November 07, 2006

The Dictatorial Gene

Friday night my husband was out of town. I found myself on the Westside, so I crashed on my mother's couch. Pretty uneventful, except that she was weirdly thrilled to make up the couch as a bed, and her dog is not (contra what I was told) completely out of heat. Of course, homoerotic inter-species advances from pit bulls are about as subtle as those from 17-year-old human males. Word.

In the morning I half awoke and listened to my mother puttering around and making the strangest noises—not a hum, just a sort of "hm" noise, over and over. How annoying, I thought. Several hours later, I realized I do it myself.

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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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September 25, 2006

Still Depressed.

Or perhaps unhappy. I think I'm a bit low on estrogen right now.

Also, I'm drinking diet fucking tonic water with a wedge of lime: no sugar, no alcohol, no caffeine. No fucking good, really.

I need to produce a chapter a day for the next two days, and that would be okay if I didn't also have other work to do alongside it all. The beauty of it all?—deep down, I know I have the bitchinest life. I mean, geez: I'm within 100 pages of finishing the draft for my murder mystery. How cool is that?

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September 18, 2006

"Did You Meet Your Mother's New Dog?" Attila the Hub Asks.

"Yes, I did. What a sweet puppy."

"What breed is she?"

"Breed? Ah, yes. Well, we think she's a mix—maybe with some Labrador."

He looks at me, hard. "Rottweiler, Doberman, or Pit Bull?"

I sigh. "Pit Bull. But a really cute, good-natured one."

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September 09, 2006

I Drop by Hog's Place.

"I'm trying to lose weight," I tell him.

"Yeah? What are you doing?"

"I haven't figured it out. I'm certainly not willing to exercise, or to eat any differently."

He looks at me for a moment. Finally: "well, good luck with that."

Is that insensitive, or what?

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September 05, 2006

I Need a New Hobby.

But I can't decide between crochet and smack.

Thoughts?

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September 03, 2006

All I Want

. . . is for someone to tell me that my book is so bad, I should just give up on it and spend the rest of my days eating those little frozen Trader Joe's appetizers. You know: the ones that are like tiny little savory tarts.

None of my bulletin boards are active right now.

I shall have to resort to productive activity. And there aren't any little tarts in the house. (Oh, shut up! You know how I meant it.)

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September 02, 2006

Fun in Chatsworth

Reverend Kevin—really, "Mr. Kevin," since he's teaching school again—has now been installed into his mobile home.

A victim of gender stereotyping, I ended up putting a lot of the food, dishes, and pots and pans away in his kitchen, only moving a few of the smaller pieces of actual furniture.

Between all the different Christian groups there, it could have been a bit theologically eclectic. Perhaps I should have started a food fight over sola scriptura or some such.

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September 01, 2006

So, I Screwed Somthing Up.

Attila the Hub got miffed, and quite rightly.

I hate being in the wrong.

Finally, I went into the family room. He looked up and gave me that "I'm not ready to be friends yet" look.

"Listen," I told him. "I just came down to see if I could kiss your ass."

"Then you should have brought snacks," he replied.

So I went back to the kitchen and got him snacks.

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August 30, 2006

Okay.

All better now.

Back to the symbolic kind of killing: slaying the dragons of commerce, offing the goblins in my psyche.

Publicity, office work, manuscript for the book.

Let's be careful out there, boys and girls: it's a scary world.

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It Isn't About Guns.

I could accomplish what needs to be done with my bare hands.

But I won't, so there's that.

Goonight.

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August 29, 2006

Am I Angry Because I'm Sad?

Or am I sad because I'm angry?

Something inside me is tangled up. And I won't be able to write decent male characters until it's straightened out. After that, it could go either way.
Attila the Hub: "can't you just write female characters and give 'em male names?"

We're all confused down here, by the way. Does someone have a flashlight? (If you turn that into a dirty joke I will kick your teeth in.)

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