Muse

I need to write.

There was a time when this drove me. This need. Like breathing. Like desire. I couldn't not write. It's an disease, an illness . . . to be unable to write would have driven me mad. See Quills for the ultimate illustration of this.

There were times when I simply had no time in the day to write. There were times when I had the time, but no energy. I was too worn out. But I never worried about being unable to write when I put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. I might have a dry spell of weeks or months, and then my muse would wrap her hands around my throat and commence terrorizing me again.

And then, sometime when I wasn't looking, I grew up. I discovered that my primary calling is not to be a writer. I discovered that I could be happy doing other things. While I still enjoyed crafting stories, sometimes I just had no ideas. And I started to wonder if, by discovering this world in which one could live and not write, I had lost something. The hunger, the madness, the passion, the incessant drive to put words on paper simply to get them out of my head.

But lately, I've begun to have ideas again. Nothing coherent, nothing useful, just enough to keep the back of my brain simmering and seething and make it hard to sleep. And today, here she is again, the muse with the baseball bat in one hand and dagger-like talons on the other. And . . .

. . . I need to write. And i need to write something

that bleeds.

Quote of the Week

"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."

--Red Smith


(While you're at it, check out the rest of these.)

How big a freak am I?

When Friday is Monday

Back to work tomorrow. First time in almost two weeks. I am officially out of extended illness leave. On the plus side, I feel halfway human again. I still have a cough and get tired awfully fast, so I'm not going to be pushing it. I haven't been so sick for so long since I was eighteen. It's harder to bounce back at almost-twenty nine.

I got some late Christmas presents. Thanks especially for the cute little foxie, Kit, Cat, Mark, Shammy, and anybody else who was in on that. :) She's sitting on top of my computer, watching me type. And she's so much more polite about it than my cats are.

I got some Christmas money as well, which registered my car and will get me new hiking boots. I also have to apply for a passport next month. The family reunion in June will leave from . . . Vancouver, I think. Don't quote me on that. And since my birth certificate is a bad photocopy with a notary imprint in it, I'd really prefer to have a passport for crossing the border.

I've heard there's legislation in the works that would require passports to go over any border, including the one with Mexico. I'm trying to fathom this. So many families here in southern Arizona still have family just south of the border in Sonora. You can't possibly expect a family of twelve to pay for passports for all of them, including the kids. I'm going to hope it doesn't pass, because the effects will be very ugly if it does.

I scared one of my cats today. She decided to play with the thermometer. I told her no, and when she didn't stop, I called her a bad cat and took her toy away from her. Somehow, this seems to have penetrated when nothing else I do really has. She decided to hide from me in the bathroom sink, which indicates a depth of "Uh oh, I really pissed Mom off this time" that ignores the fact that the sink was wet. I ultimately had to retrieve her from the sink and cuddle her until she felt better, and she's been awfully clingy this afternoon.

I do not expect this to improve her over-all behavior. Leave it to me to have cats with negative attention-getting behaviors.

I had a weigh-in at Jenny Craig today. The good news is, I've only gained about six pounds over the course of this illness. I was worried it was more like ten or twelve. Stare at yourself in the mirror enough while fevered and everything gets blown out of proportion.

Kendra and I started watching Firefly a couple nights ago. Her mommy gave it to her for Christmas. I'm very taken with it, though I confess, I have the same skewed reaction to it as to a number of other science fiction movies/series, simply because I live in Arizona. That reaction can best be summed up as, "Look, we're on an alien planet somewhere between Tombstone and Benson!" Fortunately, this mostly amuses me.

Nothing more interesting to report, because nothing much interesting happens while you're home sick. Perhaps I'll have more after this weekend.

on presents

I had a delightful, low-key Christmas with my parents and sister and her boyfriend. Despite being sick.

As we were opening presents, it occurred to me that I think I like presents better before they're opened. Brightly-wrapped boxes under a tree are full of cheerful potential. Once they're unwrapped, they just become "stuff." Not that some of the stuff isn't great fun, and it's definitely the thought that counts. But at some point, the possibilities became more interesting than the actuality. Kind of like I've become the kind of person who learns as much from questions as from their answers.

Or perhaps I'm just feeling philosophical due to the cold. ;)

Quote of the Week

"The human race is faced with a cruel choice: work or daytime television."

--source unknown

Codeine is my friend.

Though I'm nowhere near good, I do seem to be slowly getting better. Hopefully I'll feel like a human being again by the time I go back to work on Tuesday.

I've re-gained a certain amount of weight after a week of being unable to walk farther than the dumpster (which was pushing it) or swallow much more than soup and sherbet (I'm past that now, but I'm still eating some strange things to keep the antibiotics from killing my stomach). This is annoying, but I refuse to worry about it until I'm off the antibiotics. One crisis at a time.

Germs are so much cuter when they're plush.

Add to that the fact that the codeine makes everything very strange. I found myself in front of the microwave, holding a frozen dinner in my hand, asking, "What am I doing here? I was going to do something . . . " I think I'd been standing there for two or three minutes. And I can't drive like that.

The world is not made for single people. My boss observed to me the other day, "You need a wife."

I had to agree.

Question #4

Does anybody else put out street lights just by walking under them?

You are all invited.

I feel like I might be slightly better today than yesterday. Mind you've, I've spent most of today sleeping under the influence of codeine.

To celebrate (and because I'm running out of anything in the house that looks appetizing), I ordered pizza. Online. I'm such a geek. But I still have no voice, so it works out well.

I'm thinking it's a good night to eat pizza and watch The Matrix. You are all invited.

The good, the bad, and the ugly.

I went to the doctor today. She diagnosed me with acute bronchitis. The good news is, she prescribed antibiotics and codeine cough syrup. The bad news is, she can't think of anything, prevention-wise, that I'm not already doing. The worse news is . . . she doesn't think the first three in this series of colds were separate colds. She thinks I've been relapsing because when I start feeling better, I go back to working stupid hours and not taking care of myself.

I shared this diagnosis with my boss, who thinks that I should plan on not being in at all this week. With the codeine, I'm not sure I have any choice--I haven't had this stuff in years, and I'd forgotten that it kicks like a horse. Unfortunately, this means I will have to invoke my PTO (paid time off). We don't get separate sick/vacation time at my company; we get PTO that can be distributed however we like. I've been hoarding all mine for the family reunion and Rites of Spring which fall in such close proximity, six months from now. With this little unanticipated break . . . I won't be able to do Rites of Spring.

Financially, this will be better for me, anyway. But I'd just gotten to where I was kind of looking forward to it, so now I'm bummed. We'll see. There's a possibility I may be able to invoke a different kind of leave for extended illness, though I don't think it'll be enough to save Rites. Maybe this is the year I'll finally end up going to Twilight Covening, instead.

i'm sick and tired of being sick and tired

I'm getting worse, not better. I called the doctor today for medical advice, not feeling the need to actually go in unless the doctor felt I should. Big mistake; no one ever called back. I'm sure they've dropped me through the cracks again. To make matters even more cheerful, Kendra reports that a friend's kind with a similar symptom set was just diagnosed with good old-fashioned influenza.

I've never seen much point in my trying to get a flu shot--between the fact that my risk group falls low on the priority totem pole and the dubious nature of flu shots to start with, I just didn't bother. My co-worker got his a week or two ago, and he may be having the last laugh. I'll go in to the doctor tomorrow with my $20 in hand and camp on her doorstep if I have to. Maybe I can at least get some codeine cough medicine out of the bargain.

I've spent most of the last twenty-four hours propped up in a recliner with the vaporizor running and a cough drop under my tongue. Gods, but I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

This little light o' mine.

Unfortunately, we've had something unintentional light up in the apartment in the last twenty-four hours.

I was boiling fat-free chicken broth (which was all I could swallow) last night while sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book. And suddenly, I heard this soft "whoof." I couldn't place it, but it was not a normal house-sound. I looked up and discovered that our electric stove was on fire. Yes, really. The flames were coming up quite nicely around the sides of the pan by the time I took the five steps over to the stove.

I turned off the burner, located the pot holders, pulled the saucepan off the flame, turned the hood fan on, and located a suitable pot-lid to throw over the burner. As I did, it occurred to me that since the contents of the pan weren't what was on fire, and I was pretty sure I didn't have a usefully-smothering seal due to the guts of the range being inter-connected, the fire extinguisher might be more useful. Then the smoke alarm started going off. I disabled it, went back to the stove, and checked the status of the fire. It was almost out, but not quite, so I put the lid back on while I opened the kitchen window and the balcony door to get a cross draft. When I checked again, the fire was out.

I used a spatula to unseat the element so Kendra would know something was wrong, on the off-chance I missed her during another period of unconsciousness. (I did). I have since dissected the incident and made mental notes.

1) Let's hear it for years of being drilled to throw a lid on a stove-top fire.

2) I don't know what was burning. I haven't cooked anything but water on that stove in months due to the Jenny Craig thing. I need to double-check with Kendra and see if we had a boil-over.

3) Boil-overs don't usually result in flame. Steam, at the time. With an eventual possibility of noisome smoke. But not flame.

4) Whatever was burning was located in the drip pan. Mind you, those were filthy when we moved in. So I imagine that the real reason the fire died down was not the pot lid treatment, but lack of fuel (possibly combined with reduced oxygen).

5) This is the same burner that sent current racing through my poor little body in July. The first fix toned it down. The second fix did not seem to help, but when I tested it again later, the current was gone. I mentally tagged it as "possible intermittent problem" and haven't observed a recurrence since then. Is it possible that something sparked into the drip pan, igniting what heat alone wouldn't have?

The plot thickens, and I'm in no shape to play Sherlock Holmes right now.

" . . . sharp-sweet scent of pine . . . "

We have a Christmas tree. I am really unduly tickled by this. Last year, Kendra and I had both just moved into this apartment. I was way more concerned with starting my new job than with the holiday season (though not so out of it as the year my cat Logan passed away on Yule) and Kendra already knew she'd be at her mother's house. This year, I thought about buying a wreath, which is one of my many solutions to liking the scent of pine but having cats. (Past solutions also include "tree in a pot" and "the Christmas bush" with ornaments twist-tied to the branches).

I came home from Phoenix at about 10PM on Wednesday. Kendra had talked about maybe getting a tree (I'd mentioned the useful cat-avoidance tips) in a pot. We have a set of shelves that function as a half-wall. They'd work well for it. So when I smelled pine, I looked for a tree there. And didn't see one. I wandered around for fully five minutes before it finally registered that she'd managed to get a tree as tall as I am set up in the corner where one of our floor lamps and the TV trays usually reside. Low to the ground, close to the walls--little chance of being climbed--and glass and plastic ornaments that can't be unraveled by little claws. And strings of beads and two colors of lights. Some of them blink.

The part of me that cringes at my parents' artificial tree feels much better now.

speaking of gifts . . .

Who sent me the prezzies via Amazon.com? The ones with the card that says "Merry Christmas, of course. :)" and no additional identification? I can narrow it down to about three people, and I do have a primary suspect, but I'd like to further label the card. All presents are stashed under my mother's Christmas tree, as my cats have a tendency to dissect anything wearing wrapping paper.

my boyfriend loves me

This is the last weekend I had to see Pete before he goes home for the holidays. I saw him briefly, Thursday night, at my sister's graduation dinner. We missed the previous weekend due to car trouble. He'll have his brother in town the weekend of New Year's Eve. So it's pretty much going to be a week into January before I get to spend time with him.

I knew yesterday morning that I wouldn't be able to drive up. Too much to do, plus the tickle in the back of my throat. I was planning to call him last night and at least chat . . . but I lost my voice. Not only that, I got home from work and passed out for four hours. Up for three. Slept for eight. Up for three. Slept for two. We're currently on my longest waking stretch since I got home yesterday: about six hours.

I think Pete must have called while I was zonked out the first time. I know the phone rang a couple of times. Kendra answered it. It even, vaguely, occurred to me that Pete might have called to see what was going on with me. I remember hoping she'd make my apologies, since all I had was a whisper or a squeek at that point, and drifting off again.

This afternoon, as I was lying in bed wearing the blankets, two cats, a book, and that's about it, there was a knock at the door. I tentatively stood up and peeked out the window . . . and ducked down again, seeing a stranger. I located a nightgown, threw it on, and answered the door to . . .

. . . flowers.

With a card that reads, "Get well soon and I love you! --Pete"

I love you too, handsome.

Closer to sick than dead . . .

I have a cold. Yes, again. This one went straight to my throat. I lost my voice, yesterday. I've been surviving on clear soup and sugar-free jello, so you can imagine what my functional level has been. This afternoon, I convinced my body it could swallow pasta, so I've got a few calories lurking around in my system somewhere. Unfortunately, this crap seems to be going from my throat into my chest. I haven't had a chest cold in years. I'd forgotten how much they suck.

I want cookies. And not only do I not have anyone I can prevail upon to pick them up (my parents sing with the Tucson Symphony Orchestra Chorus--I will not risk giving them something during performance season. I may pretend I'm in Japan and pick up a face mask before I go over to do my laundry tomorrow), but I'm not sure I could swallow them if I had them. Though tea has been known to help these things.

This is something like the fourth cold in five weeks. While I know my immune systems sucks--sick every eight weeks is about normal for me, and sick every four weeks is not unheard of for short stretches of time--this is flippin' ridiculous. It's getting to the point where I feel the need to call the doctor and say, "Hi--it's not what I have right now that concerns me. It's the fact that I haven't been well more than five or six days since early November."

I spent most of this week recovering from a head cold. Prepped 13 computers in 2.5 days, spent a day and a half on the installations in Phoenix (worked till about 7 both nights, and a working dinner one night). And Friday morning, I woke up with a tickle in the back of my throat. I was loosing my voice my 10AM, and had lost it by 4PM. And I wanted to work half a day today to start catching up, dammit.

If I were injuring myself, I'd start looking for karmic causes. As it stands, I'm not sure what to think.

Quote of the Week

" . . . the razor-thin line between bliss and damnation."

--from a Science Fiction Book Club summary of Deception Well, by Linda Nagata

The Sound of Silence

Sorry I've been so quiet. Things are nuts at work, and I've been battling a head cold on top of that. I seem to be (finally) getting a handle on the head cold. I'm not sure I can say the same about work. I got as far as I could on Ye Ol' Big-Ass Project today. Now I'm waiting on the next component, which has to come from my boss. He's behind because he had to spend a couple days this week doing blueprints for our section of the new offices. So the upshot it, it's just as well Pete's car is in the shop because I worked late tonight and expect to work Sunday. We have a deadline of mid-day on Tuesday.

Half of Tuesday, all of Wednesday, and possibly part of Thursday, I'll be in Phoenix doing installs four the newly-acquired portion of our offices in that area. Thursday evening, my sister has her graduation ceremony.

Christmas shopping finishes this weekend. And laundry. And hopefully, mailing presents to the couple of people who are getting one long-distance.

Good thing I did the Christmas lights Monday night. They look phenomenal. It feels a bit like the only thing I've accomplished this week.

Hopefully we'll finish up this rough patch before I lose my sense of humor.

Hot or Not?

Glamorous Soul 69% Tastefulness, 51% Originality, 54% Deliberateness, 68% Sexiness

[Tasteful Original Deliberate Sexy] You choose your outfits carefully according to many criteria. You don't like looking cheap, dull or random and you go to great lengths to avoid this. You are successful, too. People admire your taste and sex appeal. Many try to imitate you but not many can recreate your unique style. Sometimes, however, they find you too intimidating to approach. If you don't wear retro style yet, perhaps you should consider it. It would become greatly your sexy, mysterious self. The opposite style from yours is Fashion Enemy [Flamboyant Conventional Random Prissy]. All the categories: Fashion Enemy Bar Cruiser Kid Next Door Sex Bomb Hippie Kid Fashion Rebel Fashion Artist Catwalk God(ess) Librarian Sporty Hottie Office Master Uptown Girl/ Boy Brainy Student Movie Star Fashionista Glamorous Soul

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 87% on Tastefulness You scored higher than 60% on Originality You scored higher than 55% on Deliberateness You scored higher than 94% on Sexiness

Link: The Fashion Style Test written by mari-e on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Geeze if you love honkus.

Kendra introduced me to a new word some time ago: jackassery. I wasn't certain I liked this new word at frst--it's certainly not a common construction, and as an English major, I pay attention to such things. However, over time, it's grown on me. When in the company of knaves, one must expect knavery. Thus, in the company of jackasses, one must expect jackassery.

(If I'm misquoting this, Kendra will laugh at me. Very hard).

Theorum: If human beings are, in general, jackasses, then motorists are doubly so.

As proof, I would like to present a little number I call "the horn as intimate greeting." What inner devil posesses otherwise sane people and causes them to honk their car horns at someone they know? Particularly when racing along a six-lane road at 50 mph?

A small stretch of my daily walk is along the shoulder of a six-lane road. It's necessary to get from point A to point B, and it's not really dangerous as there's a good 10-20 feet of shoulder there, depending on exactly which patch you're standing in at the moment. And as I walk along the shoulder of the road, people will honk their horns. I can only assume they're people who recognize me--"Oh my god why are you walking along the edge of a road?" is not a common honk hereabouts, as the answer is usually "reaching the closest bus stop." But no one has come forward yet, and thus, I am unable to politely request that they change their behavior.

And so, I have come to posting this little tidbit in my journal. It is the compiled wisdom of years growing up as a cyclist's daughter: If you are in a moving vehicle, for the love of the gods, don't honk your horn at anything that changes angular momentum faster than you do! This would be cyclists, pedestrians, critters, and small children using any form of locomotion known to man. It scares the hell out of us and may cause us to move in unexpected directions. It is not a polite way to warn the cyclist who can hear your engine perfectly well that there is a car behind him to the left, and it does not result in recognition of your speedily-passing face behind a tinted window.

This PSA brought to you by Coronaries R Us.

Quote of the Week

"If I wanted a ride home, would I be trying to charter a space flight?"

--Dr. "Bones" McCoy, in Star Trek III: The Search for Spock

more dreams

This time, I was several different people, sequentially. There were cops, aliens, and Canadians. At one point, I was having an argument with one of the aliens in which we conceded that both our parents had died in the previous generation's battles. Later, I was the younger of a pair of cops. The older was captured, but I was still loose. I was running through the house that I knew from being the previous person, looking for a hiding place far enough in front of whoever was chasing me that I could be hidden before they arrived. I knew there was a priest's hole somewhere. I finally found a door, flush with the paneling when closed, behind the door in from the other room. I got inside and held it closed with a fingernail. No latch, no knob. Just me, waiting, trying not to breathe. So I could rescue my partner. Because she had some very important object.

You see, this is what my dreams are normally like. And why I occasionally have trouble waking up for the simple reason that I want to know what happens next.

axident

I have had this experience.