One for the Road

Blogs I Love

"So about a year later, when he came over to my house and uttered the simple phrase, "So. Wanna get married?" I was a little surprised, but it felt right and I said yes. We kissed goodbye and he left to go castrate some calves."

I swear, it's like reading a novel about cow wrangling and great food. It's like an Annie Proulx story without all the angst.

Novel Gazing

Tim's got a post up where he looks at the first lines of his novels, and it got me curious at to what all of mine looked like. No doubt there's a hell of a lot of other huge differences between where I was when I wrote my first book and where I am now, but first lines are good snapshot.

And so: Novel Gazing

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The Cat-Eyed Queen (originally titled, The Queen of Gwenedyned. No, don't ask me to pronounce it). Written sometime in 1991/1992. About 30,000 words. Almost, but not quite, a YA novel. At 12, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to start a book:

The girl ran through the hallway of the castle.

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The Thief Queen (originally titled Quill). Written sometime in 1992. 22,000 words, so more like a novelette than a novel, but I wrote it like a short book. Look at me learning to write interesting, though still cliched, first lines! This was about the time I was starting to read Writer's Digest:

Fear had always come first.

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Marianna. Probably written in 1993. Unknown word count. I used to write up all of my books long hand, and this one I never loved enough to actually type up. This one starts out just as dull at Cat-Eyed Queen because it deals with the same girl who was running through the castle, and she tended to having boring get-gos:

Yolanda looked out of the little window.

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Quilliam. Written in 1993. 45,000 words. This was the first and last time I tried to write myself into a book as a character; the "historian" of all things, though I don't think it occurred to me at 13 that I was going to major in history. Anyway, the historian was pretty boring, as indicated by this first line:

Faiten sat down, pen in hand, paper ready.

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The Queen's Gunpowder (originally titled Faiten). Finished this in 1994/95 sometime. 70,000 words. You can tell I had a subscription to Writer's Digest at this point...

You knew something was going to happen.

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Rogue (originally titled Driamyne). Wrote this in 1995-1996. 90,000 words. What can I say? I was bad at description. I needed the practice:

Blistering sun scorched the golden plains, battering down at the flat expanse rolling on for as far as the eye could see.

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Silver Fire. Wrote this from 1996-1999. It was the first attempt at what would become my huge-crazy fantasy saga. I initially planned 15 books. After bad experiences with Jordan and Martin, I've decided I can do it in 5. 160,000 words. I no longer had that Writer's Digest subscription:

"Do you remember shadows?" the voice murmured; his father's voice, deep and afraid.

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Brutal Women. 2001-2003. Based on a short story I wrote at Clarion. I wrote the first half, maybe 40-50K, and tried to sell it by sending out the partial to editor slush piles and assuring them it was done. The ones who did reply form rejected it out of hand. Still one of my favorite first lines, tho:

Nalah buried her babies in the cold silt somewhere between the mountains and the sea.

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The Dragon’s War (originally titled Beyond the Shadowed Sea, To the Dragon's Wall and The Dragon's Wall). 1999-2005. This was a ground-up rewrite of Silver Fire. Literally, I tossed out the first book and wrote another book with characters whose names sounded sort of similiar and who ran around a place with similiar geography, but the rest was a new book from the ground up. I had some interested agents, one of whom requested several rewrites, but I could never get it to a place where anybody wanted to buy it or sell it. First draft: 200,000 words. Final draft submitted to editor/agent folks: 119,000 words. Not a bad little first line, but it took me six years and 80,000 dead words to get there:

The invaders came in on the morning tide, and drove before them a sea of roaches.

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Over Burning Cities. 2004-present. Book 2 in the 5 book series that starts with The Dragon's War. I have five or six chapters and an outline. It's on hold until I can sell The Dragon's War.Yes, I stole the idea for this line from the first line of Ash. Also one of my favorite first lines:

They would say her scars made her beautiful, and what the cats had left of her half-breed face was wholly Dhorinian.

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God’s War. 2003-2007. 90,000 words. Yes. This is my favorite first line EVER:

Nyx sold her womb somewhere between Punjai and Faleen, on the edge of the Desert.

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Black Desert. 2007-present. Sequel to God's War. I'm about halfway done, and hoping to have a draft to first readers by October:

The smog in Mushtallah tasted of tar and ashes; it tasted like the war.

Who needs Writer's Digest now????

What does this summary of first lines have to tell me?

I've gotten a fuck of a lot better, yo.

Can't wait to see what I'm writing in another ten years...

Tree Trimming!

Oh, the joys of home ownership....

Yesterday, one of the big tree branches out front came down, so Steph and the Old Man bought a chain-saw-on a stick and Steph's brother Josh came down for the day and made an afternoon of it.


Josh is real excited by this manly stuff...


But that chainsaw-on-a-stick is heavier than it looks.


When all else fails, just try and yank the fucking branch off.


Tessa found us all very amusing...


Cutting things down got kind of fun... let's cut down some more stuff!


Josh wants a record of his manliness....


Now Josh attempts to cut down a branch with the careful guidance of the Old Man...


And... holy crap does that branch come down!


He's just got something in his eye...


Oh yeah, it was a little close for comfort. Can you tell we're all from Battle Ground?


Surveying the damage.


Damage!


It's a family affair.


Time to clean up.


Seriously, look how manly he is! (do I get a dollar now, Josh?)


The old man asks me why I'm not "getting to work." As you can see from these photos, I did fuck all. I talked to my boyfriend and worked on Black Desert. I'm a writer, you know.


But I did sort of pretend to haul some things to the curb.


Ah, yes, look at that tree! Still a mess, really, but a better mess. Really.


Josh is cutting things! It's so manly!


I was going to put in a picture of Josh's ass here, as it would show how manly he was, but I'll settle for this one.


A job well done (in a manly way!)

Marie Antoinette

Where's the love, honestly? I remember seeing the preview for the Kirsten Dunst/Sophia Capploa production of Marie Antoinette and thinking it was a great concept. You've got that whole "royalty as rockstars" thing going on, with a modern soundtrack and a story of cloistered indulgence and opulance. Versailles is very much its own world, shuttered up away from everywhere else, and it abides by its own rules and customs (it's very Gormenghast in that sense).

The strength of the film is in the first, say half to two thirds of the movie where Marie Antoinette shows up and tries to be "good" without any real sense of how to do that at 15 except please everyone and buy a lot of lap dogs, and then, after three years of talk behind her back, the figidity of her husband, and the loss of her family, goes on a lavish spending spree and seeks to insulate herself from whatever the hell else is going on in the world. Which is what everyone else at Versaille is doing.

I admire films and books that can convey feeling through the use of words and images; feelings are not things that are easily translated. You can't say "so and so was sad" or show someone being sad, but that doesn't neccessarily make the viewer/reader *feel* sadness. Good stuff sets up words and images in such a way that you can actually summon up a particlary feeling in the viewer or read: the sense of loss, the desire to bury oneself in excess.

I enjoyed the film; I liked the way that Coppola made sure not to show anything going on outside of Versaille. Versaille is the whole world, the petty court games and snide talking behind others and political games, and knowing that, you can understand why the people inside acted as they did (and, of course, the whole bullshit idea of Versaille was created as a way to keep all the nobles busy trying to curry favor instead of plotting behind the King's back, and this movie reminds us of why that strategy worked so well).

The trouble is that there seemed to be some kind of self-consciousness on the part of Coppola that made her throw in these half-hearted lines for Marie Antoinette to pretend she's really interested in poor people and politics. The problem is, there's so little dialogue and the emotional heart of the movie *so* has nothing to do with the people of France and Dunst delivers these lines so woodenly that they feel like half-hearted additions, like, "I want to show that she's not an idiot or a total hedonist, but I'm not sure that she wasn't. I mean, it's not like she doesn't *care* about what's going on, it's just not part of her world. But, I mean, she's aware of it. But... um....."

The actual pacing of the movie starts to suffer about the time she starts having kids, and then there's the rapid slide to get to the end of the movie and half-hearted attempts to "age" Dunst which are silly and don't work because it's not like she really looks old or gains weight or anything. I was wondering how they would pull off the ending, because once she and Louis get in the carriage to flee from Versaille, I recalled that there was several more weeks of tag played between the family and the people of France before they were actually beheaded. What Coppola chooses to do is to show them leaving Versaille the first time, before the mob stops them and turns them back, and there it just sort of... ends.

Sure, it's a half-hearted ending. She's supposed to have gotten older and wiser and gotten some kind of conscience by now, but we don't actually see that journey. The first half or 2/3 I can understand: I understand how a young girl thrown into a foreign court where she's despised and has a frigid husband can lose herself in the excess. The journey they didn't do so well in conveying was how she and her husband learned, over time, to hold some sort of affection for one another and for France, which means that in the end, when they tried to just wave their hands and pretend that had happened, I had a tough time believing it.

All that said, I'd recommend this movie. I think Coppola did some great things with the ideas, the emotion, the soundtrack (and there's also some great stuff in there about how the foreign women gets blamed for everything that's wrong with the country; ah yes, always blame the woman), and though the pacing's off and it starts to lag toward the end, it's really worth it for that daring, breathless run there for the first 2/3.

Rosetta Stone

I've been trying out the demo CD for the Rosetta Stone language software; the demo comes with sampel exercises for all 30 languages that Rosetta Stone covers. I'm most interested in the French and Arabic, so I've been spending some time last night and this morning running through those.

For the beaucoup bucks that they charge for this thing, I was expecting a far less clunky interface; something a bit more slick.

What is does get me is really serious and sometimes intense listening, writing, and comprehension practice. It's about the same cost as a community college class, but I could do it an hour a night at home, and it sure beats the mindlessness of flash games, which is, admittedly, something I've spent far too much time doing in the past.

I'm not nearly as wowed as they've made it all up to be (again for $300 fucking bucks I expected this thing to shit gold), but because it *is* such a comprehensive system with so many games and different *kinds* of exercises, it's something I could see myself investing in whenever I get hired on full time at the day job (that's currently being negotiated).

My First Dream in French

Or, rather, my first dream where I found myself in a French-Arab country and tried desperately to communicate in broken French.

I was with someone else, collecting all sorts of wizardly potions for some kind of ritual at this big old house and we were in the souk and found this little sort of herb shop and we needed... gawd, what was it? Nassau, nassa, something, I don't know, but they didn't have it in straight herb form so we had to order it as part of this chickpea stew.

In the dream, I forgot how to say, "I need" (j'ai besoin de) and had to use "I would like" (je voudrais), but I was terribly dissatisfied with this expression because I really did desperately need this herb for this wizardly rite, and these two guys in the back, who spoke Arabic, English, and French, quietly made fun of our paltry attempts to communicate in French.

"French isn't so hard," they said to one another, "Faim, quelque faim, it is nothing. So easy."

It wasn't until I work up that I realized the easy words they'd used to illustrate how "easy" French was were "hunger" and "some hunger."

Even in my dreams, I'm buying food and thinking about hunger. Even in foreign languages.

This doesn't surprise me, as I learned at PP that I've gained another six pounds since January. I've also started eating blueberries for breakfast instead of eggs and bacon, to cut calories, and have started drinking black coffee all morning to cut hunger. From about 9am to 7pm, except for a short hour or hour and a half after lunch, I'm hungry all day. All. Fucking. Day. And yes, I do put snacks in there: one at 10am and one at 3pm - string cheese and some carrots - just to try and cut some of that horrible hunger.

I'm hungry all the time, and seeing negative results for all that. It's enough to drive me batty. I can't fucking wait to set up this appointment with the new endocrinologist. There's some easier solution to this crap, I know.

I don't even care what language it's in.

In the Desert...

In the Desert
by Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter – bitter", he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

Heh Heh

No Wonder My Life Seems So Damn Crazy... I'm Not Making Any Money!

Occupation: First Lady

Little-known fact: most presidents since the 70s release some form of their tax returns to the public.

Here's George W. Bush's tax return for last year. I'm not terribly surprised that he somehow managed to get a refund of over $19,000 while I owed over $500 this year, but whatever.

The part that amused me, however, is that Laura Bush's occupation is listed as "First Lady."

It is, indeed, a position that requires a shitload of work. It's also an unpaid position, however. Do stay-at-home moms list their occupation as "homemaker"? I'm honestly curious.

What I Wrote Today

Morning: sample speeches about tax history

Afternoon: financial services business proposal brochure for kiosk locations

Tonight: Nyx chopping off heads

It's not a bad life.

Call For Subs

Mama Specific Productions is seeking submissions of speculative fiction stories about the future of motherhood, including science fiction, fantasy, mystery and any sub-genres. The theme is motherhood in the future. Some things to prompt or give you ideas to start with: What do you imagine the function of motherhood to be? How do you think the image of motherhood will change? How do you think the image of motherhood will stay the same? What possible customs, norms or laws will be in place in the future that would have an impact on changing or affecting mothers? How will science and technology affect pregnancy, birth, and child rearing? How might full social equality affect childcare in the home and workplace? How does a lack of social equality in a highly technological society affect pregnancy, birth, and childcare? How about in a future culture with a highly evolved social order but low technology?

Submission deadline: September 15, 2007.
Payment: $100

(thanks, Roni!)

Techie Career Flow Chart

Epiphany

When I was in the fourth grade, I had a terrible crush on a guy named Aaron.

Aaron was the realization of all of my preconceptions about what a good boy should be. He was tall and blond and blue eyed and played basketball and read Stephen King novels. My stomach twisted and my heart pounded every time I saw him. Sometimes, I couldn’t even breathe. I’d see him and try and leave the room. I’d go out of my way not to look at him. But sitting there on the other side of the classroom, seeing him out of the corner of my eye, I wanted desperately for him to want me. I wanted him to see me even though I never looked at him. I think some part of me believed that if this socially perfect person wanted me, it meant I was worth loving. It meant I was worth something.

In fact, Aaron seemed to “date” every girl in the fourth grade but me. There was a new girl he was out hand-holding with every couple of weeks. I’d go home and try and figure out what, exactly, it was about these girls that drew him to them. God knows I knew what drew them to him. What I realized is that these were perky, fun-loving, sociable girls; you know, the sort who actually *talked* to him and *looked* at him.

I was filled with a sense of despair. I would never get this guy’s attention. He didn’t even know I breathed air.

Which was why it was so strange when we were put in the same desk grouping and... he started talking to me.

We talked about Stephen King novels, which he brought to school and which were subsequently confiscated by the teacher. When he saw that the notebook I worked in all day was a writing notebook, he started talking to me about my writing. Mostly, I still did not look at him. I feared that this interest was his attempt to gain more information about me so he could use it against me in some kind of cruel playground joke. I figured he was trying to figure out if I liked him so he could shame me in front of the class.

My experiences of playground harassment primarily centered on jokes about my weight and the fact that I read too many books. I tried to avoid all of this by becoming invisible. By not looking at anyone or talking to anyone but “safe” people like my friend Matt, who also read too many books. This did not eliminate the harassment all together, but it did reduce it.

Maybe some part of me believed that if this beautiful boy wanted me, it meant people wouldn’t tease me anymore. He would wave a magic wand and cool status would magically wash over me and people would leave me alone.

Eventually, we talked even outside of class, mostly, again, about writing. I was still really confused about the attention, because he didn’t try and date me. He was still dating every other girl in the fourth grade. He showed no romantic interest at all. It was like I was invisible in some other way.
And so I pined for him, and by some stroke of fate, his mother ended up working at the same place my parents worked, and our parents became friends.

By some miraculous miracle, his family went on a vacation to Disneyworld with my family sometime later – sixth grade? When I was still hopelessly pining after him (years and years – I didn’t like anybody else until eighth grade).

But this was not the great, magical vacation I’d imagined in my romantic brain. Aaron spent most of the time talking to my younger, blond sister, and there was no deepening of conversation or talk of intimate liking. No, it was all buddy buddy ha ha stuff, and while he ran around thinking we were great buddies, I felt like I was dying.

When his parents bought a plot of land out in Camas, WA my family bid on a house just down the road from them. The owner ended up refusing our offer, and once again, my pre-adoloscent fantasy of living down the road from this guy who was my friend, who would one day just magically grow to love me because we’d live down the street and hang out all the time and go exploring the woods together and read books… that didn’t turn out either.

I switched schools in the sixth grade, and then his mother got another job, and so I didn’t see him anymore. I’d hear a thing or two, but mostly, I got wrapped up in my new life at the new school where the teasing was a lot more brutal than the school before and I had no friends, not even bookish ones like Matt, to act as buffer to the gangs of asshole boys looking for people to harass.

The funny thing is, I didn’t forget about Aaron. I wrote what amounted to Aaron fan fiction, where I had these characters based on him, and he was this stable boy and married this scullery maid who turned out to be a princess, and she was much prettier and smaller and skinnier and much more likable than me, and in that universe, everything was as it should be.

I found some other hopeless crush to pine after in the eighth grade, another physically perfect, too-popular boy, one who really didn’t know I breathed air, and I spent my time until high school pretending he was really great. It’s easy to pretend people are really great when you don’t actually know them or spend any time with them.

And still, you know, I’d listen for news of Aaron, and once we got AOL, I’d do an online search for him on occasion.

So life moved on, and I battled through highschool and my first relationship and staggered home from my attempt at living away from home in Bellingham. I dropped the weight I’d gained during my long pill-and-relationship depression and gained some self-esteem. I’d applied to the U of Alaska in Fairbanks and been accepted. I would buy my one way ticket at the end of the summer.

I was working 30-40 hours a week at the local movie theater by now, saving up for the move. It was a good job for me. I liked it. I could clean that fucking popcorn popper like nobody’s business. I worked during the midnight showings of Star Wars.

And one day I’m working at the concession stand and there’s somebody three people back in the line. I’m doing my best to concentrate on my customer, but I’d spent so many years seeing Aaron by not looking directly at him that I knew him even before someone in a shorter line called to him and said, “This line’s shorter!”

“Oh,” he said, “that’s all right. There’s an old friend here I want to talk to.”

The voice clinched it. I knew him. It was Aaron. And after, what, six, seven years, my body reacted in exactly the same way. Sick terror. Pounding heart, breathless, knees weak. I composed myself. I would not look at him. Prepare yourself, I thought. Prepare for this. Be strong and confident. Don’t let him see it.

Because if he knew, if he had any idea of my need, my desire, it meant he would know he had power over me. I hated that need. I hated wanting him to want me, especially after all this time. How could I want that? How could I want that sort of validation from somebody I didn’t even know?

I helped the next customer, and then there he was, standing in front of me after all this time. Still tall, blond, blue-eyed, beautiful.

And, I noted, now wearing glasses.

Which made him so much more incredibly hot that I nearly lost my feet right there.

Instead, the first thing out of my mouth was, “Hey there. I see you managed to acquire some dork glasses.”

This was the greeting I gave to the one guy who could make my knees weak after an absence of seven years.

He laughed and touched them, a little self-consciously. “Yeah, it was getting to be about that time.”

“I like them,” I said.

He invited me to lunch to “catch up.” He gave me his phone number.

I thought I was going to die.

We met for lunch at Shari’s, a local diner chain, and talked and caught up. He was, of course, engaged, which I noted immediately when I sat down, because he was wearing a ring (this had completely escaped me during the hasty theater meeting). He and his fiancée were going to be going to school at Washington State University in the fall. I told him I was going to Alaska. He looked wisful.

“And you still write?” he asked.

“Of course. I’ve sort of published a few things, but no books yet.”

“You will.”

“Yes.”

His father had wanted him to major in engineering, but he’d decided he wanted to be an English major.

“Where the hell did that idea come from?” I asked.

“I just had this epiphany,” he said. “I looked at my life and realized what I really wanted to do was be a teacher, teach English. I’ve always loved writing. I always admired your writing. I mean, you were always really committed to doing what you loved. I admired that.”

I raised my brows. “Wow,” I said, “you’ve learned a lot since the last time I saw you. You just used a word I don’t know.”

“Which one?”

“Epiphany,” I said.

He grinned. “You don’t know what epiphany means? It’s like a profound realization, like when you find God or something.”

Epiphany. God I could take or leave, but epiphanies, yes, I figured I’d had a few of those.

We ended up going out to dinner a few days later, and I remember how proud I felt to walk into the restaurant next to this guy, this beautiful guy, and ask for a table for two. Yes, I wanted to holler to everyone in the whole restaurant, yes, I’m with HIM! And he’s going to be an English major! And he likes me!

And, Kameron, he’s engaged, and he thinks you’re his “old friend.”

I knew that, knew all of it, of course, but those old scenerios were playing out in my head, all those old fantasies. We would sit down and get to know each other and he would realize how wonderful I was. He’d realize what a mistake he made in never dating me. He would want me. And when he wanted me, I’d be able to tell him I’d think about it, I’d…

If he ever did want me, what *would* I do?

Did I *really* want him to want me? Once he wanted me, what then?

We talked over dinner, and had one more lunch date a week later, when I purposefully dressed down and started getting pretty snarky. I don’t remember what I said, but I was starting to get a little mean, I think.

And at one point he said, “You know, during gradeschool, I always thought you put me on some kind of pedastel. I’m not this person you think I am. Sports? Sure, I played sometimes with some guys at recess, but mostly I hung out with Ned or talked to you. I wasn’t popular. I was the new kid. Didn’t you know that?”

I had to admit that I didn’t.

“I always thought of us as friends, and I always found you attractive, and maybe we would have dated, but if never happened, you know?”

Never. Happened.

No, it didn’t. But it wasn’t until later, when he had to call and cancel what would be our final scheduled lunch date because he needed to do something with his fiancee and I felt this huge wave of jealousy and anger that I realized that what I was doing to myself with this whole “let’s pretend I feel merely friendly toward you” thing was really just a big clusterfuck horrorshow.

It was like I was some kind of masochist.

I had spent the entirety of my time wanting men who didn’t want me and pushing away the ones who did want me, and even the ones who wanted me? If Aaron had broken everything off and come crawling up to me and said I was always the one, the love of his life? I would have pushed him away too. I would have pushed him away for all that unrequited bullshit playground crushing I did, all those perceived hurts I caused myself because I wouldn’t look at him, I wouldn’t talk to him, I wouldn’t wise up and find somebody worth my own love instead of sitting around waiting for somebody to find me worthy of theirs.

It wasn’t until years later, when I actually fell in love with someone and went through the whole process of desire, realization, terror, need, and finally, acceptance that I realized that this wasn’t actually what love was, this need for approval and worth paired with desire. No, that was just need and desire.

Love was something else entirely, some kind of acceptance of feeling: yours and theirs, whether or not it was requited. The first time I fell in love, it most definitely wasn’t requited, and the process of me coming to terms with that felt a hell of lot more like love than the twisted clusterfuck that was “Oh why won’t my gradeschool crush please like me for realz!”

It’s a funny thing, that terrified need. I think it’s the first step toward realizing that I’m in deep trouble. In some cases, all there’s going to be is that terrified need thing, for ever and ever – seven years and more. I’m sure if I saw Aaron today, my body would react in exactly the same way. But I no longer have that need for him to find me worthy, to desire me, because I know that even if he did, there was no future in it. There was and never will be an “us.”

There’s an episode of “Rome” where one of the soldiers says he wants his wife to love him not because he loves her but because if he loves her and she does not love him, it makes him her slave.

I think sometimes it can feel like that.

That unrequited crush of mine? He and I are still friends. I still care deeply about him. The feelings don’t go away; they’re just warm and cozy now; no longer needful or terrified. I learned to accept it a long time ago.

It’s the terrified need you get when you’re about to fall. It’s up to you to decide if you want to continue to stay needy and terrified, avoid the object of your affection entirely, or fall.

It’s your call.

Today, I had an epiphany.

Lyric of the Day

"The beer tastes like blood."

There's so much I could do with that....

It's nights like these that make me sleep all day
It's nights like these that make you feel so far away
It's nights like these when nothing is for sure
It's nights like these I don't want you anymore

And I've only got this one wish
That I was good enough to make you forget
The only boy who ever broke your heart
Cause nights like these tear me apart

It's nights like these the sad songs don't help
It's nights like these your heart's with someone else
It's nights like these I feel like giving up
It's nights like these I don't seem to count for much

The beer tastes like blood and my mouth is numb
I can't make the words I need to say
She had a weakness for writers
And I was never that good at the words anyways

And... One for the Road

Dolls Can't Love You. But Then, if Real Folks Can't Either...

FOR SERIOUS.

Dolls can't love you, people.

But you can, indeed, love them.

What I loved about Dradin, in Love of course, is that the protagonist realizes that this is, indeed, exactly the way he wants it. Not everybody actually wants a relationship with people. Not everyone should have a relationship with real people. And that's totally cool.

The thing here bothers me in a "oh sweet fucking jesus" sense here is that, I think, some of these men really do think their dolls are real women.

And that's really scary.

And the more I watch this thing, the sadder it is. The misconceptions people have about people. How people are just out to hurt you. How women are completely unknowable creatures. How loving things is so much easier than loving people. It's so deeply sad. It makes my heart hurt.

Misc.

God DAMN I Love it When My Healthcare Provider Doesn't Suck!

This is another TMI IUD post. I write about my experiences with the IUD here because it's been really difficult for me to find fuck-all first-hand information about it, and I figure I'm doing a public service to other women interested in the option, though my results may no longer be typical since the whole diabetes thing.

That said, I do realize that I am, increasingly, actually meeting and interacting with the people who read this blog, and if you're not terribly down with knowing all about my plumbing and health issues and then conversing merrily with me in person, I do advise you to skip these posts.

So, disclaimer done.

____________________________________

The PP in downtown Dayton is open from noon to 7pm, which means I got to head in right after work.

I love PP. Have I told everyone how much I love PP? It's why I'm still going there at 27. OK, and because I'm poor. But goddamn, they treat me like a fucking human being there, and they know what the fuck they're doing and they do it for $89.

After a short wait, the gyno and I sat down and discussed my contraceptive and general medical history.

I explained that I'd moved to the IUD because I had a seriously bad reaction to hormonal forms of birth control. I had severe depression (of the "I can barely force myself out of bed" type) and serious weight gain (50-70 lbs. Seriously).

"If it has to come out," I said, "it has to come out, but if that's so then I really need to discuss other forms of birth control, because diaphragms and other barrier methods don't work well for women in my family either."

"Believe it or not," she said, "IUDs are actually great forms of birth control for diabetics. There aren't any hormones involved, so you don't have to deal with controlling your sugar in response to insulin resistence, and I know you're concerned about infections, but there generally isn't too much more problem with diabetics and infection with IUDs than non-diabetics. We're just more likely to give you antibiotics at the first sign or suspicion of something."

I explained that the pain was primarily on the left side, always had been, and that though Sat and Sun were bloody awful, I was actually feeling a lot better yesterday and today.

"One side?" she said. "A dull ache?"

"Yes," I said.

"Persistent?"

"Yes."

She peered up at me. "You have facial hair?"

I knew then that I'd seriously done my homework, because I was prepared for this question. I knew exactly what she was thinking.

"Yes," I said.

Nair has been my best friend since puberty.

"And you put on weight easily?"

Is that a serious question? "It's been scary how fast I've gained weight since I got out of the hospital. I've always put on weight easily."

"Ovarian cysts," she said.

"That's totally what I was thinking, too!" I said.

I think I actually sounded excited. When you've been in pain and somebody finally gives you something real to point to, it's really exciting.

"Nobody's ever tested you for them before?"

"No."

"Never?"

"It's never come up. If I ever had any pain, I'd just shrug it off as cramps. But before the IUD I didn't really have many cramps. Every once in a while I'd have a morning of pretty bad pain, but only a couple times a year."

Oh, hell.

"But how come it was so painful for a few does and now I feel better?" I asked.

"They sometimes burst, and there's pain for a few days, and then they heal up. I bet it's not the IUD at all. Let's have a look."

So she had a look and did a swab and did all the standard belly-pressing as hard as she could.

"If it was the IUD, you'd have jumped right off the table when I pressed your belly like that," she said, "Or I would have felt it working its way out, but the string's in place, nice and high, and there's no tail end working its way out."

It wasn't the IUD. She was putting money on the cysts.

"You have a couple options," she said, "you could wait for it to bother you again and go in and have an ultrasound - it might not happen again - or you could just go in now and have an ultrasound. I'm thinking you might want the ultrasound just for peace of mind."

"If they find cysts, can they do anything?"

"Standard treatment is to put you on the pill or give you hormones - Depo or something like that, but since you've had such a rough time on them, it might be a matter of just taking some extra pain pills when you have an episode."

"I'll do the ultrasound," I said. "I want to know."

She went out to put the swab under the microscope and get me the referral forms for Miami Dade hospital.

When she came back, she said exactly what the PP gyno said to be back in November during my pap, "You know? You have a few too many white blood cells here for my comfort. I'm going to give you some antibiotics. It's our general cure all. When I get a diabetic in, I tend to err on the side of caution."

"Goddammit," I said. "Those people in the ER said I was fine." So I had, indeed, knocked something about during that MA class. But it wasn't the cause of all my pain.

But she was giving me some drugs! Yay!

So I walked out with what I wanted: antibiotics, and what I needed: a pretty likely answer to the startling pain on Sat and Sun that had gradually gotten worse over several days and has subsequently and just as gradually gotten better.

I'll be calling the hospital to set up the ultrasound for either next week or the week after - I need to doublecheck the date for when my crap insurance kicks in. I can get them to pay for at least half of it. The ultrasound, she warned me, may not find anything at all by that point - it's possible the cyst will have already burst and healed completely - but nothing would also mean absolute proof-positive that the IUD hasn't gnawed any holes in me, either.

I can't tell you how amazing it felt to actually get what I needed: to have somebody actually take the pain seriously and think it all through and talk it over with me. And, like the diabetes diagnosis, it links up a lot of other little annoying things with something bigger and makes them all make sense.

It was just what I needed.

We'll see how the ultrasound goes.

Quote of the Day

From the gyno at PP: "Going to the ER as a woman with pelvic pain is like showing up at Planned Parenthood with a heart attack. They might understand there's a problem, but they're not really knowledgeable or equipped enough to do anything useful about it."

Ain't that the truth.

How Did I Overdraw My Account Again?

I am just that talented.

Black Desert: Plot

I love that I have to get 200 pages into a novel before I figure out what the fuck the plot is.

Splenda Carcinogens!

I was in the breakroom this morning dumping Splenda into my coffee, and one my coworkers said, "Ah, another one who takes a little coffee with their sugar."

"Oh yeah," I said. "I once went out to coffee with a friend who wanted to try the roast I was using, and when she took a sip, made a face and said, `all I can taste is Splenda!'"

To which the woman replied, quite seriously: "Yes, there was another person who used to work here like that. He'd put four or five of those Splendas in there and I was like, `my God, do you realize the amount of carcinogens you're putting into your body?"

I did not tell her that those were studies about saccharin (which is found to cause cancer in rats when you feed them a steady diet consisting of nothing but saccharin for years) that she was thinking of, not Splenda. I merely said, "Oh yes. It's wonderful" and went back to my office.

You know what causes cancer?

Breathing air in Los Angeles.

Coffee!

Tampons!

Drinking out of plastic bottles that have been put in the freezer!

Spinning in circles under the full moon!

I hate to break this to everybody, but eventually, we all die die. We will die of all sorts of things. Most likely, we will die of things we can't control, like chronic illness, car crashes, and Getting Old.

Call me crazy and unAmerican, but I sincerely doubt that my ultimate demise will be the result of a buildup of "Splenda carcinogens."

Le Temps du Lupe

A family adapts to life in post-apocalyptic France in this intense drama, which follows Anne (Isabelle Huppert) and her family as they arrive at their country home to find the world has undergone a catastrophic event, and utter chaos reigns.

SWEET. I have found a movie to keep me and my cheeses company tonight.

Mmmmmm Health (another IUD Post)

This is another TMI IUD post. I write about my experiences with the IUD here because it's been really difficult for me to find fuck-all first-hand information about it, and I figure I'm doing a public service to other women interested in the option, though my results may no longer be typical since the whole diabetes thing.

That said, I do realize that I am, increasingly, actually meeting and interacting with the people who read this blog, and if you're not terribly down with knowing all about my plumbing and health issues and then conversing merrily with me in person, I do advise you to skip these posts.

So, disclaimer done.

---------------------------------

You know, as lovely as it is to go to the ER and have somebody tell you you're "fine," I just don't trust it anymore.

So, as you'll recall, a few weeks ago I got a knee to the gut during Muay Thai class that resulted in pretty sharp pain right there where my IUD is at its worst on my left hand side. I waited a week for that to settle down, then had my period, but over the last week since my period, the pain hasn't been getting any better, as expected. If anything, it's gotten more uncomfortable.

Now that I've got the diabetes, I don't heal as well, and I suspected I had probably knocked something badly that would have healed fine in a normal person but that was getting real gunky in a diabetic.

Last night I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep because of the IUD pain, and then I woke up at 3am with... IUD pain, and resolved that I would go to the ER first thing in the morning. As I've said, the pain's been getting worse instead of better, and Sat was bad and Sunday was worse. It's not constant, but it's persistent, and I'm eating Motrin like candy.

I made it through about four hours of work before I packed it in and took the bus over to the ER and explained the problems and pain I've been having. It was actually a very nice, efficiently run hospital. I was in the back in half an hour and saw a doctor in 45 minutes, but after that, things started to get dodgy.

Everyone seemed very perplexed about my problem.

"Shouldn't you see a gynecologist?" they asked.

Um. Well, I explained, I have an appointment on Wednesday, but with symptoms like these, the gyno said that I should come into the ER.

"Um, OK, we'll look at it, but if there's something wrong with it, we can't take it out."

I didn't have a fever, and they were expecting to find upper abdominal pain, but I don't have that, I have lower abdominal pain. Which they found Even More Perplexing. I do love that they have no Imagination whatsoever, because there are about half a dozen Very Bad Things I could think of this being a symptom for, but they were just Perplexed.

I told them it was totally fine for them not to take it out, but I'd like to get confirmed that I had an infection, because I figured they could just confirm that, and get me on a cycle of antibiotics, just as was done in November, and I could be in less pain and could sleep and sit for long periods without pain and not toss and turn for an hour in bed nor have sharp, shooting pains when sitting or stretching in certain positions.

Really, I'm terribly demanding. Life, Liberty, pusuit of happiness and all that.

So, of course, I had to pee in a cup so they could test me for the TWENTY MILLIONTH TIME FOR gonorrhea and chlamydia.

So they had a look and said well, yeah, your cervix is a little red and irritated, but really, the discharge here just looks like something from the tail-end of your period (which ENDED 10 DAYS AGO). We'll take a look at this under a slide.

And I'm thinking, great! They'll find the presence of white blood cells, which is what clued off the gyno in November who gave me meds for this exact sort of thing: just a localized infection caused by irritation of the uterus by the IUD.

But instead the friendly nurse came back in and said everything looked fine! Yep, everything is fine and normal and there's nothing wrong, but the doctor says you'll likely want to keep that gyno appointment on Wednesday because you never know!

W.T.F.??

"So there was no infection? I'm not getting prescribed any antibiotics?"

"No, no infection. And we're running those STD tests, but honestly, there wasn't anything indicating you've got any of that either."

Well, no. I have only been tested for those TWENTY MILLION TIMES.

"I'm sorry," I said. "So you're not giving me any drugs?"

"Nope, it all looks fine."

"Then why am I having persistent pain?"

"Honestly, we don't know a lot about IUDs here, so maybe Planned Parenthood will know something else."

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

IF YOU KNOW YOU CAN'T FUCKING HELP ME PLEASE DO NOT WASTE THREE HOURS OF MY TIME AND CHARGE ME GOBS OF MONEY AND CAUSE ME TO LOSE FOUR HOURS OF PAID WORK TIME TO TELL ME YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHY I AM IN PAIN AND CAN DO NOTHING TO HELP ME.

I spent over three hours of my day and fuck alone knows how much money (easily $500, I'm sure, since they had to get me up on the table) so you could tell me I'm FINE?

It's so hilarious, too, you know, cause I've been trying so hard to be better about my health, and to ask for help when I know something's wrong, and the thing is, I keep expecting somebody's just going to *know.* Some doctor will actually know something about some aspect of my health care issues, and voila! I will feel better.

It's really frustrating to feel like you're doing everything right and have the whole thing come to nothing. And it makes me even more angry because this is what happened to me last time. I kept going to doctors and saying, "Hey, yo, all these yeast infections! And I'm tired and getting sick all the time!" and everyone just looked Really Perplexed. And then I went into a coma and spent four days in the hospital.

But at least those people fucking gave me drugs.

And, in general, I didn't feel as if I was "inconveniencing" anyone by showing upat the ER with something I should "see a gynecologist" for (um, hello, the gyno says to see you with this if I can't get an appointment!). But they did seem pretty put out.

So it's Motrin for another two days and then a Weds PP appointment.

For fuck's sake.

You know what I can't wait for? I can't wait until all the fallout from me getting this illness is just done. And maybe, you know, it won't ever be, but I feel like at some point I'll have enough experience with it that *I* can at least peg things. I'll get a good enough regular doctor that I can actually have fewer issues, and I'll know how everything interacts with everything else and... someday, I'll be able to fly!

And, you know, all that.

What I'm actually starting to suspect is that I may have started developing those benign ovarian cysts - fibroids. All the women in my family have them, and I often forget that I am, indeed "getting older." Growing fibroids + IUD = persistent lower abdominal pain.

I'll have to have the PP people do some kind of ultrasound. Oh, that's going to be lovely expensive.

Mmmm health.

I'm telling you: health is tasty.

Diabetes Tote Bag

As clever as this thing is, I have such affection for my dragonfly bag and separate laptop bag... plus, you know, it's not like I'm carrying around my laptop everywhere, whereas I generally carry my insulin around everywhere; it just makes more sense for me to carry it in a purse, and being able to easily transfer everything from a purse to a backpack to a laptop bag is pretty handy.

I guess the diabetes bag part does come out, but it still looks bulky, and again, you're still stuck with just one design.



But, then, I think I'm just terribly proud of my custom diabetes carrying case. Perhaps what everyone needs is a nice portable one of these creations, paired with my red Frio insulated bag for keeping up to four vials of insulin cool, as shown here (a lovely copy of Air included as a size reference)








It fits quite neatly into my dragonfly bag.




And I can carry it around everywhere... from Spain to Switzerland to Morocco to... Dayton, OH.

Where the Fuck is Last Week's Paycheck? No, it Still Fucking Isn't Here

I think it's time to pack this day in and go to bed. Or write something really bloody.

Oh Boy!

Today is going to be fun.

Debunking Third-World Myths

With stats and neat graphics!

French Movies that Don't Suck

Inch'Allah Dimache. This one's about an Algerian woman and her children who rejoin her husband in France in the early 70s when the north Africans who've come over to work are finally allowed to bring thier families over. The language moves from Arabic to French and back again, and they do some great things with the wife, Zouina, using French more and more instead of Arabic as she makes her decision to try and assimilate.

She spends much of the movie - the Sundays her husband and mother-in-law are away - to look for the only other Algerian family in the neighborhood because she and her children would like someone to spend the holiday of Aid with. What she finds is a woman who's lived in France for the last 15 years, still primarily speaks Arabic, and calls her shameful for listening to the radio and kicks her out of her house for sneaking around without her husband's permission.

Both women are servants, kept subserviant by tradition and religion, and dying a little inside every time they try to break away. Mikkala, the second woman, throws Zouina out of her house when she realizes Zouina has not told her husband of their meeting and is going about in public without him, and as Zouina sobs and grieves outside, there's a shot of Mikkala, too, on the other side of the door, pounding her chest and grieving.

Zouina's husband does beat her, but he does so in ways and for reasons that are completely supported by Islam. He does not beat her excessively, without reason, and he is genuinely good man concerned about his children. His actions are all very much supported by even liberal readings of the Koran. Everyone acts within the traditions they've been brought up in (the mother-in-law is the only one that sticks out as a real stereotype as the overbearing mother-in-law vying with her daughter-in-law for her son's affection). As Zouina makes non-Algierian friends, there's talk of "that book by the French woman with sex in the title," and how maybe being divorced is better than having your body owned by someone else, but this movie doesn't turn out quite the way I thought it would, and it's all the better for it, because it's far more believable than the ending I would have written...

It's a film that speaks to something that Ayaan Hirsi Ali talks about in her book Infidel, as well: there are two kinds of immigrants, the kind who take the good things from both of their cultures and make them work, as Zouina is doing (but certainly not without huge amounts of grief and loss), and the kind who try and insulate themselves as much as possible from the culture of the country they're living in and refuse to learn the lanaguage, adapt to the customs (and I mean "customs" like a woman going out to buy groceries on her own), and continue to live in a bubble.

Nobody's life here - Mikkala's or Zouina's or even the native-born French woman's next door - is presented as the happiest, best sort of life, but they do present a variety of choices for how we live our lives, and some of the harsh realities we have to deal with if we want to change our lives.

Creepy European Movies

Netflix has this great thing where, in addition to your snail-mail movies, you can choose 14 hours of free movies a month to watch on your PC. They tend to be older movies and/or B movies, but there's some decent stuff on there and a few classics.

Since I've been working on my French a lot more lately, I decided to use this feature to watch French movies, and the first one I picked was "Une femme de menage" (The Housekeeper).

What's up with this weird male fantasy of having sex with your housekeeper? I mean, I might make a joke about how nice it would be to have a young guy named Enrique clean the house topless, but I don't really mean that. Forming a relationship with my housekeeper isn't something I find terribly sexually appealing. When I look for relationships, I look for people I respect and admire and who I can talk to about stuff we both find interesting, you know, somebody you could actually partner up with; somebody cool. A housekeeper who never talks to me, has nothing in common with me and has boredom sex with me just doesn't sound all that sexy, so matter how physically attractive the rest of the world says they are.

See, the perfect marriage-type situation, for me, isn't being with somebody who cleans my house, makes me dinner, initiates no-strings-attached sex, and is so much younger than me that we have nothing in common and they need me around to take care of them. This is only the perfect living situatino if you're looking for a slave.

In the end, the housekeeper initiates the sex, cleans the house, and then when they go on a long vacation, ends up leaving him for another man (who happens to be her own age). She does go so far as to rebel against the idea of going back to Paris after the holiday because, "In Paris I'm just your housekeeper."

Well, yeah, a beach loving sugar daddy sounds great to me, too, if the alternative is life as a housekeeper and boredom sex in Paris.

But of course, our hero doesn't say, "Of course, you didn't want to be my slave in Paris," or even, "Yes, you probably have more in common with someone your own age," (because him and this housekeepr have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING IN COMMON BUT LONELINESS AND NEVER TALK TO EACH OTHER). Instead, he says, "Oh, he's young." Well, YES, he's young. But you two don't even like the same music. The most she has going for her in your eyes is that she cleans your house and has sex with you and likes to pretend you're married and you get off on having somebody like you that much. You don't even love her.

In the end, the point seems to have been that she was using him for a meal ticket and is now dating someone her own age, and he is old and alone, but it serves him right because it's his fate to be old and alone. What I find even more funny is that somebody categorized this movie as a "comedy/drama/romance."

I think this movie was confused about what it wanted to be, too.

And maybe that was the whole point: both people are kind of selfish and lonely and know what they're getting into but try and pretend it's more than it really is because it makes them feel better, and then they try and act suprised when it all falls apart because really, if you're in love, aren't you supposed to be surprised when it ends? But they aren't, and it isn't, and then the guy nearly drowns in the ocean right before the credits roll and somebody mistakes the woman for his daughter - the movie seems to say: ah, yes, all is as it should be!

I did not feel particularly sorry for either of them.

Help La Gringa Pay Rent!

La Gringa is a hardworking woman in the SF/F publishing industry who's been through a disastrous run of bad luck at various SF/F publishing houses and has been laid off and then laid off again for well over a year. Money's been running out for ages, she also has various medical bills to pay, and she has FINALLY asked the blogsphere for some dough to help make it through this month.

She's in NYC and rent ain't cheap, so please help her out. Ya'll know the extent of my financial situation, and I sent her some $$, people. Every dollar helps.

(c'mon, if ya'll can send Ben Burgis to Clarion and John Scalzi to the Creation Museum, you can help La Gringa pay rent)

Gracias!

SOMEDAY I WILL MARRY THIS MAN OH YES

My gawd. It's serious secret boyfriend status now.

One for the Road

The Best License Plate Ever
Originally uploaded by andycarvin

Be Happy I Am Shittily Insured

It's open enrollment time with the temp agency, and I went ahead and signed up for their shitty temp employee insurance that, of course, doesn't cover "pre-existing conditions."

What it will cover (up to $7500 and only 50% of costs out-of-network ha ha haha ha) is half a broken leg, me getting punched in the face during class, broken fingers, antibotics, and me getting hit by a car on my bike (up to $7500 and only 50% of costs out-of-network ha ha haha ha).

It's the worst insurance in the whole world, almost like not having insurance, but it's better than saying, "I don't have insurance."

So in addition to that $200 a month in meds, I will now pay $100 in medical "insurance" that only insures me against falling off my bike.

Why did I do this again?

Oh, yeah, cause I don't trust my luck anymore.

EDIT: It just occurred to me that medical costs now offically make up nearly a quarter of my monthly income.

I'll Answer to Just About Anything

One of the most entertaining things about starting any new job is how many different names I get called called during the course of any given week.

I've been called "Carmen," "Karsten," "Candice," and "Carmel."

I was identified in today's meeting minutes as "Karen."

And, of course, most days I'm just, "The Writer."

Man, I still get a kick out of that.

Tonight's Number:

317

Yeah. It's time to change out that insulin.

The Cost of Living

I finally broke down yesterday and went to the pharmacy to pick up a couple more bottles of insulin. I've been using the ones I have now since, well, Spain, and a bottle of insulin is only actually "good" for about 30 days after you open it.

Yes, I've been using my insulin two months past the expiration date.

I suspect that my two episodes of "dangerously low sugar after 30 minutes" were probably caused by using "old" insulin. Over time, when exposed to heat and air, the chemical composition of the insulin breaks down, and it starts losing its effectiveness and performing erratically.

I expect to get a lot of shit when I mention this to people. Stephanie was horrified when she realized I'd been using two-months-expired insulin. Then I brought home my two new bottles and two containers of testing strips, set the four small containers on the counter and said, "That's $255 in meds right there."

I make $385 a week.

When the pharmacy tech rang me up, I was a little breathless at the cost, and nearly quipped off something like, "Well, being 15K in credit card debt beats being dead," but kept my mouth shut when I remembered how annoying it was as a customer service rep to get these snapshots of so many people's complicated lives - I had enough on my plate.

So I bit my tongue and paid the piper and yay, whiz, bang! I'll live another few months.

Some diabetes blog I was reading pointed to a blogger who was writing about how we should just let people with chronic illnesses die because they're sucking off the system and using up time and resources. It was a funny thing to read about some random person who wanted me dead because I was "sucking off" society. Kind of hard to do when I'm paying taxes and paying for my own meds, but hey. I'd argue that we're making pharmacuetical companies rich and giving jobs to pharmacists and pharmacy techs and dying thousands of dollars in debt to credit card companies long after we've already paid off the actual balance; all that interest adds up, and I'm sure by the time we kick off, we'll have already been hard into the interests payments, which I'm sure the credit card company will write off anyway (in fact, the only people losing money in the healthcare industry are... the people being treated. But keep blaming all us disease-ridden chronic folk for breathing, if it makes you feel better about being screwed over, too).

It was a such a weird thing to get hit upside the head with this thing right in the middle of... everything. Of life. Of living. It's like you're going along, building this life just the way you planned, doing all the right things, on all the right roads, and then it's like somebody knocked you upside the head witha shovel, pulled the rug out from under you, and you hit the ground hard and realized things - if you want to continue - are going to be a lot harder than you thought they would be.

Life isn't exactly all that easy to begin with. Mine's just a little harder. And more expensive. Living is really expensive.

But I still have this road I want to go down, this life I want to live. And it's funny to have this extra time, as much as I can squeeze out of an insulin bottle, in any case. I keep coming back to it and I keep on squeezing it because I have such a passionate desire to succeed at all of these things, to die old and satiated. I have too many desires. I want too much. But all that desire means I'm willing to do a lot of things to get there, one bottle at a time.

But I Have 15K in Credit Card Debt!

$5700.00The Cadaver Calculator - Find out how much your body is worth

Man, I'm never going to break even!

A Day in Columbus

OK, the rest of Ohio isn't nearly as depressing as Dayton. Maybe Dayton just isn't my kind of town. I'm thinking it's the whole "few to no jobs" and "what jobs there are pay crap" thing.

But honestly, Columbus just has a far better feel. And I'm *sure* it's not just because it's packed with cologne-wearing college boys. Not at all. I mean, they all dress and sound alike, which is pretty much the most unattractive thing in the whole world.

Sure are pretty, tho.

Um, did I say that out loud?

Which probably also says something about my actual problem with Dayton.

We went to The Book Loft in the German Village (I could totally live here!) and tried to get to the only ethiopean restaurant in town, but it was fucking closed.

Like they knew we were coming.

Bastards.

Babylon 5: A Call to Arms

Sweet holy mother of gawd, how does Straczynski write this crap with a straight face?

EDIT: OMG he was a staff writer for Shee-ra Princess of Power! OMG! OMG! I think I have a secret fear that after a decade or two of writing with complete abandon, without being critiqued by friends and fellow writers and ceasing to listen to the sticky Voice of Reason that reminds me all of my kewl Epic Fantasy thoughts are not New and Shiny pots of gold, I will end up writing just like him. "They said Exacalibur would return during man's darkest hour..." oh sweet GAWD.

An Open Letter to Myself

Dear self,

The Nyx books ARE NOT EPIC FANTASY.

This means that you CANNOT WRITE A FUCKING PROLOGUE FOR BLACK DESERT.

That is all, thnx.

EDIT LATER: I've just realized that Black Desert really is THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK of the series. I can't tell you how happy this makes me. I promise, tho - no Ewoks in number 3. I am now going to go and put this not-prologue back into the book.

And I Go Swimming.... In a Swimsuit!

Fat Rant.

(and, just for shits and giggles, she has a funny little nerd-girl timetraveling video, too)

Being a Journalist

Fuck Yeah.

Speaking of Kicking It....

I was so proud of myself last week! Hardly sore at all after class! I mean, after two days of not being able to walk after my first MA class, the fact that I could get around without much soreness after my second class felt great!

And then I had that third class, where we literally spent over an hour on kicking drills and then when we moved to doing combinations, because this is Muay Thai, the combinations involved - you guessed it - punching and more kicking.

Oddly enough, I didn't start to really feel it until last night, when my hips started to hurt and I realized I was having trouble getting up out of chairs. This morning when I got up, I actually physically pulled my left leg out of bed. You know, just to help it a little.

Oh man. The left leg is in the worst shape, of course. Not my calves, mind, just the hips. It was the calves that killed me after the first class (that's what 10 minutes of jumping jacks will do), but nearly two hours of class, with all those damned kicking drills... it's the hips that are killing me.

Boy, I love being back at this.

Today's Song, Stuck on Repeat

Matthew Ryan, "Return to Me." (no, no reason for the melancholy song. It just sounds so pretty. Also, this guy has a really sexy voice)

slowly walking down the street
where the homeless and the lovers meet
i bask in ol' blue
your skin does too
i saw the garland
in the skyline
in the byline

i took a drink
i took the pills
you'll murder me i know you will
some wish that i could change this
that you were hopin'
i keep hopin'
for a cure
for some medicine
just one conversation

*I can't return to you
you must return to me
that's the deal
i'm sorry
did i say i'm sorry (sorry)

in a universe where i was flat
you hunkered down and lived the past
you're leaving soon
it's 10 til noon
i see a black car
i'm movin through time
when will we part

i have been the worst of kinds
a sorrowed heart
a cluttered mind
and i'm thinkin' that i could change this
that i could change this
but i can't change this

*I can't return to you
you must return to me
that's the deal
i'm sorry
did i say i'm sorry
i'm sorry
i'm sorry now

*I can't return to you
you must return to me
that's the deal
i'm sorry
did i say i'm sorry
i'm sorry
i'm sorry now
did i say i'm sorry
did i say i miss you
i'll do what i have to do
(i say i miss you)
(i miss you)
(i'll do what i have to do)

Children of Men

Wow.

What a boring, pointless, terrible movie.

Tired

OK, monthly blood loss + MA class + another bizarre half-hour-after-eating low this morning of 29 = much tiredness.

Tonight it's lying in bed reading books and watching some shows, and tomorrow, it's pancakes and writing.

That's sounds about right.

Sugar Before Bed: 95

After a two hour MA class.

I am a minor god.

Kick It (Redux)

Since there was a big thunderstorm about the time I usually head to MA class and Steph was home early, she went ahead and drove me out to class. I changed into MA clothes while I was there, but since we got out late, jumped outside after class without changing back into my street clothes and hopped into the car.

Stephanie looked over at my shirt. "`When I See Something I Kick It'?" she inquired, as if I had chosen this shirt myself.

"We all wear them!" I enthused. "It's our uniform!"

"Oh you're kidding me."

"IT IS GREAT!!!!!"

"So you want me to take a picture for your blog?"

"Eh, maybe when I'm in better shape."

"It can be a `before' picture."

I thought that over. "We'll see," I said.

Until then:

Kick it.

Dinner at Applebee's with White Supremicists!

One of the best titles ever, for sure. And it gets better.

"This is our music magazine," racist Kevin interrupts, laying on the Applebee's table a publication that would look like any other indie/hipster music magazine, except that the music it's writing about glorifies Germany's Third Reich and denigrates blacks and Jews.

"We also have a record company," Kevin boasts, in a manner that seems to say, "Even though we're white supremacists, that doesn't mean we can't ROCK!" "We have over 750 CD titles."

OK, For Serious

Honestly, whoever this guy is who writes Dinosaur Comics?

Rapidly on his way to becoming my next Secret Boyfriend.

Here, yes. But most definately HERE.

OK, well, everywhere really.

The Song that Finally Made me Sign up For iTunes

I was listening to Whiskey from a Wire at work today (on headphones of course), and this song came on.

I was suddenly so utterly and completely distracted that I uploaded two copies of the document I was uploading - three times.

Three times, people.

The fact that the acrobatics described in this song assume a female partner didn't even give me pause. In my happy either/or world, I could make most of that work with either partner, which I am bound to do because thinking about sex these days generally puts me in mind of... well. Anyway.

Damn, that's a sexy song.

OK, maybe I've just been thinking too much about sex lately.

Or, more than usual.

I mean, it's less than all the time.

Usually.

That is a sexy fucking song.

Happy.

I am happy.

Real Life!

It All Looks the Same...

Netflix is Here!

One of the things I decided to do to cut down on the cost of going out to shows is... umm... to get Netflix instead :0

One of the things I miss most about life in Chicago is sitting around on the couch with on the weekends eating pancakes and watching our Netflix shows. We'd just started watching "Rome" when I left, and I'd like to watch the rest of it.

The first couple weeks are free, and complementing this weekend's pancakes will be...

Children of Men!

And for tonight's workout, I'll watch the next episode of Rome...

Most excellent.

Oh Dear...

I think I'm writing about my first non-dysfunctional couple!

How quaint!

And holy crap! I don't think I have any idea how to do this!

The Origins of "OK"

So if OK stands for "all correct," wouldn't it be "AC"? Not exactly, says linguist Erin McKean, who points out that the word was intentionally misspelled. Much like the way people on the Internet shorten or abbreviate words when typing, OK was misspelled on purpose.

"For instance, a lot of kids online spell "cool," "k-e-w-l," says McKean, senior editor for U.S. dictionaries at Oxford Press. "They know how to spell cool, but it just looks cooler to spell it "k-e-w-l."

It was cool in certain East Coast cities in the mid-19th century to substitute OK for "all correct." McKean says it was common for people of that day to use inside lingo -- shorthand full of puns, purposeful misspellings and abbreviations. For example, they'd use "SP" for "small potatoes," or "TBFTB" for "too big for their britches."

Way Kewler, Tho

What Price

I guess you're worth more before you're born into sin.

Being a woman is like being 3/4 of a real person. I mean, a potential person.

We're not worth much.