Windy

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I don’t know if they make an Alli equivalent for dogs, but I’m beginning to think Miss Cleo would benefit. Why? Because she’s got fatty cysts.

Okay, okay, I know that a fat blocker wouldn’t really help the cysts. They’re a normal sign of aging for a dog of her size and breed, but she does need to lose five pounds, and so in the interest of not feeling like a lump myself, and in helping her accomplish this, she, Zorro, and I walked a mile in the wind today.

It wasn’t hot, but I must still be mildly sick (I know I am, because my throat and ear are still achy when I swallow), because I felt hot even though it wasn’t more than 73 degrees, and despite the fact that the wind had a distinct bite to it.

I like rainy springs better than windy ones.
Really.

Anyway, in the back of my mind there’s a line from a play – Into the Woods, I think – about fleeing or fearing the wind.

A throwaway line, but in my head nonetheless.
Weirder things have happened.

Thump, Thump, Draaaag.

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A box of birthday invitations I saw in the grocery store the other day has been haunting my brain, looking for something to connect with. My birthday is four months away, so it wasn’t anything literal.

I cast backward into memory searching for the relationship, and found a birthday party for my friend Joy that I attended when I was eight or nine. I don’t remember the party; I do remember the lights being turned off, all of us being sacked out around the dining room and living room, and her older sister telling ghost stories, the kind that involve hooks in doors and young girls being attacked by madmen (general escaped criminals) on their way to parties just like this one.

One such story ended with the young girl in question having her hands and feet cut off, climbing the stairs as best she could, with the party invitation gripped in her mouth.

Thump, thump, draaaaag.

From this grim tail, I remembered a later evening, also dark, when my mother, step-father and I sat around the dining room table and listened to a science fiction radio drama while a storm blasted icy rain at the windows.

For all the blood, guts, and gore that movies show, I believe that radio, and now pod-cast dramas, are scarier, because what you imagine is so much worse than what can be shown on screen.

It is because of this that when someone mentions Bill Cosby, my first connection isn’t Jell-o or his television show. It’s Chickenheart.

Hot and Cold

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To borrow a phrase from my friend Ms. Eclectic, we hired a Domestic Goddess a couple of weeks ago. She was a referral from another friend, and she’s wonderful, but having someone else do housework means I have to remember to tell her things.

Example: the blue bag is for recycling, not garbage.

Or: the hot and cold water in the kitchen and one of thebathroom faucets are reversed.

Other than stuff like that, though, things are going well. I work from home, so I try not to get in her way, and she tries not to get in mine, and the dogs go back and forth between us until the Vacuum Monster comes out, in which case Zorro dives under the bed, and Miss Cleo goes into attack mode. She HATES the Vacuum Monster. She hates it so much that if we forget to put ours away (because we’re briefly distracted by something else) she’ll leave a deposit on top of it.

In any case, Wednesday’s are now Domestic Goddess days in the morning, and bubble bath days in the evening.

Yay Wednesdays.

Doggy Diet

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Our dogs have always been relatively healthy, Zorro’s ideopathic epilepsy aside, but when her senior dog checkup showed that Miss Cleo had some fatty cysts, and needed to lose five pounds (which is a LOT for a dog her size) I went into doggy diet-guru mode.

I didn’t buy her lipovox or anything, though from what I read about the stuff, I might try it myself. I did, however, buy her some all natural crunchy dog food, with no wheat or corn. Instead it’s made from potatoes and meat – the flavor we tried first was sweet potato and duck, and yes, I know duck is fatty, but this is actually less so than the rolled food from the same company (the Dick Van Patten stuff) they’ve been eating ever since Zorro began to refuse the raw meat diet.

Surprisingly, Zorro, who is rapidly running low on teeth, likes the crunchy stuff too – it’s a small bites blend – which pleases us, because feeding them separate stuff is really difficult.

Restful

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I woke from a nap on Friday evening with a killer earache and elevated temp both of which came and left all weekend, which meant I spend the time mainly lounging in bed. Actually, that’s not accurate. Lounging for me implies being awake.

I was almost never awake during daylight on Saturday, or Sunday. In fact, if there was addiction treatment for people who sleep too much, I’d have qualified.

I also slept most of today, due to taking allergy meds last night, because my ears were itching as well as aching. I hoped the ache would go away upon completion of the taxes, which waited til today. (This is unusual for me, usually they are done by February 2nd.)

Sadly, it’s more persistent than ever.

But at least I’m well rested.

Infected

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I had to ask one of the BBtL people who Scott Sigler was, and then, I forgot to bookmark any of the sites mentioned where I could read about the recent (by which I mean over the last couple years) of authors using podcasting to share their work, as a means of attracting an agent.

If I had the courage, and the technical skills, I’d do it. As it is, I’m serializing one of the threads of my novel over at Pink Nighties, and using one of the fragments as a jumping off point for a contribution to a friend-of-a-friends’ coffee culture book. A friend of mine who is also a writer adopted the term “prepublished,” and I like that idea a LOT.

Writing has come a long way from people using spiral notebooks and cheap pens, and spending endless hours holed up in garrets or garages a la Josephine March in Little Women. There are scary rumors of the publishing industry going to pot, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. Rather, I think it’s evolving to include new media, and that’s a good thing. Anything that allows us to share stories is a plus.

But back to Scott Sigler. He’s an author who’s been podcasting his fiction. He’s amazingly cool, and pretty talented, and if you like horror and sci-fi you should check out his first hardcover work, Infected, which is available at your local bookseller, as well as Amazon.

Not sure you want to risk the money? Check out the book’s promotional trailer, below (linked from YouTube):

Cruising on Alpha Waves

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I’ve barely slept since Tuesday, until last night, but today even though I did get a full night’s rest, I couldn’t shake the sleepies. I went back to bed around 10:30 AM when Fuzzy went to work, and didn’t wake til after two. Slept again from 2:30 – 4. Ate something, had tea, talked to my mother – my throat felt tight, but not really achey.

At 7:45, knowing Fuzzy would be late, and that he’d be stopping at Jamba Juice on his way home, I went to sleep again, and dreamed that I was on a cruise, like one of those royal caribbean type things you always see advertised. I like the ocean a lot, but I’ve never been on an actual cruise. (I do want to take an Alaskan cruise someday though), so I don’t know what induced the dream. Maybe my “under the sea” light theme? Maybe the sea turtle background image?

Or maybe I’ve seen the movie Out to Sea one too many times.

In any case, since then I’ve had a peanut butter MOOD smoothie, a hot bath, and 2.5 bottles of water. I woke from that nap with a raging fever, sore throat, and swollen glands. And yes, Fuzzy, you probably WILL have to take Zorro to the vet without me in the morning.

Pynk

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“Pynk” is what I named my new Alienware laptop on our network, though not what I plan to call the computer itself. Actually, I don’t plan to call it anything except “my new laptop,” because while I do name cars, I don’t feel the need to anthropomorphize everything I own. My cello doesn’t have a name either, and I only refer to the weight machine as Marcy because that’s what’s stamped across the seat-back.

In any case, a shiny new computer meant that when I was writing an article about term life insurance earlier today for work, I wasn’t cursing because I never can remember that there’s no forward delete on the MacBook, or yelling at the poor mouse response from the touchpad on the Vaio.

Speaking of which, this machine has a touchpad that is seamless, and they also provide a cute texturized sticker to put over it, so that you can actually have better traction.

I’ve only had it since 5:00 PM CDT yesterday, but I’m already in love.

Oh, and the pink backlights and system lights? Were very pink, so right now I’m running with a combination of blue and deep green. Feels very oceanic.

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.