Black Friday
If you’re going shopping, I wish you the best of luck. If, like me, you’re avoiding anything remotely like a store, I wish you luck.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dog to walk.
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In order to shop where I want, I must move overseas. Makes perfect sense.
I’m not kidding. I *loved* all the stores in Germany. The people were helpful, even after I proved to be a dumb ass by not knowing a single lick of German anything aside from ‘hi’ ‘bye’ and ‘thank you’. Oh, and house shoes. Because I’m cool like that.
All kidding aside, I just like their stuff better. Aside from what I knit/sew myself, I find myself liking the across the pond designs and garments a lot more than what I find offered in the U.S. Which I’m sure means I’m horrible.
I’ve got five days to finish my story. Five. One hundred and twenty hours. And that’s assuming I was up and moving since midnight last night, which I wasn’t.
Crap.
Think the muse will believe me if I tell them that Thunder Butt ate the manuscript? I didn’t think so, but it doesn’t hurt to try.
Now we’re all cranky and craving ice cream
Not only am I going through the ‘healthy diet means a happier you’ phase, but now Thunder Butt is going through one as well. According to the vet, she has to drop several pounds or she’ll be aged long before her time.
So we’re dieting. And she’s licking the top of her food bin like “Mom, I’m starved. Mom, I’m hungry. Mom, Mom, Mom, MOM! Feed me!” And I feel worse because, in a way, I made her that way. Dogs are not like children; you cannot control what your kids eat. But your dog (usually) only gets to eat what you give them. Since she doesn’t go digging in the trash like my old dog, and all her treats are in a cupboard that requires being five feet tall with opposable thumbs to open, her extra pounds came directly from my hand.
It’s a hellish guilt trip.
She now gets walked twice a day instead of just once, and while that’s good for both of us, the same cannot be said for my shoes.
The extra walks are a good time for figuring out issues in the book though. I can think through the problems as we cavorting through the cold and wet afternoons (and yes, they’re cold and wet here finally, it just took us a bit longer than the rest of the country). And nothing says mind-numbing task like cleaning the dirt and mud out from between dog toes- so I can think about it then too.
I’m going into self-imposed lockdown tonight
Knit Mom and I were thinking of going to see 2012 or Law Abiding Citizen tonight. You know, Friday night, and since we’re unable to date, we thought we’d catch a new movie and get out of the house. (And, really, Gerard Butler is always fun to drool over watch)
Until I remembered this insanity was starting tonight. No thanks. I had enough of hormones and screaming and crying when I went to NKOTB, *N Sync, and Bon Jovi concerts. I’m full up on hormones and the screaming and “Ohmigod”-ing. I even did my share of screaming and “ohmigod” back then, but I was hormonal and young and really, it was all my friends fault. She started it first.
Moving on.
If you’re going out tonight, I wish you well. Wear your SWAT gear. If, like me, you’re staying home, I wish you good wine and movies that don’t suck.
As for me, I’m going to stay inside with Knit Mom and watch G.I. Joe and Star Trek.
I was, like, completely stoned. On DAYQUIL.
That is what companies never tell you- even those ‘non drowsy’ safe daytime OTC meds are going to make you into an extra from Cheech and Chong.
I *think* I’m in the end game with the book, which sounds very pompous considering I’ve got 11K left to write. Or at least another 6K, but probably closer to the 11K. I cannot do “wham bam thank you ma’am” stories. I’m a talker, and that spills out into my writing. At least my writing follows a line and makes sense, unlike my usual conversations which involve abrupt subject changes that will leave you wishing for a neckbrace from the verbal whiplash.
However, I must get going as I’ve got errands and a dog to walk and a word count to do (I have no idea why I try to write in the day- my muse is off dancing by herself to Star of the County Down, and is ignoring me) and cleaning. One day, I will have self cleaning floors. And dishes that load themselves in the dishwasher and clothes like that fold themselves.
He wasn’t born- he was government issue.
Hence the term “G.I.”. And the funny part to me is that I know plenty of people like that.
I’m having a morning. Well, everyone is having a morning, but somehow I woke up with a pounding headache and a stuffy nose. Ugh. It’s only Wednesday, and this week was shot to hell about twenty-four hours ago. By the way, whoever said the truth shall set you free, had their head wedged.
I’ve decided I’m not tense, just really, really alert and that maybe I should cut back on my caffeine.
Wow, I must be sick, I’ve never considered cutting back my coffee habit (which is the only thing I drink now with caffeine in it.)
I did not hit word count yesterday, which means I’m a horrible person. But I did get to read a book I’d been drooling over, so it wasn’t a complete waste. I was in no condition to write last night, and it was completely my own doing that I wasn’t in a position to add to word count.
I really should think things through.
She apparently only signed on to work nights
My muse forgot to mention to me that, in her contract with the creative side of my brain, she put in that she only works nights. So this whole “get up and write early in the day” thing I do? Yeah, she doesn’t work like that.
Long as she works, I’m not going to complain. Much.
You know what I cannot stand? The silent treatment. Or, a step up from the silent treatment, is someone ignoring you only to point out all your faults in a snippy tone, and then ignoring you again. Both of those things send me right off the edge and will find you getting a US 35 knitting needle shoved right through your eye.
I’m not having go through either treatment right now- namely because it’s hard to do the silent treatment thing when your spouse is elsewhere. (For the record, I don’t do silent treatment, I do avoidance. Mainly because I know just how far I’ll go to get even, and it’s better for all parties involved if we’re not around each other). But it still pisses me off when I see others go through it. Really, what does that accomplish? Nothing. It makes you look like a stubborn jackass.
Ugh, I’m snarky. Which isn’t unusual 
but it’s really too early to be this crabby.
I think I’ll work out early. That should get some aggression out. If I keep going like this, I’m going to have the strongest calves ever. I’m just hoping my thighs match
Five Finger… what?
I just found Five Finger Death Punch yesterday. How I went this long without hearing of them, I don’t know. But I can’t say their name with a straight face, and anything that makes me giggle is a prize indeed.
Thunder Butt proved to me the other day that life is what happens when you’re playing with the muse. I was in hardcore write mode, and I heard this clicking noise behind me. I ignored it, figuring it was a defect in the CD I was listening too (yes, I still use CDs in the era of MP3s and Grooveshark). It sounded again, this time followed by the distinct sound of a Lab victory grunt. Thunder Butt reserves those particular grunts for when she’s done something she knows she’s not supposed to, and she thinks she’s gotten away with it. (I’m sure she made that same sound when she chewed up half my kitchen floor).
I look behind my computer chair, and there’s my dog, in all her Lab happiness… with every pillow in the house piled up in front of her, along with my stuffed wolves. And a teddy bear in her mouth, her teeth cheerfully trying to chew his head off. Apparently, it was a canine sleepover in the middle of my living room and I wasn’t invited and the bear needed to be destroyed. He was rabid or something, I’m sure.
Even without being published, I’m an agent cyber-stalker
Well, their blogs anyway. Because, even you think they’re a snarky bitch, they have great little bits of information all over their websites.
Today’s little bit that had my light bulb going off is from Agent Kristin and involves the no-compete clause that can be snuck into your contract.
See, without reading her blog, I might never have noticed/seen such a thing. And then all sorts of bad would have happened.
And, that’s all from me for today. It’s Friday, and it’s the 13th, and while I’d love to go around looking for black cats and walking under ladders to freak people out, I have a word count to hit. And things in the house that need cleaned (read as: EVERYTHING)
I’ve lost my mind
On top of writing my half-NaNoWriMo, running my house, paranoia over Iraq, wondering who put the ram in the rama-lama-ding-dong, and making Christmas presents (which, really, I should have started knitting all of them around the 4th of July) I decided to cast on this. For myself. Because you can never have too many sweaters that aren’t sweaters.
And I also cast on these. In the same colorway as Bella Sera, because if I’m making something short sleeved, I want the option to keep my other bits warm.
And I’m writing- which is causing a headache. Not for the writing, but because I need someone to shove me out of my own head space and into the story. I over-think everything. No joke. Everything is over analyzed and picked at and poked and prodded until it either dies or screams for mercy. And then I poke it again.
I’m a little masochist. What I need is a sadist. Or the Sadist, but he only lives in fiction.
And, on that note, it’s time to run some errands while I try to get myself out of my skull and into the scene. I might need an intervention… do they have writing interventions?