Today was a day I’d really rather not have experienced.

I feel all groggy from lack of sleep, I can’t focus on anything, and I still have an article due to The Boss Who Thinks I Rock by morning. It’s only 750 words, and not particularly challenging, if I can find the right head space and string words together in some semblance of a coherent fashion.

A/C Guy kept me waiting til late afternoon then rescheduled for tomorrow, so all day I’ve been paranoid that the unit will flood again, and unlike Fuzzy, I can’t climb the steps into the attic to plug the hose back in if it comes out again. Even though it was rainy, it didn’t inspire me to write today so much as it made me even crankier than I already was, and if I’d have been smart I’d have just curled up in bed and worked from there today, but I tried to force myself to get dressed and function outside the coziness of my room. Bad plan.

I also had the distinct pleasure of having to call California’s Franchise Tax Board, because the mailed a Tax Due Notice to my former employers (even though my 2004 tax return provided them my Texas address) claiming I owed them $4,000 and change in taxes and penalties.

So I called them three times, and let me tell you, no one has a slower voice response system, and there isn’t even an option to press zero for a live person in round one. In fact there never is, you have to guess that it might work. Which I did.

Of course, once I got to a live person, which took three attempts and twenty minutes on hold, they said, “You didn’t file in 2005,” and I said, “I know. I didn’t live or work in California in 2005.” And they said, “But you have a real estate license here.” I said, “No, I had a salesperson’s license, and as soon as moved out of state it became null and void because I’m not a broker, and anyway, I sent a form explaining that I no longer lived or worked in California, last year, when I filed my 2005 return, and y’all sent a note asking why you didn’t get one. ”

Their first response was “Oh.”

And their second response was, “Please hold while we check on that.”

And then they came back and said, “So you’re saying you didn’t live or work in California in 2005,” and at that point I really wanted to bang the phone on the desk, but either the phone or the desk might have been damaged, so I refrained, and simply said, “I believe I told you that twice.”

They asked, “Do you live here now?” and I replied that no, I didn’t (even though I’d given them my Texas address and told them that twice as well).

Finally they said, “Oh, we’ll clear this, then, and you won’t be bothered again.”

And I said, “So you’re saying I owe you nothing, just as I said in the first place?”

And the FTB people said, “Yes.”

As if dealing with bureaucrats wasn’t enough for one day, the house temperature is never right. It’s either freezing or sweltering, and I’m afraid to fiddle with anything, and there was a water bug (that’s polite talk for “giant cockroach from hell”) in the bathroom, and I made a pot of coffee and let two cups go cold.

Sigh.
Make that three.

And Fuzzy’s phone is going right to voicemail, so I can’t even hear him tell me that I’m not a hack, and everyone has sucky days and he loves me.

I say… And you think…

1. Dork :: knobs
2. Refurbished :: used
3. Basket :: case
4. Mousse :: chocolate
5. Studio :: audience
6. 8 ball :: magic
7. Masking tape :: paint
8. Love :: Actually
9. Wilder :: Laura Ingalls
10. Lindsey :: Wagner*

*Of course she actually spells her name -ay, not -ey.

Like this meme? Play along here.

I write better, faster, and more prolifically when I have television or a movie on in the background. I’ve stated before that I can’t write to music, but what I haven’t confessed is that sometimes, on rare occasions, I watch bad television.

What is truly frightening, however, is not just that I have it on, but that I find myself actually paying attention to, and enjoying it.

Take tonight, for example. I had Nick at Night on, and they were doing a marathon of Home Improvement. There was a Christmas-time episode that involved Jill (Patricia Richardson) leaving Tim’s (Tim Allen) restored hot rod out in the snow without the tonneau cover on. A blizzard came, and filled the car with snow, soaking the leather, and ruining much of the car.

The rest of the episode involved the fixing of the car, and the responsibility for causing the issue – apparently Jill has difficulties accepting blame.

It wasn’t a particularly funny episode, though there were moments that made me grin. In fact, what hooked me most was that they were showing a married couple in a sitcom having a real fight. Screaming and snide remarks that were meant to sting, not just induce giggles.

I’d never really appreciated this show when it was fresh. I think I was at one of those ages where I was both too old and too young to get it. I couldn’t identify with the kids, and I didn’t identify with the parents. Now, though, after twelve years of marriage and some screaming matches of my own, and, I’m ashamed to admit, more than a few stinging remarks, I can watch it and be impressed that a sitcom would stage a fight with that much emotional truth.

Don’t worry though.
I will never write a post claiming that there’s artistic merit in Saved by the Bell.

If rainstorms inside my house aren’t enough of a sign from the universe that I’m not doing something right, Friday night our seven-year-old Subaru Forester decided to give Fuzzy a birthday present that was extra special: the “check engine” light came on about half way between the little Japanese restaurant we frequent, and home.

He pulled over, determined that there was nothing obviously wrong with the car, and we continued to the next gas station where, because we’re apparently overdue for an oil change (Fuzzy claims he’s been telling me this for weeks. I suggested that instead of telling me she should have done something about it. Also, I remember him telling me it was “about time” for one, three weeks ago, and nothing since.), Fuzzy decided checking the oil would help. We were low, and he did pour a quart in, but that didn’t solve the problem.

Now despite the fact that I’m writing far too many car articles for a person whose only real issue with any vehicle is “does it run?” I am not an expert on automotive things. For example, I don’t know the difference between a ladder rack and a gun rack, but I do know how to do research, and I can look up just about anything.

So while Fuzzy was stressing over the car, to the point where he refused to go out for lunch yesterday because he’d slept too late to take it in and have the code assessed, I spent five minutes on the Internet and had narrowed the issue down to one of three things: bad seal in the gas tank (a known issue with 2001 Foresters), bad exhaust gasket, or bad catalytic converter. Mind you, the only thing I know about catalytic converters is that they have something to do with emissions, but I read stuff, and was soon reassured that the car was not going to explode, or suddenly stop moving, or anything like that.

So, it’s one more thing we have to find money for, but we will, somehow – we always do – but I’m not going to stress about it. Instead I will be smug. Why?

Because when Fuzzy took the car to get the oil change done today (which didn’t happen, because he didn’t get up til noon, though they ran the code for us, and cleared it) he said, “I think it’s because we’re due for our 90,000 mile check-up, but my wife says it’s the catalytic converter.”

And the mechanic said, “Your wife is right.”

Today, we walked out into the living room to find a puddle on the floor behind the couch, and water falling from the 2nd floor hallway ceiling. There hadn’t yet been rain in our neighborhood at the time, so we knew it had to be coming from an internal source, and Fuzzy quickly found the culprit. One of the a/c units has a hose that keeps coming unsealed.

He stuck the hose back in place, and we mopped up the leak, and then I fired up my computer, and opened Excel, which I use as much as a financial reporting software solution as just a convenient place to keep all the various account numbers and phone numbers and passwords that one acquires along with a house.

I did not sacrifice a goat, but I did thank my mother for hammering the necessity of a home warranty into every client we’ve ever had. Why? Because I listened, and we keep renewing ours, and so whether the a/c problem is a simple little pipe de-clogging and filter changing job, or whether they have to replace the whole unit, it won’t cost me more than $55.

I’m not as certain that our insurance will cover the damage to the ceiling, and even if it does, I don’t think the cost to cure will be remotely close to our deductable. It’s a ceiling that doesn’t have a weight-bearing floor above it, and isn’t the inside of a roof. It’s literally a piece of dry wall, some tape, paint and texturizing goop, and maybe two hours of work.

While I was on the phone with the home warranty company, I also asked for service to fix the broken drain in the master bath, because bubble bath weather is fast approaching. That’ll be another $55, and a bit more dry wall, and maybe some caulking, but totally worth not having to pay for an actual plumber’s actual billable hours or parts.

Excuse Me?

I write for a living, but somehow I separate that writing, which is mainly car reviews and articles on demand, from writing I do here in my blog, or any kind of fiction. I’m technically a working writer, but I think of myself as a marketing professional, because otherwise, otherwise I’d feel like a hack, or that I’ve sold my soul.

Strangely, doing paid posts in my blog does not make me feel like that. Possibly it’s because I choose the topics, and the money is “found” money – extra cash to pay for stuff like my perfume habit or pedicures, or the vast collection of blank note cards with pretty pictures that I’ve acquired. (I have a “thing” for note cards.)

Truly, however, when I think I’ve writing, I think of Jo March in her garret, with her special black hair bow, ink stained fingers, and baskets of apples, and even though I don’t have a garret, and my 2nd-floor home office overlooks the treetops and the pool, I try to channel that mood, that sense of place and purpose, when I’m working on writing I actually care about.

My dream, from the time I was eight years old and wrote a bit of bad poetry (well, it was good for an eight-year-old, I suppose) about it, has been to publish fiction. I now have a vast body of work circulating on the ‘net, but it’s all the work stuff I mentioned before, and much of it isn’t attributed directly to me. I’ve published some essays and creative non-fiction in literary magazines and e-zines, and I’ve succumbed to the pull of fanfic and posted some of that both to my fiction blog at MoonChilde.com, and at fanfiction.net.

I’m working on a series of cafe fiction, as well. That’s my baby right now, but while snippets of it ARE available on the ‘net at UniversalBlend.net, I haven’t really made a point of asking for feedback on it. The few trusted friends who’ve read it say it’s good, but I can’t get myself to believe in myself enough to DO anything with it, and while I know you don’t have to have a finished work to query agents, just sample chapters, I’m terrified of doing so.

Pink hair has made me braver on stage, but I can’t find the courage to do anything with the one thing I love more than any other: writing.

I wish I could.

From: Sunday Scribblings

For those of you just tuning in, Alliterative Saturday is when I use alliteration as a jumping-off point for sharing the highlights of my week.

Fall: It’s not technically autumn, but signs of fall are growing more prominent. Pumpkins have appeared in local storms, spiced cider is back on the display menu at Starbucks (they have it year-round, but only advertise it in fall), as has the pumpkin spice latte, and even though we’re still reaching the 90’s for high temp of the day, the evenings are cooler, and the temperature doesn’t LINGER at the high, just reaches it, then cycles downward.

Fashion: Tim Gunn is one of my personal heroes. If you’ve seen Project Runway, you know Tim as the gently snarky guiding soul of the show, part host, part confessor, part cheerleader, part color commentator. On Thursday his new show, Tim Gunn’s Guide to Style, premiered on Bravo. It’s a little like a more refined version of What Not to Wear coupled with the sensibility of Queer Eye, and like the latter, it offers fashion advice to the DotW (disaster of the week) in a way that is both frank and kind. It’s the kindness, the obvious intention to help people, that I think makes it work, though Gunn’s snark is also a crucial part of the mix. Thursdays at 10/9c on Bravo. Check it out.

Friends: I am blessed with some really cool friends. Clay listens to me whine about all my writing being fluff and drivel and gives me a good kick in the ass, and injection of creative energy even when I know he’s feeling depleted. Sky brings me back to grace, often without knowing it. Gin makes me laugh. Rana introduces me to things I’ve never considered, like bull riding, and is more addictive to gadgets than I am. Ben is really Fuzzy’s friend whom I acquired by marriage, but he and his wife Julia never fail to be interesting and supportive. (There are no links in this paragraph because I don’t have their permission – well, I link to Rana all the time – but the others write in less overtly public places.) There are others, of course, but these are the people I have the most, regular interaction with.

Fish: Sushi for Christopher’s birthday dinner last night was great. He had salmon. When I married him I had to force him to eat any kind of fish. 12.5 years later, he willingly orders salmon and ahi tuna at restaurants. (I had salmon also, but with sashimi instead of California roll.). There was a group of young women – college aged, we guessed – sitting next to us. Three Japanese girls and one American. Japanese as in “just got off the plane from Tokyo” and NOT Japanese-American. We were trying to figure out the relationship – were they friends from school? Foreign exchange students with their mentor? Who knows? We could have asked, but we didn’t want to make them feel self-conscious, and sometimes it’s more fun to speculate.

Freezing: My body temperature is shifting. I’m not sure if it’s an unlisted side effect of alli, or if my metabolism is shifting, but lately I’m always cold. I keep turning the thermostat up, or going outside to sit in the sun, and while I used to like the car a/c set to “iceberg” lately I can barely tolerate it when it’s mid-way on the dial. Last night, I was so cold that not only did I wear my warm cotton lounging gown to bed, but I snuggled so close to Fuzzy he could barely breathe and was almost choking on my hair, and didn’t make the dogs move. I suppose in summer it’s better to feel cold than uncomfortably hot, but it’s very weird.

Funny: I’m really not a funny person. I can pretend to be, sometimes, but the reality is that while I can make humorous observations, dish out snark, and be ironic or sarcastic, I’m not truly funny. I say this because while I’m still enjoying CSz, I feel like I’m coming close to the end of my time there, like I’ve gotten almost everything out of it that I can. I feel myself disconnecting. I need to think about this some more.

Fuzzy: Yesterday was Fuzzy’s birthday. While I celebrate mine with bells, whistles, announcements to the blogosphere, and copious amounts of chocolate, a day of sleeping late followed by presents and dinner was really enough for my sweet Christopher. We’re such geeks. I gave him a gift certificate to the game store so he could buy role-playing books without me having to spend vast amounts of time near the unwashed miscreants who lurk in such places, and the first season of Heroes on DVD. And a heart-shaped rock, because I thought it was cool. He’ll be away all week, and I hate that, but at the same time, I kind of like not having to account for his food tastes or plan meals around his schedule.

I went with Fuzzy to his office tonight so he could pick up a wire labeler he needs to bring with him to San Jose on Monday, and was caught off-guard by the quality of the tile in the reception area. It’s lovely river-rock tile with blue-grey grout, and I commented, “That would be fabulous in our bathroom.”

Fuzzy glanced at it, the way geeky guys do, and said, “I guess,” which from him means, “Yes, I completely agree.”

“Speaking of the bathroom,” I went on, “When you come home, I want to go looking for shower faucets. I hate ours. I’ve hated it since we moved here, and I really want a better control, and a hand-held shower head.”

“We’d have to break into the shower wall,” he said. “I don’t want to do that.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think we would. The plumber didn’t have to when he came to fix the leak two years ago. We just have to pick something with a splash plate that matches the existing hole.”

“That may be hard. This house is funky.”

I gave him my best, you’re-going-to-wish-you-hadn’t-said-that look. “Sweet boy,” I said, using a phrase I picked up from a piece of fanfic in which the lead character used it sarcastically to warn her partner that he was being anything but sweet, “we live in a tract house. Yes, the neighborhood has five models instead of one, and yes, they’re all landscaped and painted a little differently, but I’m fairly certain all the parts are standard.”

He changed the subject at that point, deflecting my lecture on which of us worked in real estate finance for half her life, and instead asking, “So are you up for Japanese food?”

You know, planning a bathroom remodel seems less important when there’s a plate of sashimi and tempura in front of you.

…died last night. She was one of my favorite authors, and her works have been important in my life.

I wrote about it here.