Marissa Turner

J.R. Ward’s newest came out yesterday, and I must say, I love the cover.  Enough that I might have drooled a little when I opened the box from B&N.

I’m sick of the seeing the paranormal/urban fantasy with the back of a woman on the cover, wearing as little clothing as allowed, with an intricate set of ass antlers.*  Even female characters who don’t have a tattoo are depicted with one on their covers.  Kitty Norville for instance; she has no tattoo, but every book cover (save for the last one) shows her with one. 

I told D. the other day, I have my perfect book cover in mind.  The woman they use will be dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, there will be no guns, and she will be shown from some angle other than the back.  Now, I don’t care if they men they use as models for Angelo and Joe are naked (I can assure you I’d enjoy that) but not Clio.  Cliodhna must be dressed. 

Once C. has some time, I’m going to ask if he can draw up Angelo’s tattoo for me.  I can’t draw a stick figure, and C. is really, really good.  Angelo has a whole back piece that extends up his neck and onto his skull, with a little bit of the work going over his shoulder and down one side of his chest. 

Like my ballet instructor taught us, if you do something, do it big.

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I have this burning sensation in my nose from the coffee that shot out of it as I was reading Redlines and Deadlines.  Between the misplaced maidenhead, penii that would send a smart woman screaming into the night (in fear, not pleasure) and overuse of descriptive phrases, I love this blog.

Go read it.

I’ll wait.

I settled in with Clio and my vampire last night, only to end up working on a sweater instead.  I did get some work on the book done, as that is what a writer should do when the house is quiet and the dog is finally leaving her alone.  And who needs to knit a sweater, in the summer, in Georgia? 

In the words of S.F. “whoever invented air conditioning… needs a blow job.”  I’m not offering myself up for that, as I’m pretty sure whoever it is, is dead, and I’m not into the corpse thing. 

Off to do the student thing, the writer thing, and the knitting thing.

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I’ll be the first to admit I’m a bitch. 

Most the time I’m a bitch, but I’m really nice to children and animals.  And can be polite to strangers, just like my mother taught me.

But mostly, I’m bitchy.  Which can make me very difficult to live with or be around for extended periods. 

I just don’t handle stupid people well; call it genetics, because my parents can’t handle them either.  Yesterday was the first time since high school where I truly just wanted to take a school book and start bashing people in the head.  Not just any people, there are three in my class that haven’t learned the whole “sit down and shut up” practice. 

How the food was in Florida has no bearing on what tubes are used for what tests.  The idea of storing urine in the fridge being gross has no effect on the fact that it’s still the best way to preserve the integrity of the sample.  (How urine has integrity, I’m not sure, I’ll let you know when I figure it out.)

And then there is female who is swiftly becoming someone who I want to wrap in duct tape and stick to the bottom of a space shuttle.

I go to class to learn.  I’m not there to make nice.  Which is good, considering I told the woman with the urine-drinking child to “kindly shut the fuck up and learn!” 

Okay, maybe I’m not so nice to strangers.  In my defense, they’re both idiots. 

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I’m up before the sun.  It’s always a strange feeling for me to look out the window and it still be dark; my brain says go back to bed, but I’ve got to be up and moving if I want to be somewhat human by the time I get to the college.

I think we should change the name of ‘morning’ to something a little less depressing.  People are executed at dawn… it’s the end of the weekend… it’s a sad thought, morning.  Just ask Romeo and Juliet.

Cliodhnaand I are getting along once again; I still don’t understand how someone who lives in my head can be so damn argumentative.  She’s in my skull!  I’ve got an idea for a short story that is itching to be written, but, short of taking notes, I haven’t done anything with it yet.  I just don’t have the time. 

Between classes, writing, and knitting, and the wife thing, just not going to happen. 

Can I talk to someone about getting an extension on our days?  30 hours should just about do it.

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I’m pretty sure women/girls the world over swooned when Patrick Swayze came out to do the mambo with Patty in that pink dress of hers.  (Which I desperately wanted one, but my Barbie got one instead.)

And you’re never too old to dance around you apartment to Otis Redding’s Love Man.

And who hasn’t done this?  UPG got only slightly pissed when they went to open the chow hall only to discover the lawn littered with their sleds, which instead of being neat and clean, were covered in snow and dirt and boot prints.  And here my mother thought I went to class.

Well, she thought that until today probably, when she reads this and will learn differently.

I didn’t go see the movie with D. yesterday; we decided Savannah was too far to drive and we’ll wait until it comes to town. 

Cliodhna #2 is coming well, just slow.  Which is good; I learned my lesson from the tortoise and the hare when I was a small child.  Too bad for me she’s gotten a mind of her own lately and is not doing anything at all that I want her too.  It’s hard for me to sit here and let someone else pilot when I’m used to being captain of my ship.

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I celebrated Earth Day last month by helping D. plant her flower garden.   Which I’d never done before.  Garden I mean.  So it was interesting.  And I found out I was allergic to tree sap. 

Today is another Earth Day.  Not that I’m complaining, the more aware we are of how screwed up the planet is, the better chance we have of fixing some of the wrong.

D. and I are heading into Savannah to see the Disneynature movie Earth.  For some reason, it’s not showing at the theatre in town. 

I worked out a scene last night that, while needed, made me realize that Clio isn’t as perfect as I thought she was.  Let me rephrase that; I know she’s not perfect, but I didn’t realize she’s as flawed as she is.  There, that makes more sense.  While a necessary point, it wasn’t one I wanted to make.

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You’ve got to love a class where you’re handed puncture kits and told you’re going to be looking at blood under the microscope.  I have a list of name that’d wrap Georgia twice of people I’d love to jab with something sharp (though a bit bigger than a needle) and I couldn’t wait to start crossing names off that list.

“Before anyone worries, it’ll be your own blood you’re looking at.”  Damn.  I can’t handle my own blood.  I like my blood to stay under my skin and moving through my veins, because that’s where it’s supposed to be.  Seeing my blood makes me squirm.

That’s a lie, I can handle it in certain cases.  Like when I’m donating blood- I can lay there and watch the red stuff race down the plastic tubing and into the bag like it’s Shawn White down fresh powder. 

But I’ve never liked having my fingers pricked; blame it on reading Sleeping Beauty  one too many times.  Of course, if you look at it that way, I should be terrified of spindles too…

Anyway.

My drive to and from the school is a lesson in patience; and proof that I have none.  When I’m seriously considering using my little Honda four-banger to take on an Expedition, I should just hang up my keys and walk the rest of the way.

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However, I won’t be joining you.  You have a good time though, I’ll stand far enough away not to catch the second hand high.  Go watch Harold and Kumar.

The only good thing about getting up at 0545 is coffee.  Thunder Butt is sitting here with her head on my thigh, staring at me, like I’m some sort of new bug species she found in the yard.  I don’t get up this early every often, and it confuses her.  Don’t tell her this, but tomorrow is our marathon walk because I want her to sleep for the next week and a half so I can study for my test.

Is it just me, or are there a lot of other people who want to see this movie? 

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I realized yesterday and today that walking is becoming a foreign concept.  I walked home from the PX last night, and six cars slowed down next to me to ask what I was doing.  One MP asked me if I needed a ride to the shopette to get gas for the car they thought had broken down. 

Fast forward to this morning.  I’m walking Thunder Butt, and usually we stick to the sidewalks behind housing.  She gets spooked by loud vehicles and it seems everyone around here drives a SuperDuty truck.  Now, keep in mind, it’s obvious I’m walking a dog.  Not only do I have the dog on the leash prancing about three feet in front of me, I’ve even got the little travel water bowl and a jug of water with me. 

A grown woman came out of her house, in robe and slippers, with coffee in one hand, phone in the other (I assume she wanted it handy in case she needed to call the MPs), to ask what I was doing.

“I’m walking my dog.”  I sort of waved the handle of the leash at her.  And resisted going ‘what the fuck does it look like I’m doing?’

“Why?”  She tries to be nonchalant about it, sipping her coffee as her thumb starts dialing a phone number.  Because a short woman in an old tshirt and Danskin pants, with a dog who is doing her best to keep moving, is just so threatening.

“Because she needs it.  If she doesn’t get to burn off energy, she chews up my walls.”  And I’m not in the mood to pay housing another substantional sum of money because Thunder Butt wasn’t entertained to her liking.

“Oh.”  Deciding that I was harmless, the woman went back in her house and closed the curtains on her sliding glass door.

And locked it.

I must be more of a badass than I thought, to have people wanting to call the MPs on me for just walking Thunder Butt around.

Or we’ve become so lazy that the mere act of walking is a shock to see.

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During my study breaks yesterday, I decided to knit instead of write.  Horrible of me, I know.  However, I’ve got 3 of the projects finished for my little “pay it forward” thing.  One left to knit, one left to sew, then I’m done.  And they’ll probably lay around in my backseat, in their envelopes with the addresses printed neatly on them, until summer time when I remember to mail them.

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