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.

http://act.credoaction.com/campaign/dont_arrest_journalists/?r_by=-1778233-nQFuDzx&rc=confemail

Thanks!

Circumnavigation

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.

Feeling (Almost) Like Fall

Yay Rain? It’s no secret that I love inclement weather, as long as it’s rain and not snow. Even cold rain. I just don’t do “serious winter.”

It should be obvious then, that I’m excited about the weather projection shown in this image. Now, please understand, as much as I want that rain to be “scheduled” and not merely “predicted,” I’m most excited by the projected overnight low on the last two days being below 70 degrees.

Ah, it’s the little things.

Turning the Key An Interview with Me

My livejournal-buddy Robert invited his readers to answer his questions, each of which were tailored to each of us. This was on July 31st, and I left for San Francisco on August 4th, so this is the first time I had time to answer them.

* * * * *

No matter the profession, everyone has the dilemma of writing for pleasure/writing for fun/writing for work.

When one writes on-line content for compensation, the dividing lines get a bit more tricky. What steps do you take to try to separate paid web-logging or other on-line writing endeavors from general endeavors?

It helps that most of my non-paid writing involves topics I choose, and that a good portion of it is fiction, even if some days, all I have time for is flash-fiction or micro-fiction (stories under 750, and 400 words, respectively, though neither is an absolute number).

Physically, I write in different places. Blogging for fun, writing for fun – often happens in bed or while I’m doing something like cooking. (This is why I have laptops in my bedroom, and living room, as well as having a dedicated writing room that I am no longer referring to as an office.)

I write in a different voice. When I write for money, the language isn’t necessarily any loftier, in fact, since some of my fiction is literary, it’s decidedly less so, but there’s less humor in it, and more hard facts. It’s dryer, partly because it has to be, and partly because it’s WORK in a different way than writing fiction for publication, or working on All Things Girl is work.

What’s really difficult is when the two blur. For example, the corporate blogging I do is someone else’s blog, and the articles I write are topics I wouldn’t usually write about (I mean, I’m sorry, but no one really chooses to write three or four articles a day about insurance or breast implants, both topics I’ve covered), and much of that work also doesn’t have my real name on it. But last July I began an experiment in which I did paid posts in my personal blog. Ultimately, the service I signed up with was one which provided text to link, but didn’t require advertorial posts, so it was as much like answering writing prompts as possible. I’ve since stopped doing such posts, because I don’t like being obligated to blog. (This is ironic, actually, because I started blogging to give myself something external to force me to write daily, when I was still doing loans for a living. As to doing loans…there is not a single day when I don’t wake up and offer thanks to the Universe that I had the foresight to leave the mortgage industry before it tanked. I hope I will never go back.)

If you could write whatever you wish and sell it, what would you write?
Well actually, I’m working on this, at the moment, but I really want to write stuff that blends folklore, science fiction and the genre-formerly-known-as-chick-lit, as well as more literary fantasy that borders on magical realism. More recently, I’ve been thinking about something based on my own life – being named after shampoo ingredients because an AWOL relative called from Canada to insist I not be named after him, and growing up with activist parents, etc. But fictionalized.

On the other hand, the notion of being a female Douglas Adams (with better hair) is hardly unattractive.

What kind of formal education did you get? What kind of further formal education would you seek, if you had but world enough and time?

I went to the University of San Francisco, which is a private Jesuit university about three long blocks off the Haight, because a) they gave me a lot of money and b) they had a Great Books program that I loved at the time. But I’d just come from four years at California’s first performing arts magnet school, and I was really not into being in classes. In retrospect, I’d have been a lot better off if I’d taken a gap year, toured Europe, and then gone to a less traditional University (my dream school, if I had to do it all over again, is Bennington in Vermont.) Some of my financial aid package was need-based, and we were in the middle of a real estate boom – I lost my scholarship because my parents made too much money. Even if I hadn’t, though, I probably wouldn’t have finished, and I didn’t finish.

Instead, I drifted for a year, and then went to work for my mother, but I’ve always been a voracious reader, and I’ve always self-educated, and made a point of surrounding myself with people who were mentors and guides as much as friends. I ultimately got a real estate broker’s license, and a bunch of computer certifications – if you add everything together, it exceeds a four year degree, and I’ve never needed the piece of paper. I tell myself that I’ll go back to school some day, but the reality is, I don’t have time, and I really have zero patience for classroom situations. Just give me the material and let me read it, please. Besides, I was an English major / drama minor who didn’t want to teach. I made more money, and more contacts, by NOT finishing college than I would if I had, and ultimately, I was happier for it.

More recently, in my one-on-one with the leader of the writing workshop I recently attended, I was asked if I’d ever taken a creative writing class. I said, “No.” He said, “Don’t.”

You’re given a task which you must complete. You’re to create and honcho a viral campaign in support of a cause for social good. You’re to use your writing skills, your internet networking skills, and you’re to seek out people with skills you don’t have to assemble a massive viral ‘net marketing campaign to promote a cause or charity. The cause or charity must be grass-roots rather than a national institution.

What cause or charity do you pick? What skills do you bring to the table? What skills do you need to use/make friends to acquire? What is your business plan to make this assignment work?

My pet causes are reproductive rights, housing for the homeless, and literacy, but all of those have organizations to support them already.

Coming from California, where schools are desperate for money to support arts education, however, to Texas, where the local high school orchestra actually comes to my neighborhood and gives outdoor concerts in October, but where the libraries are open 7 days a week, and actually have staff and free coffee, I’d want to do something to bring performing arts and literature to anyone who wanted it, sort of a combination of community based Shakespeare in the Park, a city orchestra, and NaNoWriMo, but tying all those things together, and not using it for anything particularly PC like teaching tolerance, but just infusing each community with a real love of words and music. Modern storytelling.

As to skills: I write well, and in many styles, and I am fortunate to know many people who are active in art, literature, music, theater, and finance. The first person I’d hire, however, is someone who knows how to write a business plan, because frankly, that is NOT a skill I have. I’d want someone like Derek Powazek on board, and the amazing Clay, (da_zhuang at LJ), as well.

STORY is a very big thing with me. I read an essay by Madeleine L’Engle where she said that the Judaeo-Christian concept of God was wrapped in Story, and that – it wasn’t such a big impact as much as a “click” moment, where ideas I was already beginning to form fell into place. So, anything I can do to share the love of, and importance of, STORY, that’s what I want.

What wisdom did you think you had at 17 that you see now at a slightly more advanced age that you perhaps instead lacked?

When I was seven, I wrote a poem declaring that I wanted to be an author, but at 17, I’d lost sight of that goal, and when I started at USF, I hadn’t really committed to anything. I majored in English because I liked to read, not because I really wanted to be an English major. So, as I mentioned before, I wasn’t happy or successful. College was the first and only time in my life I utterly failed at something (at the endeavor, not at actual schoolwork), and in retrospect, I would never have gone, or would have taken the gap year I mentioned.

I also thought, because even though I was baptized Catholic, my mother had left the Church by then, and my stepfather is ethnically Jewish, but doesn’t practice his religion, that I didn’t need religion. I’ve learned since that while I don’t particularly need to have a personal relationship with God, and that I’m not even entirely certain how I perceive God, I lack an important set of American cultural references.

I recognize that now, and I also recognize that while I don’t really have religious needs, I do have spiritual needs. In fact, I’m considering going back to the Unitarian Universalist tradition that I was part of as a ‘tween’ and teenager, because while I love the ritual and music of high church, I just don’t fit there. I’m too accustomed to picking the bits of various religions that I find applicable and mashing them together. (Also I have big political issues with the diocese of Fort Worth, which both Episcopal churches in Grand Prairie report to, despite the fact that we’re in Dallas county, not Tarrant.)

I’m not sure these answers are what you were looking for, Robert, and I suspect I’ve been too babbly, but apparently I’m pretty candid when I can’t sleep.

Thematic Photographic: Faded

Every Wednesday, my friend Carmi invites us to participate in his photo meme, Thematic Photographic. Here’s my interpretation of this week’s theme.

Co-Op

I snapped this picture a couple of years ago, on a chilly October day in South Dakota. It was my husband’s last visit to the farm house where he’d grown up, and while “dirty” or “rusty” may seem like more appropriate words for this picture, it means “faded” to me because, like an old photograph slowly losing it’s tone and color, it symbolizes the waning of a lifestyle.

(Also, this isn’t just ANY old tractor, it’s a Co-Op, and the original color was bright, bright, bright.)

Gustav seemed like such a nice boy…

99% of the time, The Weather Channel isn’t something I even remember we have. I mean, how often do I really need to know what the weather is like in Atlanta?

When there’s a dramatic weather event, however, I enjoy TWC’s programming. Right now, the buzz is all about our friend Hurricane Gustav, currently a Category 4 storm taking a trip across Cuba. Tomorrow or Monday, however, it’s likely to pick up speed thanks to the lovely, lovely warm waters in the Gulf of Mexico.

I’m watching news about evacuations going on along the gulf coast, and while I feel bad for people who have to go through it, I’m also excited. Why? Because a bad storm in the gulf means that we in the D/FW metroplex are likely to get some rainstorms that are heavy enough to cool things off, but not so dangerous that we need to be horribly concerned for ourselves.

I know, I know. It’s sick and twisted to think that way.

I can’t help it.

This poem is made of win.

My friend Jeremy posted this in his LiveJournal earlier this evening. I loved the poem so much, I had to post it here in my own blog, as well:

Pronunciation Poem

I take it you already know
of tough and bough and cough and dough?
Others may stumble, but not you,
on hiccough, thorough, laugh and through.
Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,
to learn of less familiar traps?

Beware of heard, a dreadful word,
that looks like beard and sounds like bird.
And dead — it’s said like bed not bead —
and for goodness’ sake don’t call it deed!
Watch out for meat and great and threat
(They rhyme with suite and straight and debt)

A moth is not the moth in mother,
nor both in bother, broth in brother.
And here is not a match for there,
nor dear and fear for bear and pear.
And then there’s dose and rose and lose —
just look them up — and goose and choose,
and cork and work and card and ward,
and font and front and word and sword,
and do and go and thwart and cart —
come, come I’ve hardly made a start.
A dreadful language? Man alive.
I’d mastered it when I was five.

— author unknown