Marissa Turner

Wait… can you lose something you never had?

I did the Black Friday shopping.  First stop was the dealership to trade in my gas-hog Kia for a more eco (and wallet!) friendly car.  I am now the proud sort-of owner of one said vehicle, in black.  It’s perfect.  Too bad for me that the bank owns it, they’re just letting me drive it.

I hit PetsMart for Thunder Butt and CJ’s Christmas.  My mother has a mini-wiener dog, and Mama asked that I knit a sweater for little CJ for the holidays.  However, I am not knitting a little itty-bitty sweater for a dog.  I don’t knit sweaters for my own dog.  So, I bought a coat for CJ.  It’s white, with pink lining. 

After I was laden down with stuff for the dogs (I went a little crazy picking up toys and treats and a brand new tie-out for Thunder Butt) I met the sweetest puppy ever.  Ambrose, full-blood Pit Bull, and he loved everyone.  He picked out his own toys for himself, and thought that the people were there for him to sniff and love on.  Ambrose’s owner looked me a little skewed when I knelt down on the floor and started scratching him behind his ears (Ambrose, not his owner). 

“Aren’t you afraid of him?”

“No… should I be?”

“Of course not!  Just, most people are.”  I don’t understand that.  Pit Bulls score higher on temperament tests than German Shepard’s, Jack Russels, even Cocker Spaniels.  They’re wonderful family pets, it’s assholes like Michael ‘Dickhead’ Vick that give the breed a bad name.  I’d still like to pop that bastard one right in the mouth, with a knee to the groin, for what he did. 

But, then I’d be the one in jail. 

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Is it just me, or is this sexy as hell?

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Happy wishes to you and yours.  And if one of yours happens to be deployed this year, I’ve found that copious amounts of wine after the kids are in bed is a wonderful way to celebrate.

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I have things to feel blessed about this holiday season, I know I do. 

But, I’m not the kind of person who usually looks at the glass as half full.  In fact, I’m pretty sure my glass broke and whatever it was half-full of is now all over the floor. 

This holiday season will see me spending more time holed up in my home, with my dog, and the friends who not only understand my moods, but help me get out of the dark ones.  It’s really hard to be pissy when you’ve got a one year old laughing as he bounces on your lap. 

Bah freaking humbug.

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End of an Era- International Wolf Center says good-bye to Lakota

Lakota died on 7 November, 2008.  And yes, I cried.  It took me so long to put it up, because, frankly, I didn’t want to acknowledge it.  My great-grandmother dying Saturday has put me in a depressing mood, and it’s bleeding out all over the place. 

And good-bye Grandma.

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I never really understood the point of this.  I mean, it’s a great concept… unless you’ve already micromanaged your time down to the second and you STILL don’t have enough time in your day to complete everything.  To meet the base goal of 50,000 words, you have to write 1,667 words/day.  Seven days a week.  Doesn’t seem like a large goal at all, does it?  Not that hard.

Until you think of the fact that six pages (double-spaced, one inch margins all around) is just over 1,700 words.  Five pages a day is a big goal, especially if you’re at a point where you’re ripping your hair out and screaming at the computer because the damn blinker is accusing you of not being creative enough.  (I blame lack of sleep and Type O Negative for that reaction)

I try to write five days a week, sometimes six, but always have a day off.  Why?  Because if I don’t get a break, I burn out.  I get to the point where I don’t want to write, and nothing spells disaster like a writer who has lost her mojo.  (Or his mojo)

Add in that I actually have other shit to do (school, cooking, cleaning, laundry, errands, etc) and a house full of people, and I don’t know when I’d have the time every day.  Little J. has this great habit of sneaking up on me and going “whatcha doin’?” and scaring the bejeesus out of me.  She can be sneaky when she wants to be. 

If you do NaNoWriMo, more power to you.  If you’re like me and follow you’re own deadlines, rock on.  Now?  I’m going to go put another layer of puzzle glue on the puzzle D., C., and I finished last night and knit on Baby E.’s hat. 

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My great-grandmother died Saturday.  She was ninety years old on the sixteenth of this month.  Born in 1918, she lived a full life.  One of twelve children, ten of which have passed.  Two world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm, Iraq, the Cold War.  The Depression.  She outlived two husbands, two great-grandsons, and four great-great-grandchildren.

She was ready to go, but that doesn’t mean we were ready to let her go.  I won’t pretend we had a great relationship.  It’s been years since I last saw her. 

She was family.  I think the stubborn streak that runs through the women in my family came down from her; my great-great-grandmother was made a widow while pregnant with her last child and never remarried.  My great-grandmother had a third grade education, but she made the best of what she had I believe.

Life ain’t fair, and I know that, but I don’t have to like it.

D’s husband came home from Iraq yesterday, and now my house is completely full.  Assorted adults, two kids, and a dog.  Plus the assorted stuff that goes with each person.  And one said child has a taste for puzzles; she’ll unmake it, then make it again.  Which is funny, until she undoes large chunks of 1000 piece me, her mother, and now her father have been working on. 

I’ve let Clio sit for awhile after the third editing, now it’s time to pick her up again and see how she reads.  Hopefully this is the last time through, as I’m just about to stake the book and drape with garlic and sprinkle holy water on it.  The damn novel will not rest!  Of course, Clio can be a real bitch, so she just doesn’t want to lie there happily.

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Yesterday was Baby E’s 1st birthday, and Little J. decided that cake was the most important thing in the world.  Every five minutes “Are we gonna make Baby E’s cake now?”  It’s a damn good thing she’s cute :-)  To quote Acheron, “I’m known for spoiling and I respect anyone who can raise a child and not sell it on eBay. So I’ll never criticize.”  Though, I bet we’d get a bundle for Little J., she’s adorable.  Until that curl pops up in the middle of her forehead, then it’s every male/female for themselves.

Apparently, we’ve realized that recycling is good for the environment.  I was outside the other day, checking my mail, when two kids walked by, their arms full of newspapers no one had picked up out of their drive.  Every other step, a paper fell out of their arms, they’d stop, pick it back up, walk two steps, drop another one.  I asked if they wanted to toss the papers in my bin, and the little girl piped up “Recycling is good for the universe!”  I’m not about to correct that thought.

Writing is going well, I’ve started kicking around full fledged ideas for Clio#2, while still working on Cyndra #1 and Luna #1.  Luna is the MS I found and don’t remember writing.  I scraped about 30 pages of it, but I’ve got a good start on half a book.

And the Zodiac Series?  I love it.

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I got my Outlander yarn swap box!  Yes, I giggled like a little girl as I opened it and got a look inside my ’sporran’ from another knitter in DC.  Ravelry is a rather handy site, connecting knitters from all over.  My spoilee lived in Scotland; international shipping is a bitch.  I hope she likes what I sent… Great, now I’m worried she’s gonna hate it.  I did post pictures of what I got, if you’re into that kind of thing, check out the flickr.

Now, I know Twilight is huge.  I’ve seen the freak outs at WalMart and Barnes and Noble over the books.  However, what trips me out, is seeing GROWN FREAKING WOMEN CRYING WHEN THE BOOK IS IN SPANISH!  I’m at WalMart last week because I needed dog food and groceries.  I’m cruising the books, because they put out new ones on Tuesdays and I’m always looking for a new favorite author.  I pass a kiosk of the Twilight series, with books in English and Spanish, and keep going.  I’ve read them, so they don’t register on my radar anymore.  There are two women in the jewelry section, roughly thirty or forty feet away. 

Okay, with me so far? 

They see the reissued cover of the books, and come RUNNING across the aisle, “Oh my God!  They have it!  They have Twilight!”  I get the hell out the way, because being trampled is not my idea of a good time. 

They figure out the book doesn’t say “Twilight” but “Crepúsculo”.  One of them breaks down crying, huge sobs, because it’s not English.  “I don’t know Spanish!  I need to learn!”

I’m standing there, wondering if I should point out they’ve got English versions on the other side…. but I pointed her to the electronics and said they might have do-it-yourself programs to learn Spanish.

I’m so going to hell.

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I need to get the pitch done for Cliodhna.  Seriously, it needs done, and since I’m the one who wrote her story, I should write the damn pitch.  However, I’m not above letting someone else do it.  See, I know how to ask for help.

I love Army doctors.  Like cheating spouses and loan sharks. 

Everything that is wrong with you, can be based on weight.  I have a funky mold in my apartment bathroom that even bleach can’t kill.  So when I mention I’m allergic to MOLD and I’ve got the shit in my bathroom, and I’m having hardcore allergy symptoms?  “It’s because of your weight.”  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?  Another woman went in with migraines, horrible horrible migraines that nothing could touch.  “It’s because you’re too skinny.”  Since when have people been so harmed by their own bodies?  No wonder most women and teen girls have such an unhealthy body image. 

I hope to God I never have a real problem (like, say, cancer) because those bastards are going to tell me that it’s all because of my weight.

I think the doctors who finished last in their class become the Army doctors.  No one gives a damn if the soldiers are sick when they deploy, and as for the spouses, well, I was told by a rather bitchy woman at Target that we’re (military spouses that is) all “fucking retarded for marrying those bastards”. 

I ran over her foot with my cart to make myself feel better.

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