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MissMelisshttp://www.missmeliss.com

If I Feel Like This, It MUST Be Thursday

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If Dick Van Dyke were to show up singing “Put on a Happy Face,” and dancing through my living room, I’d probably have to kill him today. Why? Because my head and back are so sore I feel like I’m dying of mesothelioma or something. (I’m not, of course, I’m just being melodramatic.)

I went to bed early – well, earlier than usual – with a clear schedule and every intention of making up for barely sleeping at all on Tuesday night, only to be rudely awakened around 3:45 by tornado sirens, Miss Cleo barking, and gale force winds and rain pounding at the windows, and Zorro Dog shrieking in distress.

Zorro dove under the bed, which is his version of sticking fingers in your ears and singing La La La to avoid hearing something unpleasant. Cleo, on the other hand, decided that when I went out to change the temperature (it was too cold) on the thermostat, she had to go stand at the back door and beg to go out. “It’s raining and icky,” I told her. “You don’t want to go out there.” But she did. And she DID. For all of thirty-seven seconds, which, by the way, was long enough for her to get completely soaked.

We came back in, but then I had to use the bathroom, and then, in the process of going back to bed, I caught my foot in the laptop cord, and sent it plummeting to the ground, and THEN Zorro came out from hiding and HE wanted to be soothed.

Got back in bed. Got situated, with enough room for both dogs while still having covers and not pushing Fuzzy out of bed. (Anyone who thinks chihuahuas are fragile, btw, has never slept in the same bed with one. An eight-pound chihuahua is perfectly capable of pushing a full-grown human out of bed.) Was almost asleep when the annoying ring of Fuzzy’s phone sounded.

He had a work issue. He went upstairs, I turned out the light (again) and went back to sleep, and just as I was reaching that lovely state where you feel like you’re tumbling into a lovely cotton-filled abyss, he came in the room. “Are you coming back to bed?” I mumbled.

“No. I came to put clothes on. This problem’s gonna take a while and it’s cold.”

“Oh.” I looked blearily at the clock. “Make the alarm later. It’s set to go off in half an hour.”

“Okay.”

Tried sleeping again, but head is pounding, pounding, and dogs are snoring, and pillows suddenly completely wrong shapes and degrees of softness.

And what? Me? In a mood?

Am trying to decide if I should just get up, shower, make oatmeal, and curl up with a book to wait for FedEx, or if I should re-set the alarm for 8:30 and try for a bit more rest.

2:33

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I have to be up in roughly four and a half hours and I can’t sleep. I’m not awake enough to write, but a late afternoon nap made me too tired to go to bed at midnight, which is when Fuzzy came down from his office.

So why not blog.

April has been a good month to me so far. I got into the Algonkian workshop, got a part in this season of the fan-created podcast drama Buffy: Between the Lines, and ordered a new laptop because neither my MacBook nor my Vaio are robust enough for daily use, and, except for printing postage or doing the taxes (currently in process), I pretty much just use the desktop machine to store stuff.

Actually, today (well Tuesday, as it’s no longer “today” really) was a red-letter day. Why? Because I found out my computer had shipped, and is likely to be here on Thursday, my new business cards arrived, I managed to write an article I didn’t want to write before bed so I don’t have to stress about being up to do it tomorrow, I got paid (money is always good), I received shipping confirmation on Wil Wheaton‘s latest book, and I found out a flash-fic I wrote in ten minutes a few weeks ago, and submitted to Everyday Fiction is being published, though I don’t know when.

And to make things perfect, as I write this there is gentle thunder, distant lightning and light rain. It’s the kind of weather that makes me want to stay up all night and write.

But my teacup is almost empty and I’d better go to bed, after all.

A Murderer of Crows

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A group of crows is called a murder, but my dog, Miss Cleo is now a murderer of crows. Or grackles, at any rate. I let her out earlier to do her evening business, and heard her take off after a critter. There was a yowling sound as if she’d chased a cat from the yard, and then a pitiful screeching alternating with her barking, as she chased a grackle across the ground, to the lava rocks under the living room windows.

I called her away, hoping that the bird was merely stunned, and called Fuzzy for help. I yelled at Cleo. I don’t like yelling at dogs, and I’m ashamed that I did it, especially when she’s got a mix of terrier and spaniel in her, and a pretty high prey drive for such a relatively small dog. I realize that she was acting on instinct, but I was still appalled.

Fuzzy went out to see to the bird. It had a mangled leg, and its neck was broken, he said, though it was still moving. As a point of mercy, he had no choice but to finish the job, wrap it in a cocoon of paper tie it into a bag and put the whole thing in the trash can in the garage. He also said he suspects that the cat struck the initial blow, and dropped the bird when Cleo came out.

He grew up on a farm, and was calm about it.

And me?

I told Cleo I didn’t want kisses from her tonight, and then I shed tears for a grackle, a bird most people around here think of as a nuisance, the way people in New York and San Francisco think of pigeons.

I feel like it’s my fault.

Still Not Productive

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But that’s actually okay, because Sundays should be lazy whenever possible. We lounged around this morning, cuddling the dogs and talking, and now Fuzzy’s out getting a hair cut, and when he returns we’ll go get a few groceries, pet food, and maybe hit Jamba and/or Starbucks.

I spent a few hours today surfing San Francisco hotels and Tuscany villa rentals. The former I need for August. (OMG four months!) the latter, was just for fun. Maybe next year we’ll spend a month in Italy. Or I will. Fuzzy’s job doesn’t allow him the luxury of long rambling vacations.

Last night I had fresh strawberries for the first time in years. I’ve been going through a phase where I couldn’t eat them, I thought it was a true allergy, but I think it was a reaction to the summer of 2004, when I practically lived on strawberries, and then one day my body decided it had had enough of them.

They’re such a cheery fruit, and set so erotic as well.

We went out for sushi last night, to Hanasho, to celebrate me getting into the concert. Hanasho does great bento boxes, but Sushi Zone, despite their silly name and slightly disreputable location in the back of a fading strip mall in Arlington, does better sashimi plates.

I should go shower, but I’m enjoying my lazy mood too much to break it.

Oh, well.

Procrastination

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Unless cleaning the kitchen, and paying for my registration for the conference I posted about earlier counts, I’ve been singularly unproductive today, writing a little, reading a lot, cuddling Fuzzy and the dogs, and catching up on sleep.

We did manage to leave the house (once the car was returned to us with working A/C – a MUST in this climate (it cost $1620 to repair.)) for a lovely dinner at Hanasho where I managed not to drip soy sauce into my cleavage – barely.

I’m caught up on work. Laundry day is usually Sunday. The housecleaner will deal with vacuuming and such. But one task I still haven’t managed is to do the taxes – I who usually do them on February first, cannot seem to drag myself up to my office (the computer where TurboTax lives) and actually plug in numbers.

It’s not so much that I think we’re going to owe, because even as a full-time 1099’d writer I’m showing a loss on paper, as that I hate my current array of office furniture so much that my office doesn’t feel welcoming or pleasant, it feels like a prison.

I hate that feeling.

And so, here I sit, blogging and chattering via email about a script proposal, instead of doing anything remotely useful.

Oh, the laziness of me.

I GOT IN !!!!!!!

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And I owe it all to the support of my friends and family.

I’m talking about The Algonkian Novel Camp in San Francisco. I heard from them just a few minutes ago. Here’s the email.

Dear Melissa,

Hello and thank you for your application. The Algonkian Park workshops will show you the craft and knowledge needed to produce a manuscript able to compete in today’s tough marketplace.

Have read your application with interest. It is clear you are a serious writer and one capable of writing a manuscript that editors and agents will want to see. Additionally, your prose sample is indicative of a competitive commercial fiction style. In the workshops we will study and apply craft enhancement techniques that will improve your narrative and make your ms even more competitive. Our goal is to provide writers with realistic advice and work with them to create a plan for publication.

They only take 15 people.
I’m hyperventilating.

Mmm. Blueberries.

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I woke up this morning to a pounding headache, one that had been threatening to arrive all day yesterday, but didn’t really come on in force until I tried to go to sleep last night, and the sound of Fuzzy grumbling in the bathroom. It seems that L, our new housekeeper, did such a great job of cleaning the bathroom vanities, that he can’t find anything.

(Mind you, he is afflicted with the inability to see any object that requires moving another object. I always thought this was limited to looking for items in the fridge, but it’s universal, apparently.)

Outside, while the temperature is mild, the wind is not, and it’s making a howling sound that the dogs are clearly disgruntled by. Poor sensitive chihuahua ears. Zorro’s been giving me his patented slitty-eyed look all morning. As if I can control the wind.

I found the perfect way to soothe my own grumpiness, however. I made oatmeal, laced it with honey, and mixed in half a container of fresh blueberries.

Mmm. Blueberries.

My head still hurts.
But I’ll survive.