffy little brains around it.
I love it. It terrifies me. I love it because it terrifies me. It's like the hairy red monster in the bugs bunny cartoons that you're supposed to have nightmares about but you can't be bothered because he wears those adorable sneakers. His name is Gossamer, I believe.
The new chapter is unfolding as we speak. Gears are a-turning. Change is coming. As I told my brother earlier today, if I can handle Hungary by my onesie, I can (by the gods) handle this. Gossamer had big horrible claws and snarling growling teeth, but he was just a big fuzzball. I have more than enough tools at my disposal to handle him.
And this time, I don't have to do it alone.
So now you know. This blog will likely convert from a dimly-lit monologue involving goth-kid navel gazing, into a fascinating butterfly of updates and life news and adjustment periods concerning new lifestyles and standard-of-living comparisons.
BUGS! I'll cry. HUMIDITY! I'll moan.
And we'll all move on in our happy little lives, knowing that the universe isn't done with me by a long shot. The gods have far more in store for me than I'm capable of anticipating. Let's all go along for the ride, shall we?
Because this time, I don't have to do it alone.
Friday, April 1, 2011
NAWT an April Fool's Joke
Just had to share: This weekend, I'll be teaching my FIRST EVER Intro-to-Norwegian class! YAY! Nothing formal, except that there will be people there who expect to walk away with some new knowledge about the language. I'm not doing it for a school or anything, is what I'm trying to say. Just a nice thing to do for some (so far) very nice, very interesting people who have expressed an interest in learning a new language. How 'bout that, eh? Wish me luck!
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