Yesterday in the grocery store, I hesitated in the lightbulb aisle, trying to remember what size bulbs go in the light bridge of our bed. This is a purchase that usually falls to Fuzzy to make and I’m not certain why it occurred to me to look, except that I was also trying to find a replacement bulb for one of the lamps on my dresser. I wish compact fluorescent bulbs came in soft pink. I like soft pink, especially in the bedroom.

My idyll in the aisle of illumination must have been mildly precognitive, though my powers of perception failed where it mattered. I couldn’t remember the correct size so didn’t buy bulbs. This morning around one AM, I startled myself awake from a disturbing dream, turned the switch on the over-the-bed light, and was greeted with a cold, dead spark-poof sound.

In this space, it seems, I am now completely in the dark.

I Want a New Drug

Or actually, I have a new drug. After consulting with my doctor today (or rather, her colleague, a gregarious gentleman with bright red hair, whom I quite like) we determined that Imitrex was actually over-medicating me, causing headaches to linger.

He’s got me on a milder drug, Midrin, which seems to have knocked the pain in my head back to zero, though I am a bit sleepy.

Tomorrow, I have a hair appointment. Just a wash/cut/blow dry. I’m stripping the pink out on 9/27 and replacing it with Aveda’s new “blackberry” (a deep, deep brown with violet undertones) and either Special Effects’ Blue Velvet or Deep Purple stranded through it. I’m not ready for normal yet, but I’m ready for something darker, and I’m bored with pink.

I am jam-packed with work-type things for the next two days, but should have time to update CafeWriting on Saturday, if I feel better.

Meanwhile, head over to this post at the ATG blog, and tell us what your preference is with regard to medical professionals.

Also, remember that this giveaway will remain open until October 31st. Comment there for a chance to win an advance copy of Colleen Gleason’s latest work.

Still Blechy

I slept and tried to write all day to day, and got nothing much done, except half an interview for work, that sucks because when my head hurts I can’t string together words that are coherent, never mind pretty.

Outside, there is a slow rainfall of cool, fat drops, with room enough to walk between them, if one wanted to. I want to want to, but I just feel glum. Even Milo and his toy car couldn’t get me out of doldrums in which I find myself, I don’t think.

I should work, but my vision feels tunnel-ish, and instead, I’m going to turn out the light, and let the BBC overnight service on NPR lull me to sleep.

Media Monday: Ben Bailey at the DC Improv

I’ve been working on (well, actually, they’re done now, I’m waiting for the response) interview questions for Ben Bailey (host of the Discovery Channel’s Cash Cab), for the Jan/Feb 2009 issue of All Things Girl, and as a part of my research, I’ve been watching videos of his stand-up act.

I’m sharing a video of him (ganked from YouTube, of course), for this week’s Media Monday, because it made me laugh. He does go a bit blue, though, so it’s definitely NSFW (not safe for work), or children.

There are worse things than being up at seven-thirty on a Sunday.

The beeping alarm.
The whimpering dog.
Don’t want to wake up.
Rather sleep like a log.

The trill of the phone.
An awakening brain.
I have pants to iron.
Wish it looked like rain.

(There’s no chance of rain.)

There are worse things than being up at seven(-thirty)on a Sunday.
There are worse things than being up at seven(-thirty), after staying up til three making pans of chocolate cookies, and avoiding any writing, ’cause your brain was feeling foggy, and napping was delightful, on a Sunday…with an absent spouse.

(With apologies to the creators of Sunday in the Park with George)

Fuzzy sent a text message this morning to let me know he appreciated all the texts he received yesterday from various friends and strangers. I’d posted to my LiveJournal asking people to send him birthday greetings, since sending a cake to his hotel in Hong Kong wasn’t cost effective.

I’m having a severe allergic reaction to something, but I’m not sure what. All I know is that I’m so itchy I want to claw off all my skin. This is never good.

I’m going to check out the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship this morning, and there’s a potluck after. When I get home, I think I will take a benedryl and a long nap.

Happy Sunday. Have a lovely day!

Sexual Tomato

I should have grabbed the camera, and even commented off-handedly that it deserved a picture, but did I? No. Neither of us did.

My good friend Paula had just returned to town after another stint in our nation’s capitol, and she’d brought back agricultural contraband in the form of peaches and an heirloom tomato. The peaches, she kept, but I’m tickled to say that the tomato was shared at my house this evening.

As good friends can, she sensed that I needed company tonight. I was mopey yesterday because I knew the weekend was approaching, and work was more frustrating than usual, and grew ever more so until finally, around two this afternoon, I told the guy I contract for, “I just can’t deal with any more stupid people today. It’s not your fault, and I’m sorry, but I really need to just stop now, because I’m getting cranky and frustrated, and everything I write is going to SOUND cranky and frustrated.”

He must’ve been having a Fridayitis moment, because he laughed at me, in a non-patronizing way, and we agreed to call it a day.

So when PT called and said, “Hey, what are you doing tonight,” I was honest, and said, “I’d love to hang out, but I’m really not in the mood to GO out. But I have hamburger I’m planning to grill, and you’re welcome to come, if you give me enough time to vacuum my house.” (Vacuuming was not optional at that point, and had been on the agenda for today anyway – the pet-hair tumbleweeds were beginning to evolve into sentient creatures.)

Now, she’d texted me from the farmer’s market where the tomatoes were purchased, so I knew she’d found wonderful stuff, but the tomato she’d brought…it was deep emerald green on top, gradually merging with deeper maroon, and when we sliced into it the inside was a brilliant ruby red, and you could smell that wonderful tomato-y smell that wraps sun and vine into a lovely fleshy package. I arranged the slices on a black glass serving dish, and we sliced the top in half and ate it standing at the counter. It was perfect. It was sexual. It was total food porn. And it was DIVINE.

The rest of dinner was a simple summer supper: burgers on the grill, a salad, and baked potatoes, all accompanied by cosmos and chilled water, much laughter, and no talk of anything resembling work.

After dinner, we adjourned into the dining room I never use for actual dining, and had coffee, and noodled on our computers, but it was late, and neither of us was up to anything really taxing.

Better yet, she stopped at a tea store and brought me some frou-frou tea – 2 oz. each of Assam, Lapsang Souchong, and Golden Monkey, the last of which is $7/oz. I’ve been dying for non-bagged, interesting tea, and even though I really needed rest, brewed a pot of the Assam after Paula had gone home.

Plans for tomorrow include sleeping late, folding a metric assload of clean laundry, and washing several loads of towels.

And writing, of course, always writing.

Censorship in the form of Pepper Spray?

I try to keep politics out of my blog, for the most part. I have strong opinions, but this blog isn’t about that. Nevertheless, as a writer, censorship irks me more than anything, and as someone who has met Amy Goodman, this is not just a political issue, but a personal one for me.

I therefore offer the following, quoted from an action letter.

Dear Friend,

Jailing journalists is unacceptable in a democracy. But that’s exactly what is happening at the Republican National Convention in St. Paul, Minnesota.

Award winning journalist and host of “Democracy Now” Amy Goodman was arrested by St. Paul police while covering a protest outside the Republican National Convention. Though clearly identified as press, Goodman was charged with “obstruction of a legal process and interference with a ‘peace officer.'” Two of her producers were arrested for “suspicion of felony riot.”

To tell you that this arrest was brutal and upsetting simply doesn’t do it justice. Watch this video to see for yourself. Then take action.

I just e-mailed the presidents of CNN and NBC News (which oversees MSNBC) to demand that their networks cover this important story. I hope you will too.

Please have a look and take action.




I woke this morning to sunny skies and a soft breeze, and I’ve had the downstairs a/c turned off all day, and the doors wide open (well, the screens are closed). Fresh air is such a marvelous thing. Not that I don’t love that my a/c will cool my house down to 65 degrees if I want it to, but, I much prefer the free stuff from outside.

It’s 85 degrees right now, according to weather.com, and while I know we’re due for some low-mid 90’s over the next few days, I don’t mind, because underneath the warmth, I can feel the bite of fall, even without the impending rain (see next post).

In celebration of it being neither hot nor humid, the dogs and I circumnavigated the neighborhood. We walked slowly, because of Zorro’s heart condition, and his month-old ACL injury. He was fine, though now he’s completely exhausted. Poor old dog. Miss Cleo was her exuberant self, finally settling into a proper walk about ten seconds before we arrived home, where gave the lawn guy little to doubt about her feelings for his edger.

On our voyage, we encountered some strange life forms, like Lucky the dachsie/min-pin mix who decided that the middle of the street was the appropriate place to flirt with Miss Cleo. (No worries, both dogs are neutered).

Miss Cleo also got to bark pointedly at the bane of her existence, the cement poodle on the corner. She finds cement statuary beneath her notice, generally, but this – perhaps because it is dog-shaped – she treats as a personal affront to real, live dogs.

It’s a good thing the statue is far up on the neighbor’s lawn, where the dogs are not allowed to tread, or I can just imagine the sort of statement that would be made.

In other news, the house directly across from us, and the house two up from us on the same side of the street are both up for sale, both as FSBOs. With realtor representation, they might have had a chance in hell. As FSBOs? The earth will spin the other way on it’s axis before a sale is made.