(and thank you so much for insisting...)
Okay, here's the deal.
I talked a lot about 'Goddess Stories' in the first book--and not at all in the second. I did this on purpose. I wanted to prep everybody for 'Triane's Son' and 'Oueant's Son' to be in their own Goddess story, so to speak.
And then I wondered how many people would see that, and how many people would think I was just being REALLY inconsistent.
So I decided on a narrative overlay--starting with a prologue, of about five pages, in which we see our characters 'Oueant's Son' and 'Triane's Son' thirty years after their adventures in Clough have concluded, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, telling the story of 'Triane's Son Reigning'.
I like the idea--my problem is,
A. Will people freak out because I basically give away some of the ending in the first 5 pages
B. I give away that even the 'happy ending' shown at the end of the book is not 'happy ever after', but that one of the characters dies between the end of the book and the beginning of the prologue. There's a reason for this (in fact, several, if after the LG series concludes people seem to want a BMoonIII) but I'm just wondering if it will put people off too much, and
C. How much of the narrative overlay is good storytelling, and how much will just be precious, obvious foreshadowing.
Okay, granted, C is my own baby to feed, and I'm hoping my editors (Ceri, Roxie, Eric, Bonnie, are we still on? Ceri, I know you'll be back from Fiji by then, happy and tan from fun in the sand!) will kick me in the pants if it gets to sappy, but the other thing...it's a good idea right?
Wait... do you guys want to see it in action?
Okay then... here:
Prologue
Goddess Stories
The Healer sat in the waning twilit hours of the Beltane Faire, watching the couples dancing in front of the bonfire in preparation for the wilding. His wife—his second, the mother of his youngest two adult children—came and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, touching her cheek to his.
“They’re all waiting,” she murmured, not wanting to look into his eyes. The pain was there, all of it, as fresh as it must have been thirty years before, when he’d first left her, as bloody as it had been, five years after that, when she’d left him for the dark beyond the stars. Goddess, how she hated Beltane—not because he thought of her, because she’d never begrudge him memories of his first beloved, his moon destined, whom he’d loved since childhood. No, she hated it because on this day of renewal, of spring and of life, he unearthed all that pain, and lived the whole thing again.
He wiped his mouth with his hand and stood, his hazel eyes assuming that artificial brightness that she always associated with this moment, on this evening.
“You don’t have to do it again this year,” she said, taking his hand. He touched her cheek and smiled again, this one almost reaching his eyes.
“Of course I do,” he murmured. “It’s important. Besides—the little ones expect it.”
“The little ones just want a story and a song from their Pa-pa,” she snapped with bitterness that surprised them both. “This hurts you!”
“It should hurt me.” He ran a hand through his short hair, the salting of gray obscuring but not hiding the white crest at his temple. He’d wondered lately, watching himself age easily through the years, if he would have to dye his hair brown in order to show that mark of magic like the badge of honor it was. This morning he’d decided that just the fact that he’d never have to hide it again would be enough.
“That pain bought something important,” he continued, when she looked away and refused to answer.
“Well then,” she turned away sharply, angry at him for doing this to himself. Hadn’t he given enough?
“Hey!” He caught up to her and took her hand. “You knew this when you stayed.”
She eyed him sourly. “I’m not giving up twenty good years for this rotten tradition,” she said at last. “But I can’t watch you do it again. I can’t. Ellyot’s youngest isn’t feeling well…”
“All that sugar,” he smiled and she rolled her eyes in agreement.
“And Betsy’s baby is teething. I’ll take them to the house while you do this. I’ve heard it before.” Her mouth, which was usually wide and smiling in a narrow, pale face, was pinched together, but he thought he’d try one more time.
“It changes every year,” he said lightly, and her look grew even darker.
“No it doesn’t!” She hissed. “It never changes. ‘Oueant’s Son’, ‘Dueant’s Son’,
‘Triane’s Son’—none of it matters. What matters is that it was real, and that you lived, and that you and Aylan and Yarri and Aldam—everybody! You all did this. What matters is that you shed blood, not a little of it your own, to make this world a better place, and that you shed more of it every year when you go out and tell this story, and I’m sick of it!”
He smiled, the grooves in his mouth deepening, his dimple popping, and his lip curling up on one side. It was an absolutely lethal smile, and it had taken him a while to learn its power, but many women still fantasized about the lead Healer of Eiran.
He had only ever cared about two of them.
“Twenty years, my heart’s peace, twenty years you’ve heard this story, and you still don’t understand why it’s important that I tell it?”
She looked away. “You tell me then!”
“It needs to be remembered. That’s what’s important. We need to make sure that no one ever has to go out and live this story again.” His voice hardened, and his eyes flashed a glacial blue, terrible and at odds with the warmth that he practically radiated.
“Right,” she replied, her green eyes wide. She rarely saw that color anymore. “The little ones will be fine. I’ll stay and listen.”
That smile came back, and he swung it around to greet the family, all of them, gathered around the Moon’s traditional table. He had to wade his way through grandchildren in order to perch on the top of the table, and shoo a couple of the smaller ones off his lap.
Aylan did his own wading and handed him his old lute, and the Healer took it gratefully. It was old—it had belonged to Lane before him—and the wood was mellow and sweet with age and oil, and years of melancholy songs dancing across the strings.
“Thank you, Aylan.” For the first time a hint of uncertainty crossed the Healer’s face. “You’re staying, right?” There had been a few years, after Yarri’s death, and before Starren’s first wilding when the story hurt Aylan too much to stay. But he’d made his peace with it since then, and his and Starry’s children loved it almost more than Solstice gifts.
“Of course,” he said, with a killer smile of his own. Aylan’s smile had improved with time as well—the bitterness that had possessed it in his youth was completely gone now. “If I’m not here, you don’t tell it right.”
“Ha!” The Healer guffawed, secure now that Aylan would be there to see him through this. “If you’re not here, no one whines when the son of Oueant gets his due!”
Aylan’s look of disgust was enough to pull the last of the tears from Torrant’s heart, and he smiled at the older children for their approval. For the older three, Yarri’s children, this story, among others, was their best, most heart-full link to their mother. He wouldn’t give up this story, not for all the tears in the world.
Lane hobbled up, much of his weight on the pair of canes in his hand. He had been seated with the other elders, watching the sunset, but he too was faithful to the story as it was told at Beltane. Ellyot ran up with a stool for his Great Uncle Lane, and the older man sank onto it gratefully.
“Have you started yet, boy-o?” He asked. His voice had aged, and his beard was long and full and white now, but his eyes still twinkled their merry blue, nearly as sharp in what they saw as they had been in Torrant’s youth.
“Not yet, Uncle Lane. You know we can’t tell the story without you.” Torrant tuned a couple of strings then, and played a chord that proved his ear was still sound. Almost to himself he murmured, “I wish Aunt Bethen was here.”
“Oh she is, but she’s getting impatient. Now start!”
The rest of the family laughed, and Aylan’s youngest, a scant and scandalous six years old, piped up. “You’re going to tell the story of the Sons of the Three Moons, right Uncle Torrant?” The little boy’s hand was firmly entrenched in the hand of Ellyot’s youngest, as they had been since the little girl had been born. The sight of the two of them, so easily moon destined, so beautifully meant, made Torrant’s heart constrict with pain and joy.
“Absolutely, Djali,” he murmured. “Are we all ready? Do we all remember how it starts?”
His five children started the first verse, their voices falling in and out of harmony, but still strong. And when they were done singing, he began the story itself, the words changing as details sharpened and faded with the passage of years, but always, always, starting with the same image.
“A ruthless ruler, mad and powerful, had been persecuting Triane’s children for many years. One day, Triane’s Son, and his best friend, the son of Oueant, the moon of Honor, rode into the cursed city, to stop him.
They bore between the two of them, a terrible secret…”
Comments? Questions? What do you think?
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Pieces, picking up...
* First of all, I"m overdue for a me-me from Knit-tech--I haven't forgotten you, darling, I'm just distracted. I'll get there:-)
* Second, I finally managed to post my package to my blogoversary winner--here's hoping she's not disappointed. She got signed books and yarn (the yarn was, fortunately, not signed;-) and some goodies for the kids. I liked doing that--I may have one every 100 posts or so!
* Thirdly, in addition to fingerless mitts, I also finished a pair of sportweight anklets for a friend of mine-Colinette Jitterbug, a yarn I REALLY love, but I need to go back to Samurai's color workshops to figure out again why blue dye is softer than green dye. It's true!
* Fourthly, I celebrated by casting on another pair of socks, this one with a pattern, but I'm not sure. The yarn is sort of obscure, and although I still love it, I'm not sure I love it as socks. I may rip out the socks and go for a baby sweater or something...it's got this real earthy, homespun texture and the colors are stonewashed--like I said, I love it, but maybe not so much for socks.
* Fifthly, Chicken appreciated all of your good wishes--she's feeling much better, but I swear, if she yaks before she leaves for Australia, we're pumping her up with dramamine and giving her an extra-strength barf-bag. I don't think she can live with another heartbreak like this last one!
* Sixthly, we went to Mate's softball practice yesterday, and the short peoples got to play at the Stepford park with the water fountain. I hate Folsom. (Folsomites, forgive me--the people who read this blog are, odds on, probably not the people that bother me...) Let's just say that I always feel like I violated the weight limit/dress code just driving over the line from Citrus Heights. And none of the women want to talk at the park! I mean, seriously--who else is there to talk to--not the kids, they're going bananashit in the kid fountain, right? And there was this serious black-rubber stench coming upwind--I had to break into the most awkward conversation with a woman who looked at me like I had pitt-rott in order to confirm that wasn't just me, suffering from a brain bleed! All in all, it made me glad to be white-trash, because the other side of that picket fence looks REALLY BORING.
* Seventhly, I made a narrative breakthrough in Bitter Moon I, and I'm torn between wanting to chat about it in the blog and wanting to surprise people, and wanting to just present it to my cracker-jack editing team carte blanch and hoping they like it... all in all, this is why people have writing groups, and the hornet's nest of uncertainty in my gullet is almost as busy with their fuckalific stingers as it is when I just release a book. Shit.
* Eighthly, I've got two more Mondays to go. (And one Tuesday, because next week is Memorial Day.) We are officially close enough to summer vacation for me to get excited about it. And have I mentioned I'm taking no classes this summer? WWWWHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And, uhm, that's about it. If anyone wants me to get neurotic about narrative technique and Bitter Moon II, let me know... I could use the sounding board!
* Second, I finally managed to post my package to my blogoversary winner--here's hoping she's not disappointed. She got signed books and yarn (the yarn was, fortunately, not signed;-) and some goodies for the kids. I liked doing that--I may have one every 100 posts or so!
* Thirdly, in addition to fingerless mitts, I also finished a pair of sportweight anklets for a friend of mine-Colinette Jitterbug, a yarn I REALLY love, but I need to go back to Samurai's color workshops to figure out again why blue dye is softer than green dye. It's true!
* Fourthly, I celebrated by casting on another pair of socks, this one with a pattern, but I'm not sure. The yarn is sort of obscure, and although I still love it, I'm not sure I love it as socks. I may rip out the socks and go for a baby sweater or something...it's got this real earthy, homespun texture and the colors are stonewashed--like I said, I love it, but maybe not so much for socks.
* Fifthly, Chicken appreciated all of your good wishes--she's feeling much better, but I swear, if she yaks before she leaves for Australia, we're pumping her up with dramamine and giving her an extra-strength barf-bag. I don't think she can live with another heartbreak like this last one!
* Sixthly, we went to Mate's softball practice yesterday, and the short peoples got to play at the Stepford park with the water fountain. I hate Folsom. (Folsomites, forgive me--the people who read this blog are, odds on, probably not the people that bother me...) Let's just say that I always feel like I violated the weight limit/dress code just driving over the line from Citrus Heights. And none of the women want to talk at the park! I mean, seriously--who else is there to talk to--not the kids, they're going bananashit in the kid fountain, right? And there was this serious black-rubber stench coming upwind--I had to break into the most awkward conversation with a woman who looked at me like I had pitt-rott in order to confirm that wasn't just me, suffering from a brain bleed! All in all, it made me glad to be white-trash, because the other side of that picket fence looks REALLY BORING.
* Seventhly, I made a narrative breakthrough in Bitter Moon I, and I'm torn between wanting to chat about it in the blog and wanting to surprise people, and wanting to just present it to my cracker-jack editing team carte blanch and hoping they like it... all in all, this is why people have writing groups, and the hornet's nest of uncertainty in my gullet is almost as busy with their fuckalific stingers as it is when I just release a book. Shit.
* Eighthly, I've got two more Mondays to go. (And one Tuesday, because next week is Memorial Day.) We are officially close enough to summer vacation for me to get excited about it. And have I mentioned I'm taking no classes this summer? WWWWHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And, uhm, that's about it. If anyone wants me to get neurotic about narrative technique and Bitter Moon II, let me know... I could use the sounding board!
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Tired Bananas
Well, Fungus, god of podiatry has been partially appeased by two days of keeping my foot iced--I can walk again, and, in fact, went for a walk today, which felt wonderful. (Until I got back, that is, but we shall not speak of that.)
Of course, I got home soaked in sweat! Our temperature has like LEAPED...no, wait, it POLE-VAULTED...no, no, no, too mild a metaphor... it SPLANGED to the ceiling like a high-strung cat, and is now hovering there, in the 105s, claws dug into the blinding gold-blue sky, screaming sweat and oppression at us with every second.
No, no, no... that metaphor wasn't it either.
Doesn't matter. The heat sucks. I miss the high 70's, but I'd settle for a week in the mid 80's before we got stuck with the Nor-Cal Death Valley.
Anyway, after the usual--taking the short people to gymnastics, stopping at the LYS to show Babetta what I'd made (fingerless mitts--I shall upload the pictures someday, because they were beautiful, and I was proud) and dropping the aforementioned mitts off at their prospective owners--we came home and did Ladybug a solid: We unrolled the pool that has been in a box since last summer. We filled it with water and put the kids in it until they practically stewed! (The water didn't stay cold for long.) Then we took them inside, got them a nap, and when they woke up we started the whole process over again.
They. Are. So. Tired.
It's actually wonderful--you haven't really been a parent until you've driven your offspring into exhaustion--go us!
Unfortunately, they are the only two offspring who are content. T feels that I am a slave driver because I don't just ask him to clean the kitchen, I ask him to clean it MULTIPLE TIMES IN THE SAME WEEK. And then I whine about small things, like floors that stick to my feet and the fact that the table top hasn't seen daylight in a month. Mostly, he seems to think that his siblings and I have arrived to cramp his style. How very 15 of him--I'm sort of relieved.
And poor Chicken--this one's so sad.
She's been looking forward to a trip to Great America (a theme park) for the last two months. She was all excited, she had told me a thousand times when she'd have to be dropped off and when she'd have to be picked up. It didn't matter.
Two hours before she was supposed to get up on Friday, she blew chunks all over the bathroom. I cleaned up, she jumped in the shower, jumped out, and blew chunks AGAIN. We both cleaned up (again!) and she went back to bed for an hour, woke up, and said, by golly, she was still going. She got as far as the steps on the bus before she burst into tears and said she couldn't do it. Called her dad (who had just walked in the door after dropping her off) and came home, where she slept all day. Since Ladybug had a similar incident the night before (which made that whole 'staying home with my foot propped' day feel a little more legit--I mean, I was in excruciating pain, but I still felt like a terrible fraud. If she hadn't been sleeping on me all day, I would have felt like a total waste of oxygen, and I try to save that epithet for those kids with the .05 GPA and the total lack of civilization, a super ego, or a forebrain.) Anyway, back to my heartbroken 8th grader who made the (very wise) decision not to get on that lunging, heaving, rocking land-locked slow-motion-ocean liner of a vehicle, do you know what she told me? She told me, "Now I know how you felt when you didn't get to see the Yarn Harlot." Poor baby--I imagine that she felt even worse. For one thing, I got to spend a wonderful day with my family. She got to spend a day sleeping and fighting the dry-heaves while her equally sick little sister whined all over her.
I mean, seriously, I'll take my trip to the zoo any day.
Of course, I got home soaked in sweat! Our temperature has like LEAPED...no, wait, it POLE-VAULTED...no, no, no, too mild a metaphor... it SPLANGED to the ceiling like a high-strung cat, and is now hovering there, in the 105s, claws dug into the blinding gold-blue sky, screaming sweat and oppression at us with every second.
No, no, no... that metaphor wasn't it either.
Doesn't matter. The heat sucks. I miss the high 70's, but I'd settle for a week in the mid 80's before we got stuck with the Nor-Cal Death Valley.
Anyway, after the usual--taking the short people to gymnastics, stopping at the LYS to show Babetta what I'd made (fingerless mitts--I shall upload the pictures someday, because they were beautiful, and I was proud) and dropping the aforementioned mitts off at their prospective owners--we came home and did Ladybug a solid: We unrolled the pool that has been in a box since last summer. We filled it with water and put the kids in it until they practically stewed! (The water didn't stay cold for long.) Then we took them inside, got them a nap, and when they woke up we started the whole process over again.
They. Are. So. Tired.
It's actually wonderful--you haven't really been a parent until you've driven your offspring into exhaustion--go us!
Unfortunately, they are the only two offspring who are content. T feels that I am a slave driver because I don't just ask him to clean the kitchen, I ask him to clean it MULTIPLE TIMES IN THE SAME WEEK. And then I whine about small things, like floors that stick to my feet and the fact that the table top hasn't seen daylight in a month. Mostly, he seems to think that his siblings and I have arrived to cramp his style. How very 15 of him--I'm sort of relieved.
And poor Chicken--this one's so sad.
She's been looking forward to a trip to Great America (a theme park) for the last two months. She was all excited, she had told me a thousand times when she'd have to be dropped off and when she'd have to be picked up. It didn't matter.
Two hours before she was supposed to get up on Friday, she blew chunks all over the bathroom. I cleaned up, she jumped in the shower, jumped out, and blew chunks AGAIN. We both cleaned up (again!) and she went back to bed for an hour, woke up, and said, by golly, she was still going. She got as far as the steps on the bus before she burst into tears and said she couldn't do it. Called her dad (who had just walked in the door after dropping her off) and came home, where she slept all day. Since Ladybug had a similar incident the night before (which made that whole 'staying home with my foot propped' day feel a little more legit--I mean, I was in excruciating pain, but I still felt like a terrible fraud. If she hadn't been sleeping on me all day, I would have felt like a total waste of oxygen, and I try to save that epithet for those kids with the .05 GPA and the total lack of civilization, a super ego, or a forebrain.) Anyway, back to my heartbroken 8th grader who made the (very wise) decision not to get on that lunging, heaving, rocking land-locked slow-motion-ocean liner of a vehicle, do you know what she told me? She told me, "Now I know how you felt when you didn't get to see the Yarn Harlot." Poor baby--I imagine that she felt even worse. For one thing, I got to spend a wonderful day with my family. She got to spend a day sleeping and fighting the dry-heaves while her equally sick little sister whined all over her.
I mean, seriously, I'll take my trip to the zoo any day.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
To the people in the lunchroom: you know who you are, I know where you work.
First of all, for some vaguely depressing news that I sort of anticipated:
The book signing has been canceled because my books are self published and the company can't return them.
Like I said, I sort of suspected this might happen, but I REALLY wanted to believe that the little guy (or the XX-sized independently published woman) had a chance for a smidgen of success--alas, not to be. That's okay though--the lady at the bookstore (have I mentioned she was very nice with a tremendous smile?) is going to be selling my books by word of mouth--and they restocked my books at the store, so I did get something out of it. (I'm trying not to kick something and be snotty--and to be honest, my foot still hurts and the thought that I don't have stand up, even though my foot will have recovered by then, does sort of make me happy. But it would have been worth it. Trust me.)
Anyway, I'll live. I may even live through the foot thing. I like my doctor (now that I remember her) but she does have a way of minimizing the painful or life altering. (Not that this is life-altering.) Anyway, it was (as you all surmised) plantars fascaeitus (I have no idea how to spell it, but no combination of letters I set down is getting approval, so screw it), and I'm going to take another day off, keep my foot up, and honestly diet instead of hoping for the best. The worst thing is that I was told NOT to walk barefoot--not even in the house, and I think I may make Mate stop at the store for a pair of Crocs to wear around the house. They're not flip-flops and they're not tennishoes, socks, and the full sweaty-footed kit, either. Anyway, it hurts. I'm taking another day off and keeping my foot up, and maybe Fungus, god of podiatry will forgive me and let me walk like a human being.
And now, on to the title of the post.
I've been getting some a ration of (good natured, I can only hope) shit for my blogging in the lunch room--some rather disparaging remarks have been made about nicknaming the spawn of Lane for the purpose of my own amusement, and I thought that I might take this opportunity to remind the person who sends my blog posts around to the rest of the staff (we both know who you are!) that I don't just run a Morass of Weirdness, I'm also training an elite squad of anklebiters guaranteed to take you out, should your gentle, deprecating humor become just plain obnoxious.
First of all, let me introduce you to the Cave Troll.
Don't be fooled by the backwards Fireman's hat and the fact that he still insists on wearing a diaper when he wants to take a poop--he is not just bright, he is also cunning, wily, and has no qualms about inflicting copious physical harm on anyone who pisses him off. And if he likes you, he'll hang on your earlobes and kick you in the pork-sword as a sign of affection. Either way, he's not someone you want me to bring to work to introduce--he loves his mama. He'll attack on command. Hell--he'll attack on whim!
Next, we have our Secret Weapon. The Ladybug.
Oh yeah--she's cute--just look at those little panda glasses--aren't they cute? Aren't they adorable? ARen't they parrrrraaaalyzzzinggglyyyy sweet? Oh yeah--you've guessed it, that cuteness is terminal. Just when you think your heart is going to stop with the power of that charisma, she'll bite your ankle until you bleed to death.
And she loves her mama. Her cuteness radiates at all times, but she'll ankle-bite on command.
And here we have the eldest. Big T. T, you know, for TERMINATOR.
T has a deceptively sweet appearance--doesn't that kitty look comfortable, as though he's been there, I don't know, FOR AN ENTIRE SATURDAY, FROM EIGHT a.m. TO FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON? But there's more to T than his lazy exterior. Big T has two major weapons in his arsenal. The first is the random question when your attention is elsewhere--he can cause a brain bleed in two seconds flat by asking you some dumbass thing while your attention is on something entirely different. If he does it often enough, you'll be reduced to hurling books at his head while your face dissolves into a network of facial ticks vaguely reminiscent of the London Underground.
He's also a 6'3" blackbelt in karate. He can squash your nuts into oblivion before you realized that his metal smile cost more than three of my first cars.
And finally, the most deadly member of our team: Chicken.
Are we looking at this picture of Chicken closely, gentlemen? Are we looking at it REALLLLLY closely? Can we look beyond the casually dressed self-portrait of teen-angst into the glittering black depths of those fantastic, soulful eyes? Can we look into the heart of the awkward, bitter teenager and find the complete loathing for all members of the male gender who have ever dared to look at a pretty girl like her and found them wanting in some way? Can we see her complete desire to rip your flesh off, boil you in acid, and spread your remains with fermented turkey-shit over the salt-desert of Mars? Are you looking gentlemen? Are you? I don't know--if your testicles haven't dessicated into dust yet, then you aren't looking close enough.
So that's it--that's Spawn of Lane. I love them dearly and they'll protect me with sharp and pointy teeth. Be nice to me in the lunchroom, people. Remember, I've got a cracker-jack team of mama-defenders, at my beck and call.
The book signing has been canceled because my books are self published and the company can't return them.
Like I said, I sort of suspected this might happen, but I REALLY wanted to believe that the little guy (or the XX-sized independently published woman) had a chance for a smidgen of success--alas, not to be. That's okay though--the lady at the bookstore (have I mentioned she was very nice with a tremendous smile?) is going to be selling my books by word of mouth--and they restocked my books at the store, so I did get something out of it. (I'm trying not to kick something and be snotty--and to be honest, my foot still hurts and the thought that I don't have stand up, even though my foot will have recovered by then, does sort of make me happy. But it would have been worth it. Trust me.)
Anyway, I'll live. I may even live through the foot thing. I like my doctor (now that I remember her) but she does have a way of minimizing the painful or life altering. (Not that this is life-altering.) Anyway, it was (as you all surmised) plantars fascaeitus (I have no idea how to spell it, but no combination of letters I set down is getting approval, so screw it), and I'm going to take another day off, keep my foot up, and honestly diet instead of hoping for the best. The worst thing is that I was told NOT to walk barefoot--not even in the house, and I think I may make Mate stop at the store for a pair of Crocs to wear around the house. They're not flip-flops and they're not tennishoes, socks, and the full sweaty-footed kit, either. Anyway, it hurts. I'm taking another day off and keeping my foot up, and maybe Fungus, god of podiatry will forgive me and let me walk like a human being.
And now, on to the title of the post.
I've been getting some a ration of (good natured, I can only hope) shit for my blogging in the lunch room--some rather disparaging remarks have been made about nicknaming the spawn of Lane for the purpose of my own amusement, and I thought that I might take this opportunity to remind the person who sends my blog posts around to the rest of the staff (we both know who you are!) that I don't just run a Morass of Weirdness, I'm also training an elite squad of anklebiters guaranteed to take you out, should your gentle, deprecating humor become just plain obnoxious.
First of all, let me introduce you to the Cave Troll.
Don't be fooled by the backwards Fireman's hat and the fact that he still insists on wearing a diaper when he wants to take a poop--he is not just bright, he is also cunning, wily, and has no qualms about inflicting copious physical harm on anyone who pisses him off. And if he likes you, he'll hang on your earlobes and kick you in the pork-sword as a sign of affection. Either way, he's not someone you want me to bring to work to introduce--he loves his mama. He'll attack on command. Hell--he'll attack on whim!
Next, we have our Secret Weapon. The Ladybug.
Oh yeah--she's cute--just look at those little panda glasses--aren't they cute? Aren't they adorable? ARen't they parrrrraaaalyzzzinggglyyyy sweet? Oh yeah--you've guessed it, that cuteness is terminal. Just when you think your heart is going to stop with the power of that charisma, she'll bite your ankle until you bleed to death.
And she loves her mama. Her cuteness radiates at all times, but she'll ankle-bite on command.
And here we have the eldest. Big T. T, you know, for TERMINATOR.
T has a deceptively sweet appearance--doesn't that kitty look comfortable, as though he's been there, I don't know, FOR AN ENTIRE SATURDAY, FROM EIGHT a.m. TO FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON? But there's more to T than his lazy exterior. Big T has two major weapons in his arsenal. The first is the random question when your attention is elsewhere--he can cause a brain bleed in two seconds flat by asking you some dumbass thing while your attention is on something entirely different. If he does it often enough, you'll be reduced to hurling books at his head while your face dissolves into a network of facial ticks vaguely reminiscent of the London Underground.
He's also a 6'3" blackbelt in karate. He can squash your nuts into oblivion before you realized that his metal smile cost more than three of my first cars.
And finally, the most deadly member of our team: Chicken.
Are we looking at this picture of Chicken closely, gentlemen? Are we looking at it REALLLLLY closely? Can we look beyond the casually dressed self-portrait of teen-angst into the glittering black depths of those fantastic, soulful eyes? Can we look into the heart of the awkward, bitter teenager and find the complete loathing for all members of the male gender who have ever dared to look at a pretty girl like her and found them wanting in some way? Can we see her complete desire to rip your flesh off, boil you in acid, and spread your remains with fermented turkey-shit over the salt-desert of Mars? Are you looking gentlemen? Are you? I don't know--if your testicles haven't dessicated into dust yet, then you aren't looking close enough.
So that's it--that's Spawn of Lane. I love them dearly and they'll protect me with sharp and pointy teeth. Be nice to me in the lunchroom, people. Remember, I've got a cracker-jack team of mama-defenders, at my beck and call.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Unfortunately, my foot's still attached to my ankle.
Okay--I seriously violated the 4F's of foot care--I'm Fat, over Forty, Flat-Footed, and on Mother's day, I wore Flip-Flops. In doing so, I must have seriously pissed off Fungus, the minor god of Podiatry, because I am in some serious, mojo-busting pain.
It has improved a little since yesterday--I'll give it that. Yesterday, after sitting at my desk, I moved my foot to stand up and address the students and my vision went white. I'll give it to you--that hasn't happened again today. No, today, I just had the Cave Troll running around the house singing "crap crap crap crap crap" because he heard me say it when I had to stand up. Unfortunately "crap crap crap crap" was better than what he was singing when I got him into the baby-sitters--I wonder how many kids are going to be running around singing "shit shit shit shit motherfucker sonovabitch holygods shit!" by the end of the day. (That could be an overstatement--all he was was chanting was "shit shit shit" but Dueant knows, that's only because the rest of it was too rushed for him to hear.)
The students (and my older kids) are amazingly nice about it. My older kids waited on me last night--and so did my husband. Actually, it was Mate, bless him, who got an ice-pack from the freezer--he does have some experience with running injuries. I'm embarrassed to say I didn't think about the ice pack part--must tell you, it was MAGIC! It was so magic, I woke up this morning thinking life was all better.
The gods laugh their asses off when we think shit like that, don't they?
Although, it was funny--the Juniors are doing a comparison/contrast of an old work with a new work, and one of the new works I just heard was from Lil Wayne--it has sort of a haunting refrain (and a disturbing message, but we'll skip my rant on that for a moment) but the refrain goes "Oh mommy, when the drugs go, I feel like dying."
Uhm. Yeah. Blessed tylenol. Cursed two tab limit!
And that's it. It's a drive by whining--sorry about that! I swear, tonight, I'll dredge up some pictures and just post them for the hell of it--no words, no whining, no neurosis--just cute pictures of my darlings Ladybug and Cave Troll. It's the blog post that can't go wrong.
And in the meantime, I'll leave you with this: Have you ever thought that you could order a diet cherry coke at a bar by calling it a 'skinny virgin'?
Oh. Really? Only me, I guess.
It has improved a little since yesterday--I'll give it that. Yesterday, after sitting at my desk, I moved my foot to stand up and address the students and my vision went white. I'll give it to you--that hasn't happened again today. No, today, I just had the Cave Troll running around the house singing "crap crap crap crap crap" because he heard me say it when I had to stand up. Unfortunately "crap crap crap crap" was better than what he was singing when I got him into the baby-sitters--I wonder how many kids are going to be running around singing "shit shit shit shit motherfucker sonovabitch holygods shit!" by the end of the day. (That could be an overstatement--all he was was chanting was "shit shit shit" but Dueant knows, that's only because the rest of it was too rushed for him to hear.)
The students (and my older kids) are amazingly nice about it. My older kids waited on me last night--and so did my husband. Actually, it was Mate, bless him, who got an ice-pack from the freezer--he does have some experience with running injuries. I'm embarrassed to say I didn't think about the ice pack part--must tell you, it was MAGIC! It was so magic, I woke up this morning thinking life was all better.
The gods laugh their asses off when we think shit like that, don't they?
Although, it was funny--the Juniors are doing a comparison/contrast of an old work with a new work, and one of the new works I just heard was from Lil Wayne--it has sort of a haunting refrain (and a disturbing message, but we'll skip my rant on that for a moment) but the refrain goes "Oh mommy, when the drugs go, I feel like dying."
Uhm. Yeah. Blessed tylenol. Cursed two tab limit!
And that's it. It's a drive by whining--sorry about that! I swear, tonight, I'll dredge up some pictures and just post them for the hell of it--no words, no whining, no neurosis--just cute pictures of my darlings Ladybug and Cave Troll. It's the blog post that can't go wrong.
And in the meantime, I'll leave you with this: Have you ever thought that you could order a diet cherry coke at a bar by calling it a 'skinny virgin'?
Oh. Really? Only me, I guess.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Happy Mum's day:-)
I had a good one--I got to sleep in... (the ginormous Jedi-knight battle going on in the living room didn't count. I wasn't called upon to officiate, so it really was considered 'sleeping in'. Besides, those were happy screams, and I can sleep through those.)
I got presents. (Supernatural, Season 1. Jensen...mmmm....)
We saw a movie. (Speed Racer--my first true love. It upset me to see Christina Ricci play Trixie to Emile Hirsch's 'Speed'. The age difference between the two of them is even greater than the age difference between me and Jensen. Hussy! I was also intrigued by Rex the younger... Scott Porter. He could play Torrant, I think, and I'm always looking out for that!)
And we drove our collective arses off--you think I'm kidding?
Citrus Heights to Roseville--movie.
Roseville to Ophir--Mate's mom and grandma.
Ophir to Loomis--my stepmom, who, by the way, did not approve of Bitter Moon AT ALL.
Loomis to Stockton blvd.--picking up Alexa, my mom.
Stockton blvd. to Fair Oaks--taking Alexa to see her mom, Grandma Olga.
Fair Oaks to Citrus Heights--home at last.
Except for Mate--he's taking Alexa back to Stockton blvd. and then coming home, because he's a good Mate and deserves to have his unmentionables massaged by the nubile young thing of his choice. Unfortunately, he's stuck with me. What I lack in nubility I make up for in enthusiasm and a respect for a middle-aged-man's need to be asleep by eleven thirty.
*whew* It's one of those days that makes me see tarmac in front of my eyes as I sleep--not to mention my ear drums are burst out from hearing the short lunatics having a screaming match at each other from their car seats because one of them wanted the Melman (a stuffed giraffe) and the other one wanted the Melman, but neither of them wanted the Ooh-Aah. Cursed short people--they were tired and hungry, but at least they made sure none of us got out of the car without the mandatory tick behind our eyes, right? But that's okay--it was mostly a good day. I feel like a good daughter/grand-daughter and a decent enough mum to get a card from each kid. (Kewyn's was especially precious--it featured a kid with nutsy-cukoo hair drinking from the milk bottle in front of an open fridge. The caption read "I don't have any clean underwear on either." I mean, could you FIND a card more like that kid?) All in all, worth the price of admission, you know?
And I got comments from Catie (who has been gone for school/work considerations, but I always love hearing from her) which is good. I didn't quite get to send out Allergic Mom's package--sorry darling--I'll try tomorrow--I may even go to the dreaded Kinkos in Natomas, but I warn you, those people are cursed and their store is cursed and their trucks have to go on the curvy road to hell before they get to their destination. But that's only 3 out of 10 times--maybe we'll get lucky!
And other than that? I'm going to go knit on something that's not my 3 travel socks, which, btw, all made good time today. Mate drove while I knit. He does that for me--have I mentioned he's a good Mate? Perhaps I should more often!
Ciou!
I got presents. (Supernatural, Season 1. Jensen...mmmm....)
We saw a movie. (Speed Racer--my first true love. It upset me to see Christina Ricci play Trixie to Emile Hirsch's 'Speed'. The age difference between the two of them is even greater than the age difference between me and Jensen. Hussy! I was also intrigued by Rex the younger... Scott Porter. He could play Torrant, I think, and I'm always looking out for that!)
And we drove our collective arses off--you think I'm kidding?
Citrus Heights to Roseville--movie.
Roseville to Ophir--Mate's mom and grandma.
Ophir to Loomis--my stepmom, who, by the way, did not approve of Bitter Moon AT ALL.
Loomis to Stockton blvd.--picking up Alexa, my mom.
Stockton blvd. to Fair Oaks--taking Alexa to see her mom, Grandma Olga.
Fair Oaks to Citrus Heights--home at last.
Except for Mate--he's taking Alexa back to Stockton blvd. and then coming home, because he's a good Mate and deserves to have his unmentionables massaged by the nubile young thing of his choice. Unfortunately, he's stuck with me. What I lack in nubility I make up for in enthusiasm and a respect for a middle-aged-man's need to be asleep by eleven thirty.
*whew* It's one of those days that makes me see tarmac in front of my eyes as I sleep--not to mention my ear drums are burst out from hearing the short lunatics having a screaming match at each other from their car seats because one of them wanted the Melman (a stuffed giraffe) and the other one wanted the Melman, but neither of them wanted the Ooh-Aah. Cursed short people--they were tired and hungry, but at least they made sure none of us got out of the car without the mandatory tick behind our eyes, right? But that's okay--it was mostly a good day. I feel like a good daughter/grand-daughter and a decent enough mum to get a card from each kid. (Kewyn's was especially precious--it featured a kid with nutsy-cukoo hair drinking from the milk bottle in front of an open fridge. The caption read "I don't have any clean underwear on either." I mean, could you FIND a card more like that kid?) All in all, worth the price of admission, you know?
And I got comments from Catie (who has been gone for school/work considerations, but I always love hearing from her) which is good. I didn't quite get to send out Allergic Mom's package--sorry darling--I'll try tomorrow--I may even go to the dreaded Kinkos in Natomas, but I warn you, those people are cursed and their store is cursed and their trucks have to go on the curvy road to hell before they get to their destination. But that's only 3 out of 10 times--maybe we'll get lucky!
And other than that? I'm going to go knit on something that's not my 3 travel socks, which, btw, all made good time today. Mate drove while I knit. He does that for me--have I mentioned he's a good Mate? Perhaps I should more often!
Ciou!
Friday, May 9, 2008
Enough of that Crap!
I could only let yesterday's self-indulgent angst-fest stay up for one day--sorry about that--I try to only do that every so often, and, it being Friday, I'm gonna blame it on my students. Sometimes self-involved whining just spreads--I'll try to take my immunity boosters of cynicism and self-awareness on a regular basis to try to keep it from happening again anytime soon.
Anyway, work sucks right now--it's a student thing and I may go into it later, but I want to make up for yesterday so I won't do it right now. Right now, I'm going to try to entertain you with my offspring--since they so very often entertain me!
***About three days ago the Cave Troll noticed a dying worm on the sidewalk outside of the babysitters. I like worms, so I got out a cup, let him scrap the worm to the grass, and sprinkled a little water on him to revive him. The next day, the worm was gone--I assume he's eating dirt and shitting loam, which is what worms do, right? But last night, the Cave Troll indicated some dissatisfaction with the whole incident. I had made him SCRAPE the worm home. The Cave Troll wanted some hands on interaction with the little beastie, so he was complaining last night about not getting to pick up the worm himself. Apparently this really bothered him, because we got our dark-thirty angst alarm from the Cave Troll last night, as he was sleeping in our bed. Suddenly he started crying--and crying out: "Moooooom ... I wanna touch the WOOOORRRM...."
I don't even want to think about how Freudian that is, nope nope nope...EWWWWW!!!
***I dropped Ladybug off at daycare wearing the following: Gray sweats with blue and yellow flowers, a yellow T-Shirt, a gray sweatshirt with pink and yellow hearts, a pink lame skirt over the sweats, and a red and blue Spiderman mask. I had to talk her out of wearing two different shoes. Add it all up, and I don't know what it equals, but I wish I'd had the camera.
*** Big T told me yesterday that he's all three of the Montagues--Romeo, because he gets crushes, Mercutio, because sometimes he can't stop talking, and Benvolio, because he's a good friend. I love that kid!
***We ran out of toilet paper yesterday--and we never run out of toilet paper. So, while I was schlepping Chicken to the mall to try to find 'local' presents for her host families when she goes overseas, we get a phone call from Mate, saying something about my son, stranded on the commode. I told Chicken, who had the cell phone, to tell her dad that I left a a big box of Kleenex on the bed to tide everybody over. She laughed for twenty minutes. I don't know why she did that, but it was nice to be of amusement to my offspring as they are to me.
Anyway, work sucks right now--it's a student thing and I may go into it later, but I want to make up for yesterday so I won't do it right now. Right now, I'm going to try to entertain you with my offspring--since they so very often entertain me!
***About three days ago the Cave Troll noticed a dying worm on the sidewalk outside of the babysitters. I like worms, so I got out a cup, let him scrap the worm to the grass, and sprinkled a little water on him to revive him. The next day, the worm was gone--I assume he's eating dirt and shitting loam, which is what worms do, right? But last night, the Cave Troll indicated some dissatisfaction with the whole incident. I had made him SCRAPE the worm home. The Cave Troll wanted some hands on interaction with the little beastie, so he was complaining last night about not getting to pick up the worm himself. Apparently this really bothered him, because we got our dark-thirty angst alarm from the Cave Troll last night, as he was sleeping in our bed. Suddenly he started crying--and crying out: "Moooooom ... I wanna touch the WOOOORRRM...."
I don't even want to think about how Freudian that is, nope nope nope...EWWWWW!!!
***I dropped Ladybug off at daycare wearing the following: Gray sweats with blue and yellow flowers, a yellow T-Shirt, a gray sweatshirt with pink and yellow hearts, a pink lame skirt over the sweats, and a red and blue Spiderman mask. I had to talk her out of wearing two different shoes. Add it all up, and I don't know what it equals, but I wish I'd had the camera.
*** Big T told me yesterday that he's all three of the Montagues--Romeo, because he gets crushes, Mercutio, because sometimes he can't stop talking, and Benvolio, because he's a good friend. I love that kid!
***We ran out of toilet paper yesterday--and we never run out of toilet paper. So, while I was schlepping Chicken to the mall to try to find 'local' presents for her host families when she goes overseas, we get a phone call from Mate, saying something about my son, stranded on the commode. I told Chicken, who had the cell phone, to tell her dad that I left a a big box of Kleenex on the bed to tide everybody over. She laughed for twenty minutes. I don't know why she did that, but it was nice to be of amusement to my offspring as they are to me.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
An odd source of tension...
Okay--usually my inner world is more exciting than this.
Usually, my brain is sort of pinging from moment to moment and place to place--music, television, movies, books--you name it, I'm thinking about it and, hoocha hoocha hoocha--lobster! (For those of you who don't follow Eddie Izzard, I just mangled a truly great bit there. Really. It was hilarious. I swear.)
But all I can think about right now are my amazon.com numbers. With the exception of Bitter Moon I (*sigh*) they are absurdly high.
Now my first reaction is, of course, a sort of anxious glee. SOMEONE is reading my book--will they like it? Will the editing bother them? Will Cory's swearing put them off? I keep waiting from someone on the right-wing-morality brigade to ring me up and threaten to egg my house because of the sex in the Little Goddess books, and I've even gotten pinged on reviews for it, and I do not want to offend anyone who thought they were buying Hi-lites for Children and got Playboy instead.
But the numbers have been high--as in two or three copies of Vulnerable a day--for an entire week now, and my anxiety is bubbling down to a sort of nauseated terror--you know, like a bad steak in a bottle of lab-acid.
Somebody is going to review my book. Several somebodies. I know it's coming. And, because the books are not neutral territory, and because a lot of kind people have been comparing me favorably to Stephanie Meyer and it's going to be a let down that I'm very very different, some of those somebodies are going to review me badly.
I've done this before--a lot of you read the post "Virginity is Overrated" and bolstered me up then. I've gotten a couple of negative reviews since. (Okay, that was vague. The truth is that I'm narcissistic and neurotic enough to spit up my amazon.com stats from worst review to best review at any given moment at any given day, but I try not to bore people to tears here...it's sort of a goal of mine as a blogger.) But what's coming is going to be bigger than that--both bigger bad and bigger good, and all I can see of it now is a sort of vague pressure, like a psychic knowing about an avalanche, but not knowing when to duck.
I really hope people like it. I REALLY REALLY REALLY hope people like it. And, after they like it, I hope they're willing to wait until this time next year for the next one. And it would be really cool if they read Bitter Moon I (not NEARLY as much sex and swearing in that one, I promise!)
But mostly, even if they don't like it, and even if they want to voice their opinion about it, I hope they do it nicely. I keep waiting for the review title of "Complete Moron Writes a Crappy Book--Somebody Alert the News!" Just because it hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it's not coming!
So that's it--kids have come and gone, my Juniors and Seniors have managed to foul up two completely relevant, decent projects that they had three weeks and class time to work on, my children have done very cute things (Dad walked in yesterday and the Cave Troll ran up to him and said, "Dad, you have to do your job!!! There's DOG POOP in the back yard and YOU have to pick it up!" And Ladybug--in the bath for, I would imagine, obvious and odorific reasons-- spoke up. "Dad pick up the POOP!!!" I'm sure dad was very tempted to turn around and go back to work, where the words "Dog Poop" are never mentioned in terms of things he must do.) and my older children have been a source of annoyance and affection and I've had some great times at the lunch room at work but...
The one thing (besides the plot for BMoonII) buzzing around my brain pan is the one thing I shouldn't be obsessing about, the one thing I can not change or help, and the one thing that, truly, doesn't make a damn bit of difference in my life.
It really is an odd source of tension.
Usually, my brain is sort of pinging from moment to moment and place to place--music, television, movies, books--you name it, I'm thinking about it and, hoocha hoocha hoocha--lobster! (For those of you who don't follow Eddie Izzard, I just mangled a truly great bit there. Really. It was hilarious. I swear.)
But all I can think about right now are my amazon.com numbers. With the exception of Bitter Moon I (*sigh*) they are absurdly high.
Now my first reaction is, of course, a sort of anxious glee. SOMEONE is reading my book--will they like it? Will the editing bother them? Will Cory's swearing put them off? I keep waiting from someone on the right-wing-morality brigade to ring me up and threaten to egg my house because of the sex in the Little Goddess books, and I've even gotten pinged on reviews for it, and I do not want to offend anyone who thought they were buying Hi-lites for Children and got Playboy instead.
But the numbers have been high--as in two or three copies of Vulnerable a day--for an entire week now, and my anxiety is bubbling down to a sort of nauseated terror--you know, like a bad steak in a bottle of lab-acid.
Somebody is going to review my book. Several somebodies. I know it's coming. And, because the books are not neutral territory, and because a lot of kind people have been comparing me favorably to Stephanie Meyer and it's going to be a let down that I'm very very different, some of those somebodies are going to review me badly.
I've done this before--a lot of you read the post "Virginity is Overrated" and bolstered me up then. I've gotten a couple of negative reviews since. (Okay, that was vague. The truth is that I'm narcissistic and neurotic enough to spit up my amazon.com stats from worst review to best review at any given moment at any given day, but I try not to bore people to tears here...it's sort of a goal of mine as a blogger.) But what's coming is going to be bigger than that--both bigger bad and bigger good, and all I can see of it now is a sort of vague pressure, like a psychic knowing about an avalanche, but not knowing when to duck.
I really hope people like it. I REALLY REALLY REALLY hope people like it. And, after they like it, I hope they're willing to wait until this time next year for the next one. And it would be really cool if they read Bitter Moon I (not NEARLY as much sex and swearing in that one, I promise!)
But mostly, even if they don't like it, and even if they want to voice their opinion about it, I hope they do it nicely. I keep waiting for the review title of "Complete Moron Writes a Crappy Book--Somebody Alert the News!" Just because it hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it's not coming!
So that's it--kids have come and gone, my Juniors and Seniors have managed to foul up two completely relevant, decent projects that they had three weeks and class time to work on, my children have done very cute things (Dad walked in yesterday and the Cave Troll ran up to him and said, "Dad, you have to do your job!!! There's DOG POOP in the back yard and YOU have to pick it up!" And Ladybug--in the bath for, I would imagine, obvious and odorific reasons-- spoke up. "Dad pick up the POOP!!!" I'm sure dad was very tempted to turn around and go back to work, where the words "Dog Poop" are never mentioned in terms of things he must do.) and my older children have been a source of annoyance and affection and I've had some great times at the lunch room at work but...
The one thing (besides the plot for BMoonII) buzzing around my brain pan is the one thing I shouldn't be obsessing about, the one thing I can not change or help, and the one thing that, truly, doesn't make a damn bit of difference in my life.
It really is an odd source of tension.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Low Tech, High Drama
I know some of you all can do the random number generator (ahem, Julie!) but I went low tech, printed out your comments, ripped them into separate slips with your names on them, folded them into little pieces, and had the Cave Troll fish one out of a shoe box. The Cave Troll was thrilled--he got to help! And allergicmom, you should be thrilled too, because you won!!!!!
Go ahead and e-mail me at amylaneATgreenshillDOTcom, and I can get your address to send you a big box of... well, It'll probably have the Noro (which inspired a literal feeding frenzy!), and possibly have books, and maybe some more fun stuff thrown in for color, and you can bet I'll have fun assembling all that! (As I was reading the comments and ripping up the slips, I actually got a little thought bubble for pretty much everybody--it was fun. It was like practicing giving gifts--I totally enjoyed myself.)
And about the book signing--
As far as I know, it will be from 12:30--2:00 at the Borders Express in the Sunrise Mall in Citrus Heights, CA. I do plan to call Susan, the nice lady (manager!) at the store to confirm. (I have a secret fear that she'll realize I'm self-published and have to cancel, in which case I know you'll all help me dry my tears and buck up.) The inestimable Lady in Red asked if I get to talk--Lordy, I'd love to, but most of the book signings I've seen feature the author sitting sedately, in a dignified manner, behind a table stacked with books. I'm thinking I might not be that sedate--I tend to stand up and bob and weave a lot, and I am used to talking to crowds, so hopefully I won't let nerves color the true me. Hopefully, it'll really happen.
Drop me a line, allergicmom--I'm looking forward to shipping that out!
Go ahead and e-mail me at amylaneATgreenshillDOTcom, and I can get your address to send you a big box of... well, It'll probably have the Noro (which inspired a literal feeding frenzy!), and possibly have books, and maybe some more fun stuff thrown in for color, and you can bet I'll have fun assembling all that! (As I was reading the comments and ripping up the slips, I actually got a little thought bubble for pretty much everybody--it was fun. It was like practicing giving gifts--I totally enjoyed myself.)
And about the book signing--
As far as I know, it will be from 12:30--2:00 at the Borders Express in the Sunrise Mall in Citrus Heights, CA. I do plan to call Susan, the nice lady (manager!) at the store to confirm. (I have a secret fear that she'll realize I'm self-published and have to cancel, in which case I know you'll all help me dry my tears and buck up.) The inestimable Lady in Red asked if I get to talk--Lordy, I'd love to, but most of the book signings I've seen feature the author sitting sedately, in a dignified manner, behind a table stacked with books. I'm thinking I might not be that sedate--I tend to stand up and bob and weave a lot, and I am used to talking to crowds, so hopefully I won't let nerves color the true me. Hopefully, it'll really happen.
Drop me a line, allergicmom--I'm looking forward to shipping that out!
Bad blogger...bad...
WHOOOOSH...
Wow. I"m so blown away by how many comments I got--I mean, I know some of you get 20+ every day, but, GEES... for me that's big mojo! (Of course the free stuff had a lot to do with it!)
Anyway, the reason I'm a baaaaaad blogger is that I didn't put a closing date on the contest! I mean, can we sing six choruses of "I'm a dork..." Same, verse, same as the first? (I'm a dork I'm a dork I'm a big fat dork, I'm a dork I'm a dork, I'm a lame-o dork...)
So I figured that when I get home tonight, I'll print out the list of glorious folks who dropped in to say 'HI', cut up the list into little folded up squares of paper, and have Chicken fish them out of a hat. Some of your requests I can do no problem--Jean, I'll definitely donate a copy of Bitter Moon I (and II when it comes out) to the Natomas Public Library. Roxie, Chicken was so tickled by your request for some Chicken art, that she's gonna make you a picture just because. Everybody else, I'll announce the winners with my next blog--and if you haven't gotten your comment in yet, you've got until tonight (Tuesday!!!)
And other than that?
I went home yesterday and tipped my head back for a catnap...and woke up three hours later. It's a good thing Mate was there, or the grunion would have run around like, well, grunion! I have no idea why I was so tired (well, a small idea) but I don't usually let it just take over me like that. *Chah...* Felt good!
And this morning Mate and I amused each other mightily.
Big T was running around like a 6'3" headless chicken, freaking out because he couldn't find his homework, and he missed the bus. I told him to calm down, Dad could get him to school, and that it would be cool.
I went in and reported the news to Mate, telling him, "It's a good thing your car seats four--you're gonna need another spot for Big T's massive angst!"
To which Mate replied, "It actually seats five--we need a spot for Chicken's insecurities as well."
Ah, parenthood.
And as for the short people? Ladybug climbed into bed at 4 a.m. this morning whining about something...it took me several moments of mumbling at her idiotically to figure out she was saying "He'p me...he'p me..." Her diaper had come off while she slept and she needed a new one.
She just turned two last month--this is the closest to potty trained any of them have been when they were AGE 3. I'm not bright, but this one's terrifyingly smart. *shudder*
Wow. I"m so blown away by how many comments I got--I mean, I know some of you get 20+ every day, but, GEES... for me that's big mojo! (Of course the free stuff had a lot to do with it!)
Anyway, the reason I'm a baaaaaad blogger is that I didn't put a closing date on the contest! I mean, can we sing six choruses of "I'm a dork..." Same, verse, same as the first? (I'm a dork I'm a dork I'm a big fat dork, I'm a dork I'm a dork, I'm a lame-o dork...)
So I figured that when I get home tonight, I'll print out the list of glorious folks who dropped in to say 'HI', cut up the list into little folded up squares of paper, and have Chicken fish them out of a hat. Some of your requests I can do no problem--Jean, I'll definitely donate a copy of Bitter Moon I (and II when it comes out) to the Natomas Public Library. Roxie, Chicken was so tickled by your request for some Chicken art, that she's gonna make you a picture just because. Everybody else, I'll announce the winners with my next blog--and if you haven't gotten your comment in yet, you've got until tonight (Tuesday!!!)
And other than that?
I went home yesterday and tipped my head back for a catnap...and woke up three hours later. It's a good thing Mate was there, or the grunion would have run around like, well, grunion! I have no idea why I was so tired (well, a small idea) but I don't usually let it just take over me like that. *Chah...* Felt good!
And this morning Mate and I amused each other mightily.
Big T was running around like a 6'3" headless chicken, freaking out because he couldn't find his homework, and he missed the bus. I told him to calm down, Dad could get him to school, and that it would be cool.
I went in and reported the news to Mate, telling him, "It's a good thing your car seats four--you're gonna need another spot for Big T's massive angst!"
To which Mate replied, "It actually seats five--we need a spot for Chicken's insecurities as well."
Ah, parenthood.
And as for the short people? Ladybug climbed into bed at 4 a.m. this morning whining about something...it took me several moments of mumbling at her idiotically to figure out she was saying "He'p me...he'p me..." Her diaper had come off while she slept and she needed a new one.
She just turned two last month--this is the closest to potty trained any of them have been when they were AGE 3. I'm not bright, but this one's terrifyingly smart. *shudder*
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