October 31, 2006

Something Had to Give.

It turned out to be sleep—at least, attempting to sleep on any kind of a schedule. I got most of the way through cleaning out my side of the garage yesterday. Enough so that the gutter-hanging people can come by at 7:30 a.m. and hang gutters. Meanwhile, the VVA will be picking up a bunch of our junk, and I shall schlep the rest of it to storage. Then we hand out candy.

The painters are coming on Friday, so there's plenty to be done before then. And we have a bunch of work to do on finances. I'm down with all this, but I've told Attila the Hub he may not see my manuscript until Thursday; that's the way it goes.

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October 24, 2006

When Passive-Aggressives Collide . . .

I decided I was sort-of mad at my husband today, so I played Elvis Costello really loud and puttered around the house and almost-ignored Attila the Hub. I did everything, in short, that I could do to be hostile without sacrificing my plausible deniability. He just shut the door to his office, and ignored me right back.
Finally he came upstairs. I was cool as a cucumber. He made a funny joke.
"I see what you're trying to do," I told him. "And it isn't going to work."
"No?" he asked.
I kissed him really hard right then.
"Boy," he remarked. "Have I learned my lesson."

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October 21, 2006

Hell Week Is Almost Over.

So today is the end of it: the newsletter is out, and the office is running almost-smoothly. The Board Meeting is at 9:00 a.m. on the Westside, and then we have a general meeting at 11:00 that goes on until 12:30. I plan to escape at 1:00 sharp, when the office closes, and that will be that. Off to a wedding I go, and the nonprofit can survive for a few days without me.

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October 15, 2006

You Know . . .

I'm pretty damned happy right now. This despite the fact that I only have two weeks to finish the manuscript in: I've told my husband I'll be printing out my rough draft for his review on November first. (He gets the "dirty" version—the one that has all my notes to myself in each chapter file about things I'd like to check on, transitions I intend to tweak, and the like.)

What one cannot do: let the whiny voice win. That's the one in the back of one's brain that says, "awww, I don't want to work on that scene." Of course I want to. I just may not want my writing teacher to read it quite yet.

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October 13, 2006

At Writer's Group

The Knitting Mafia is there, which isn't unusual. So the subject of yarn crafts comes up, as it does every now and then.

I point out that I could knit fine as a child, but my stitches were very uneven; they varied with my mood.

"Don't knit when you're angry," one woman tells me.

"And don't knit when you've had wine," another one adds.

When, then, can one knit? I'm angry 90% of the time; the other 10%, I've had wine.

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October 09, 2006

The Reverend Mac Dazzle

brags that he's reading his computer screen from halfway across the room.

"You know," he tells me, "you can do that when you've had Lasik surgery."

"Yes," I tell him. "But then you don't get to wear glasses."

He laughs. "Don't accentuate the negative that way. Try to stay positive."

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October 08, 2006

You Know What's Terrific About Middle Age?

I will tell you: never knowing, when you use an extremity—an arm, say, or a foot—when you will strain some muscle or tendon and be in pain for a week for seemingly no reason.

I ought to find a yoga studio, while I still have a teensy bit of flexibility left.

It's not so much the level of suckage now, but rather fear of how bad it could get, given that I'm planning on living until I'm 105. (Now that I come to think about it, I may want to revise that number downward.) I just hope the painkillers will be plentiful and plenty butch by that point.

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October 06, 2006

"Where Are You Going?"

I ask Attila the Hub.

"To the gym."

I look up from my laptop. "You're doing that to show me up, aren't you? Just trying to annoy me?"

"Oh, no," he reassures me. "I'm doing it because I want to. If it bothers you, that's just a value-added kind of thing."

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October 03, 2006

"You Leave Him Alone,"

B admonishes.
"I haven't done anything," I squeal.
"But you've thought about it."
"I don't think about things. I barely noticed he was a cute young redhead."
B. looks at me. "Joy, he's like 12 years old."
"More like 22. But who's keeping track?"
"Anyway, I just don't see the attraction. The kid talks too much."
"Verbal is good. Verbal rox. But you know, I think I could get him to shut up for a while."
"I'll bet you could, you dirty old lady."

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