You know, dragon riding. It's all about landscape, not so much about details, and you wonder, "Oh shit? How bad am I fucking up the details?" but you have to GET IT DOWN because, well, the dragon's calling, and so's your publisher, and you've sort of got deadlines and even if you didn't, you've actually RELEASED THE FUCKING DRAGON at this point, and life is just one WHOOSH of sleep deprivation and words!
But the (in my opinion) least cool thing about this state of being is that it makes you not such good company in almost any other circumstances. At this point, I think even the dog thinks I'm mostly a git bitch whose only assets are a pair of comfortable boobies on which to sleep. (Booby diving is Johnnie's favorite sport. He can wiggle down the neck of any sweater, T-shirt, or night shirt in less than .5 seconds, especially if he remembers there's a penalty for face licking and just jumps right into the competition.)
Seriously-- my efforts at conversation are pretty much limited to "Yeah, *yawn* that sounds good. No, *yawn* I don't remember what you said, but you seem to be reasonably intelligent--I did spawn or marry you, and I don't think that idea is going down in flames. Pepperoni and spinach for dinner! It's a win!" (Okay-- so THEY had pepperoni, and *I* had broccoli. Close. It was close.)
Which makes me not such an amazing blogger, you know? My space-time perception is very whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo right now--and anything productive I do is absolutely void of grace and style. (This fits in well with Squish's wardrobe requirements: if it goes ON, it goes TOGETHER, and every outfit that's outrageous is a WIN!)
So, with that in mind with this blogpost, I'm going to cover a couple of things bullet point style, and then toddle off to dress my children and get them to school (maybe) on time. (Okay-- can I just say ZB does his share of late making? When we hell at him to move faster, his entire body jerks like an eel wrapped around his spinal chord, and he starts flailing around the house like Kermit on 'rhoids. This LOOKS impressive, but it gets NOTHING done, and thus, in order to make this not happen so much, every hurry emergency is treated like we're in Nurse Ratchet's ward, and the Percocet M&M's have been devoured by the bag full. It may not make us any more on time, but it DOES limit the number of papers that go scattered to the four winds, and the bruises on the backs of his hands for when he hits walls when he flails.)
Anyway, on to the bullet points.
** There's a contest for City Mouse HERE.
** There's an excerpt for City Mouse HERE.
** The Bolt-Hole is available for pre-sale HERE.
** And I will be posting a short little article on Tuesday, 10:00 a.m. PST, HERE.
** I will also be cross-posting that article HERE, but there won't be any cool discussion at my website, so authors should join the RRW and make sure they can, you know. Discuss.
And so, with all of that, I leave you with two things. One is a random picture of Steve, because she hasn't gotten enough air time lately.
The other is the following story from my random mani-pedi last week
See, there are two salons right next to each other (which are, coincidentally, right next to my favorite yarn store, but I digress!) Anyway, the hair and nail salon is very Russian-- we took Chicken there to get her hair and nails done for her senior portraits. The place next to it is very... well, uhm. Okay-- SOMEONE please tell me the cultural connection between manicurists and small Asian women. I recognize that it's not even a stereotype, it's a truism-- it just HAPPENS-- but I like to know WHY. I'm just curious-- what is there in Asian culture that lends itself to this vocation? Anyway-- there I was, getting my feet sanded by three tiny, friendly Korean women, when they all look up at the window, and start saying, "No. No. Not here. Not here. No no no no no... go next door!"
I look up, and there is a ginormous man with a full dark beard, who looks a little like Peter Stormare in front of the store window. He opens the door, takes off his stocking cap, and says haltingly, "Do...you...speak...Russian?"
A deafening chorus of "NEXT DOOR! NEXT DOOR! NEXT DOOR!" erupts from around me, like the frantic shrieks of startled starlings, and the man backs out, looking miserable and embarrassed.
All of the women deliver a chirping smatter of Korean in familiar irritation, and then go back to my feet (and my hands... my feet weren't that bad!) and I was left wondering how many times the Russian Mafia had tried to crash their party.
And now i want to go back and find out! (Besides, my manicure didn't last very long... apparently, I'm tough on nail polish, which makes me remember why I stopped doing my own nails a very long time ago!)
And with that, I'm off to post my stuff!