Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 116
August 22, 2015
Do we want some more Super Bat?
(I KNOW this photo isn't copyrighted, since I took it!)I thought we did…
Bruce Wayne wasn't afraid of heights.
No, he couldn't fly. *snort* As it. And yes, if someone decided to shoot him out of the sky as he sat, leaning back on the glass plating that was angled forty-five degrees on the top of the building, there was a distinct possibility that they could.
Except the building was seventy-five stories high, and they'd have to be kneeling in the street with a high powered scope. Or on the top of one of the buildings around him-- and he could see all those access points.
And he'd done his calculations. He was safe.
He could stay there forever.
But he didn't think he'd have to.
OH yeah-- sure enough, there was the guy who thought he was gonna bring Batman down.
He could fly. And he just levitated his muscular ass right up even with Bruce and glared at him.
"Still perching like a vulture and trying to scare the populace?" Superman sneered.
Bruce rolled his eyes. "Still letting Pajamas 'R'Us pick out your clothes?"
Superman scowled. "This is a specially formulated cotton polymer that can withstand most of the things my own skin can stand and that ensures I am never…" Superman blushed. "Not dignified," he finished weakly.
"Which is why you have the specially reinforced red undies, right?" Bruce said soberly. "Because that dignity needs to be preserved at all cost."
"You had nipples built into your body armor," Superman defended. Like a petulant weenie.
Batman smiled, knowing that it wouldn't reach his eyes through his mask. "They're pour points," he said mildly. "Do you want to touch them and see?"
Superman glared, and for a moment, his eyes flared red. Oops, yeah. Bruce had struck a nerve. Good. Mr. Pajama pants had been flying around Bruce's city, getting all high and mighty, and bitching about Bruce getting hurt, and how he had no superpowers and how he needed to mind his own business and let the crime fighting be done by the real heroes.
Yeah, Bruce knew exactly what ol' red undies wanted, and it wasn't for Bruce to back off and leave the crime fighting to Superman.
And it wasn't for Batman to operate on the right side of the law, either.
No, no-- Mr. Clark Kent had some long buried needs that he wanted to keep deeply hidden. Bruce Wayne knew all about buried needs. He thought those needs were long overdue the chance to come out and play.
"YOu need to get down now," Superman said, sounding remarkably like the hall monitor in junior high.
"Make me," Batman said, sounding bored.
Superman flew closer, his face inches away from Batman's, so close that Batman could smell minty fresh breath.
Boy scout.
Bruce yearned to taste him.
"What is it with you?" Superman growled. "You won't cooperate with me, you won't cooperate with the police-- you're like a walking death wish, and every time you get involved with an operation, there's bodies on the floor to prove it."
Ouch. Direct hit. Batman leveled a look at him. "Not by my hand, Boy Scout," he said clearly. "So you can't hold that against me. What is your problem? Really?"
Superman opened his mouth, and Bruce knew that he was about to unravel his entire litany of complaints, and suddenly he was way bored with this game and not in the mood to hear them.
He reached behind Superman's head as he hovered and hauled him in for a kiss.
For a moment Clark Kent stared at him, eyes wide and surprised, lips pursed shut so tight BRuce wondered if maybe the rumors were true and his flesh was as cold as steel as well as strong as such. Bruce closed his eyes and kissed harder, hard enough to brutalize another man's mouth, to leave his lips bleeding against his own teeth.
Superman groaned and opened his mouth, and Bruce swept in. Breath mints. Hot man. Soft, soft welcome. With a groan, Superman wrapped his arms around Bruce's shoulders and pressed them, body to body, to deepen the kiss.
Batman felt his feet leave the ground, and knew, without a doubt, that he would live and die on the sufferance of this very human alien who was whimpering with need in his arms. Bruce kissed him back, easing up on the brutality, leaving room for some softness, some tenderness, the sweet touch of skin against skin.
It was okay if Superman held Bruce's life in his arms. He'd held his heart for quite some time.
It was okay that they were flying.
Bruce never had been afraid of heights.
August 21, 2015
The days when I was a bitch...
They're getting fuzzier, but I still remember them. Those days when I was legendary for losing my temper, for shooting off my mouth, for pissing people off.
I once dropped the F-bomb during a staff meeting in front of a state representative who was cheerfully explaining why we were going to fuck all of our special education students over with the new high school exit exam format.
I once launched myself across a table at an administrator who suggested that I'd over-declared on the number of hours I'd spent developing the senior project for the entire school. I wasn't planning to lay hands on her, I just got so angry while I was explaining--in detail-- the seven layers of hell they'd put me through that I just sort of took over the table.
My finest moments came right when I started the blog, when I invited everybody to come look. It appeared NOBODY had come to look, so I sounded off frequently when I was irritated. The post labeled "Dear Library Nazi" was a particular hit. I learned to keep my opinions to myself. (In my defense, the woman walked into my room to chew me out over things I had no control over, in front of my students.)
I learned to temper my online presence-- and fix my goddamned temper. Grown women did not just launch themselves into the stratosphere like that--not if they wanted to really be heard.
It hasn't been until the last five years when I've realized that zero-to-bitch is not my default position. I was driven there by stress that I can't even believe I lived through. People--women in particular-- were bailing from the campus like flies from a reanimated corpse. We had a string of leadership mishaps--and when we did get a good leader, the poor guy was beaten into the ground with politics. I had two small children and two adolescents--and two of those kids had special needs, one was being bullied, and EVERYBODY even the baby had after school activities. My staffroom was toxic as hell if you didn't have a penis. I particularly treasure the department head bitching about how he needed to get married so he could have a baby so he could go on part time and have the whole world work around his schedule, because God knows, he needed the fucking break. The kids ping-ponged through our rolls like acid dropping weasels through an electrified labyrinth, and while this happened we would attend staff meetings where we were constantly harangued for not marking our roll sheets accurately--this, while kids were being moved in and out of our classrooms while we were taking roll.
I could go on. I mean, I did go on. Circumstances were not ideal, and I was not quiet about it.
I've forgotten how many times I didn't lose my temper. I've forgotten what it was like to deal with stress and not turn into a major bitch.
I didn't even realize it had happened again until I got a call from a co-worker now, letting me know I went from zero-to-bitch on an edit.
And I am appalled.
Six years of building up professionalism in this business, of building friendships and relationships and of seriously learning what it was like to deal with professionals and good people doing good work-- and I was the one to blow that?
I realize-- retroactively, because for me, that's always the case-- that I was stressed, and I"m only now coming down. I just hadn't realized how badly I was dealing with it. I hadn't realized I was taking it out on other people like that.
I apologized, of course-- and have done what I could to correct the damage. Part of it was just poor communication--I thought I was being concise and efficient, and it looked like I was being heinously flamingly bitchy.
But I still have that sort of sick feeling in my stomach. I remember waking up and remembering the events of the day before and thinking, "OH Jesus. How bad is the fallout going to be?" In this case, not so bad--I mean, I feel badly, but I hope I haven't destroyed that relationship at this point--but I didn't miss that feeling. I didn't miss thinking, "Oh God, I'm supposed to be a grownup, what sort of tantrum did I throw now?" I didn't miss wondering whose feelings I hurt.
I really was proud of not being that person-- that fly-off-the-handle fuck-it-all flaming twat that would rather be right than behave right.
I don't think I am, really. I think maybe I can avoid waking up without that feeling for a few more years now. I would, in fact, be super happy not to ever feel like that again.
Let's hear it for putting the days when I was a bitch behind me. I won't be sorry to see them go.
I once dropped the F-bomb during a staff meeting in front of a state representative who was cheerfully explaining why we were going to fuck all of our special education students over with the new high school exit exam format.
I once launched myself across a table at an administrator who suggested that I'd over-declared on the number of hours I'd spent developing the senior project for the entire school. I wasn't planning to lay hands on her, I just got so angry while I was explaining--in detail-- the seven layers of hell they'd put me through that I just sort of took over the table.
My finest moments came right when I started the blog, when I invited everybody to come look. It appeared NOBODY had come to look, so I sounded off frequently when I was irritated. The post labeled "Dear Library Nazi" was a particular hit. I learned to keep my opinions to myself. (In my defense, the woman walked into my room to chew me out over things I had no control over, in front of my students.)
I learned to temper my online presence-- and fix my goddamned temper. Grown women did not just launch themselves into the stratosphere like that--not if they wanted to really be heard.
It hasn't been until the last five years when I've realized that zero-to-bitch is not my default position. I was driven there by stress that I can't even believe I lived through. People--women in particular-- were bailing from the campus like flies from a reanimated corpse. We had a string of leadership mishaps--and when we did get a good leader, the poor guy was beaten into the ground with politics. I had two small children and two adolescents--and two of those kids had special needs, one was being bullied, and EVERYBODY even the baby had after school activities. My staffroom was toxic as hell if you didn't have a penis. I particularly treasure the department head bitching about how he needed to get married so he could have a baby so he could go on part time and have the whole world work around his schedule, because God knows, he needed the fucking break. The kids ping-ponged through our rolls like acid dropping weasels through an electrified labyrinth, and while this happened we would attend staff meetings where we were constantly harangued for not marking our roll sheets accurately--this, while kids were being moved in and out of our classrooms while we were taking roll.
I could go on. I mean, I did go on. Circumstances were not ideal, and I was not quiet about it.
I've forgotten how many times I didn't lose my temper. I've forgotten what it was like to deal with stress and not turn into a major bitch.
I didn't even realize it had happened again until I got a call from a co-worker now, letting me know I went from zero-to-bitch on an edit.
And I am appalled.
Six years of building up professionalism in this business, of building friendships and relationships and of seriously learning what it was like to deal with professionals and good people doing good work-- and I was the one to blow that?
I realize-- retroactively, because for me, that's always the case-- that I was stressed, and I"m only now coming down. I just hadn't realized how badly I was dealing with it. I hadn't realized I was taking it out on other people like that.
I apologized, of course-- and have done what I could to correct the damage. Part of it was just poor communication--I thought I was being concise and efficient, and it looked like I was being heinously flamingly bitchy.
But I still have that sort of sick feeling in my stomach. I remember waking up and remembering the events of the day before and thinking, "OH Jesus. How bad is the fallout going to be?" In this case, not so bad--I mean, I feel badly, but I hope I haven't destroyed that relationship at this point--but I didn't miss that feeling. I didn't miss thinking, "Oh God, I'm supposed to be a grownup, what sort of tantrum did I throw now?" I didn't miss wondering whose feelings I hurt.
I really was proud of not being that person-- that fly-off-the-handle fuck-it-all flaming twat that would rather be right than behave right.
I don't think I am, really. I think maybe I can avoid waking up without that feeling for a few more years now. I would, in fact, be super happy not to ever feel like that again.
Let's hear it for putting the days when I was a bitch behind me. I won't be sorry to see them go.
August 19, 2015
Moktar, God of Traffic
Okay, Astrology fans-- somebody tell me which planet or card or number rules transportation. Then, if you've got the hookup and all, give them a solid punch in the 'nads just for me.
Today, the following happened:
* Mate got stuck in a granddaddy of all traffic jams before, during, and after dropping ZB off on the way to work. He claims the best part of this incident was watching the asshole next to him drop his shit every time the short light stopped him before he got to go. Watching his face contort with FUUUUUCCKKKKK!!! was apparently high comedy.
Heh heh heh-- Mate has a brutal sense of humor sometimes.
* I got flipped off by a little old lady in the drive thru line. Okay-- this might have been my fault, but she stopped her car in that awkward place where I couldn't get to the speaker and the person in the adjoining lane couldn't move to the window, and there was a three car gap between her and the window. I think she was rooting through her purse, but seriously, just ten feet forward and two people could be giving their orders and then she could find her money, right? Anyway, she did that for three minutes (yes, I looked at the dash clock) and hit the horn.
And she flipped me off.
And I laughed for the next five minutes.
* I was not laughing at the gym when Chicken called to tell me that a mere 36 hours after returning to San Diego, she got into her first fender bender.
And then she put me on the phone with the guy and he sounded like a real dick.
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know why her name doesn't appear on the insurance card, but I assure you, I've seen the bill where the car is insured and so is she."
"Well, I don't see her name. How do I know this isn't a scam? My car was new and she took out the passenger side-- doesn't have a scratch on her car."
"I'm just glad everyone's okay. Let me give you her father's number, okay?"
Mate reported later that the guy just needed to hear it from another man-- the reason Chicken wasn't on the card was that there was only room for two names, but that if the guy looked, he could see that the car was on the policy.
Whatever. Chicken said that he had a scratch on his ten year old car and that he didn't want her or her friend taking pictures.
I think our assessment of "dick" might be very much on the balls. (She took pictures anyway. Because. Dick.)
* I was also not laughing later on this evening. In order get the kids to dance class, we have to turn left onto one of those big four-lane roads with a suicide lane--no light. The intersection is on sort of a plateau before a rise. Everything from the intersection with the light to Greenback is uphill, and it puts someone pulling out in sort of a disadvantage. In order to get a safe view of the street, it's important to pull forward over the stop sign line-- which, unfortunately puts you right square in front of the place where the sidewalk levels down to let pedestrians and bike riders walk across the street-- but there is no crosswalk.
Repeat-- there is no crosswalk. Probably because the whole "creeping across the line so you can see" thing I mentioned before.
Anyway-- this usually isn't a problem. Walkers feel safer dodging behind your car, and bike riders aren't usually going that fast (uphill, right?), so if they have to go behind you, again, they're not quite as naked to traffic.
But this guy was hauling ass. I had already crept forward-- there was no way to back up, and even if there had been, he would have needed to stop to let me. I stayed where I was, grimacing at his obvious fury. He hurtled off the curb and dodged around the back of the car, but not before I saw the contorted face. I know those words.
"Fat bitch" isn't particularly hard to lip read.
He crossed the street behind me, tossing epithets over his shoulder, while I shouted, "Asshooooooollle…." in my car (with the windows closed. The kids were much amused.)
I found my opening in traffic and gunned it, and wondered at my position on the road--but forget about it. Staying back behind the stop line not only cuts your visibility to the extremely busy road, it also cuts your visibility to the sidewalk. It's just as easy to take out, say, a bike rider coming off the curb at 25 MPH (this guy was bookin'!) as it would be to get T-boned by a car if I stayed back behind that line.
*grrrrr*
*sigh*
*grrrrr*
And it's time to say it, people.
We need to chill the fuck out regarding traffic faux pas.
Driving defensively isn't like "being defensive about your driving"-- it means watching for other people because they might be stuck between a rock and a hard place, or sentenced to the same traffic jam you are, or trying to do the safest thing in an unsafe situation.
We all drive too fast, get impatient, zig when we should zag, cut people off on accident, turn too late or too soon, get lost, or are forced to accelerate out of a blind turn because that's just the way traffic was planned.
There are too many cars and not enough road and everybody has a fucking cut off line--but unless you're driving your convulsing child or dying pet to medical aid, there is absolutely no need to be a fucking douche about it.
And even then, make sure you're the one who forgives people when it's their turn to drive like douches.
Because I've got nearly 10K on my "new" minivan-- and I can tell you this for sure: I may be the world's safest driver, but I did not rack up 10K on that car by driving like an angel for every goddamned mile. And if you do obey every traffic law, every safety regulation, every goddamned sign, I guarantee that you have put people in danger simply by being the odd duck out and not speeding or creeping forward or passing the geezer in front of you going fifteen miles too slow, even if traffic conditions don't actually warrant it.
Did I mention the too many cars/not enough space dilemma?
So yes-- drive as safe as you can. But by all means have a little patience with little old ladies finding their purses, geezers going 15 miles under the speed limits, and people trying not to get T-boned by hurtling blind into one of the fastest stretches of road in your city.
Just be decent--and if you do get into an accident, don't be a dick. That's all I"m saying. Seriously. Don't be a dick-- following that rule would just make scads of people happy, right?
Today, the following happened:
* Mate got stuck in a granddaddy of all traffic jams before, during, and after dropping ZB off on the way to work. He claims the best part of this incident was watching the asshole next to him drop his shit every time the short light stopped him before he got to go. Watching his face contort with FUUUUUCCKKKKK!!! was apparently high comedy.
Heh heh heh-- Mate has a brutal sense of humor sometimes.
* I got flipped off by a little old lady in the drive thru line. Okay-- this might have been my fault, but she stopped her car in that awkward place where I couldn't get to the speaker and the person in the adjoining lane couldn't move to the window, and there was a three car gap between her and the window. I think she was rooting through her purse, but seriously, just ten feet forward and two people could be giving their orders and then she could find her money, right? Anyway, she did that for three minutes (yes, I looked at the dash clock) and hit the horn.
And she flipped me off.
And I laughed for the next five minutes.
* I was not laughing at the gym when Chicken called to tell me that a mere 36 hours after returning to San Diego, she got into her first fender bender.
And then she put me on the phone with the guy and he sounded like a real dick.
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know why her name doesn't appear on the insurance card, but I assure you, I've seen the bill where the car is insured and so is she."
"Well, I don't see her name. How do I know this isn't a scam? My car was new and she took out the passenger side-- doesn't have a scratch on her car."
"I'm just glad everyone's okay. Let me give you her father's number, okay?"
Mate reported later that the guy just needed to hear it from another man-- the reason Chicken wasn't on the card was that there was only room for two names, but that if the guy looked, he could see that the car was on the policy.
Whatever. Chicken said that he had a scratch on his ten year old car and that he didn't want her or her friend taking pictures.
I think our assessment of "dick" might be very much on the balls. (She took pictures anyway. Because. Dick.)
* I was also not laughing later on this evening. In order get the kids to dance class, we have to turn left onto one of those big four-lane roads with a suicide lane--no light. The intersection is on sort of a plateau before a rise. Everything from the intersection with the light to Greenback is uphill, and it puts someone pulling out in sort of a disadvantage. In order to get a safe view of the street, it's important to pull forward over the stop sign line-- which, unfortunately puts you right square in front of the place where the sidewalk levels down to let pedestrians and bike riders walk across the street-- but there is no crosswalk.
Repeat-- there is no crosswalk. Probably because the whole "creeping across the line so you can see" thing I mentioned before.
Anyway-- this usually isn't a problem. Walkers feel safer dodging behind your car, and bike riders aren't usually going that fast (uphill, right?), so if they have to go behind you, again, they're not quite as naked to traffic.
But this guy was hauling ass. I had already crept forward-- there was no way to back up, and even if there had been, he would have needed to stop to let me. I stayed where I was, grimacing at his obvious fury. He hurtled off the curb and dodged around the back of the car, but not before I saw the contorted face. I know those words.
"Fat bitch" isn't particularly hard to lip read.
He crossed the street behind me, tossing epithets over his shoulder, while I shouted, "Asshooooooollle…." in my car (with the windows closed. The kids were much amused.)
I found my opening in traffic and gunned it, and wondered at my position on the road--but forget about it. Staying back behind the stop line not only cuts your visibility to the extremely busy road, it also cuts your visibility to the sidewalk. It's just as easy to take out, say, a bike rider coming off the curb at 25 MPH (this guy was bookin'!) as it would be to get T-boned by a car if I stayed back behind that line.
*grrrrr*
*sigh*
*grrrrr*
And it's time to say it, people.
We need to chill the fuck out regarding traffic faux pas.
Driving defensively isn't like "being defensive about your driving"-- it means watching for other people because they might be stuck between a rock and a hard place, or sentenced to the same traffic jam you are, or trying to do the safest thing in an unsafe situation.
We all drive too fast, get impatient, zig when we should zag, cut people off on accident, turn too late or too soon, get lost, or are forced to accelerate out of a blind turn because that's just the way traffic was planned.
There are too many cars and not enough road and everybody has a fucking cut off line--but unless you're driving your convulsing child or dying pet to medical aid, there is absolutely no need to be a fucking douche about it.
And even then, make sure you're the one who forgives people when it's their turn to drive like douches.
Because I've got nearly 10K on my "new" minivan-- and I can tell you this for sure: I may be the world's safest driver, but I did not rack up 10K on that car by driving like an angel for every goddamned mile. And if you do obey every traffic law, every safety regulation, every goddamned sign, I guarantee that you have put people in danger simply by being the odd duck out and not speeding or creeping forward or passing the geezer in front of you going fifteen miles too slow, even if traffic conditions don't actually warrant it.
Did I mention the too many cars/not enough space dilemma?
So yes-- drive as safe as you can. But by all means have a little patience with little old ladies finding their purses, geezers going 15 miles under the speed limits, and people trying not to get T-boned by hurtling blind into one of the fastest stretches of road in your city.
Just be decent--and if you do get into an accident, don't be a dick. That's all I"m saying. Seriously. Don't be a dick-- following that rule would just make scads of people happy, right?
August 18, 2015
So, I wonder what happened...
I sorta kinda wrecked my knee a little-- nothing doctor worthy, just need to rest, elevate, ice, and compress. I bought a brace, and when it's acting up, I wear the brace. I did not baby it on Saturday, however, when I was wandering back and forth on the soccer field on opening day, and on Sunday and Monday I was not walking well. Time in the pool helped it a little-- that was nice. So nice, in fact, I forgot the brace at the gym, and today, after some laundry and some cooking, yes, it was a little sore, why do you ask?
So this is going somewhere.
The house started filling with smoke.
Yes-- Mate and I looked everywhere, and finally determined it was coming from across the street behind us. There's a fire truck now, and I have no idea how bad the damage is, because, well, no knee brace, bad knee. I don't want to hobble around in the smokey night, but I do want to know what happened.
"Mate, go around the corner and see what happened."
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"I want to make sure our neighbors are all right!"
"I'm not social."
"But don't you want to know what happened?"
"No."
"But--"
"There's a police car outside, making sure people stay in their houses."
*pout*
"You'll find out tomorrow, when you get your brace back."
*pout*
"Come help me make the bed."
*sigh*
I would really like to know what happened.
But I would also like to walk and breathe.
So this is going somewhere.
The house started filling with smoke.
Yes-- Mate and I looked everywhere, and finally determined it was coming from across the street behind us. There's a fire truck now, and I have no idea how bad the damage is, because, well, no knee brace, bad knee. I don't want to hobble around in the smokey night, but I do want to know what happened.
"Mate, go around the corner and see what happened."
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"I want to make sure our neighbors are all right!"
"I'm not social."
"But don't you want to know what happened?"
"No."
"But--"
"There's a police car outside, making sure people stay in their houses."
*pout*
"You'll find out tomorrow, when you get your brace back."
*pout*
"Come help me make the bed."
*sigh*
I would really like to know what happened.
But I would also like to walk and breathe.
Misanthropy
* Note-- I hadn't written an Amy's Lane post this month, and after I finished this one, I realized that it would serve nicely. So yes. I'm triple posting it in my blog, at my website, and at the RRW site. Please don't get mad at the repletion, kk?
Every so often, my switch flips.
All of the energy I pour into the world suddenly flips off, and I turn inward. Talking to the kids becomes a chore. The animals and their constant desire for attention becomes an unbearable burden. I am irritable, bitchy, and I can be heard frequently growling and muttering to myself about the stupid world and the stupid people and why can't everybody just leave me the fuck alone!
It doesn't last long--and there is a cure.
When I was teaching, this stage was cyclical--predictable.
The first week after school let out, mom would just disappear in the house, and that was that. The end. Get your own damned sandwich, right?
Now that my life is not so dependent on public education's circadian rhythms, this period of snarling, feral self-protective aggression has become less predictable. Sometimes, it happens when I've been away for too long, on too many trips, and sometimes it happens after a vicious string of deadlines-- ones that I usually miss. Sometimes it's when family obligations have crested in a violent surf over my head.
I've recently dealt with all three, constant and unrelenting, and when my switch flipped, it flipped with a vengeance.
And I picked my favorite drug.
Books.
I remember when The Goblet of Fire arrived at my doorstep, after a hideous, heinous school year. Oh, thank you, J.K. Rowling, you have saved my everlovin' life. The year I discovered Laurell K. Hamilton when just the thought of going back to teach made me cry--shotgunning nine books in a row (some would argue the best nine)--and cooking for the kids with a book in my hand got my ass back into the game. There were the early years, when my son wouldn't stop crying, my daughter was on the way, and my mother-in-law's regency romances were everything the world had to offer--and more. Or when I was longing, longing for a third child, and suddenly I plunged into heady, beautiful moment, when I realized J.D. Robb had over twenty (now nearly forty) books under her belt, and I could be Eve Dallas for fuckin' ever.
Oh, blessed Goddess, to not have to be myself for a few hours. To be Harry Potter or Anita Blake or Sookie Stackhouse or Mercy Thompson or Temperance Brennan. To trade in my obligations for theirs, trade in my own demons for those of someone far more capable of handling their own.
To disappear from all of the things pressing on my chest until I can't breathe.
Of course, like all addictions, there is a price to pay. Puzzled children, needing my full attention, a house that tends to collect crap in the corners that is suddenly overflowing, a spouse who is surprised by the emotional needs of the children and who sort of wanders lost without me when I am not wholly present.
But when I crawl out of the cave made by other's words and my imagination, I am always so much more game, so much more able to deal with these things than when I crawled in.
My favorite flavor of drug has changed multiple times over the years--and I'm afraid I'm not very faithful to any one brand. I step off frequently, often as soon as my shotgun run has passed, and I usually regret not being able to continue my indulgence. It's for this reason that I never indulge in books written by people I actually know, a list that is getting smaller by the year, I might add. It is vitally important that I not be answerable to anyone for simply stepping off a series and walking away. I am well aware that my bailing point very rarely has anything to do with the author's skill or with the series itself--this really is a case of "It's NOT YOU, it's DEFINITELY me!"but that's a freedom you don't have when you talk to the writer on a regular basis. There are often hurt feelings involved, ("You didn't like that one? I loved that one. That was MY FAVORITE BOOK IN THE WHOLE SERIES!" Why no, I've never felt like that, why would you think so?) and since I genuinely love all of my writer friends, I'd just as soon not do that to them. It is, in fact, much easier to do this with perfect strangers, so there.
It also can't be canonical fiction. Because there's an obligation there, right? "I am reading IMPORTANT FICTION. I must ENGAGE BOTH LIZARD AND ANGEL BRAINS. I must not, by any means, ENJOY THIS EXPERIENCE." (Or no, Amy, you're the only one who does that. Dork.) So, to me there is an obligation when reading canonical fiction that makes it less…
Less of a drug. Less brain sugar, more brain protein. And I won't lie--I need the damned sugar. I need it. I need to mainline it, straight into the cerebral cortex, no waiting, no hem-hawing about the delicate beauties of language or the overpowering benefit of this piece of writing to the collective unconscious of mankind.
I just need my fucking cookie. I need a box of them. A case. My cookie lets me escape myself long enough to heal. My cookie bandages my psychic booboos and gives me a shot of mental morphine and helps propel my battered ragged ass back into the fray of human existence.
There's a period of withdrawal, of course. A period of sleeping. A long, exhaustive, heartbroken moment of realization: I am NOT Eve Dallas/Harry Potter/Temperance Brennan/Jack Reacher/Anita Blake/Mercy Thompson/Sookie Stackhouse/Number Ten Ox/Betsy Davis/Whoever the flavor of the month is. It's a sad time--I deal with it gracelessly, disillusioned with the world without my word-colored glasses.
But I get over it. And I re-enter my world refreshed, with a new perspective (and usually some new facts, collected like a sixth grader collects trivia learned from How It's Made) and the serene knowledge that me--mere me--can deal with whatever lies outside my fevered brain.
Even if it's picking up kids from school and dealing with the garbage and the laundry and several new deadlines and holy Goddess is it fucking soccer season again?
After being someone else for a period of time, I can be me again, and with the empathy engendered by a full-powered charging, my misanthropy passes, like the storm of stressed neurons it was, and new stories can grow.
Every so often, my switch flips. All of the energy I pour into the world suddenly flips off, and I turn inward. Talking to the kids becomes a chore. The animals and their constant desire for attention becomes an unbearable burden. I am irritable, bitchy, and I can be heard frequently growling and muttering to myself about the stupid world and the stupid people and why can't everybody just leave me the fuck alone!
It doesn't last long--and there is a cure.
When I was teaching, this stage was cyclical--predictable.
The first week after school let out, mom would just disappear in the house, and that was that. The end. Get your own damned sandwich, right?
Now that my life is not so dependent on public education's circadian rhythms, this period of snarling, feral self-protective aggression has become less predictable. Sometimes, it happens when I've been away for too long, on too many trips, and sometimes it happens after a vicious string of deadlines-- ones that I usually miss. Sometimes it's when family obligations have crested in a violent surf over my head.
I've recently dealt with all three, constant and unrelenting, and when my switch flipped, it flipped with a vengeance.
And I picked my favorite drug.
Books.
I remember when The Goblet of Fire arrived at my doorstep, after a hideous, heinous school year. Oh, thank you, J.K. Rowling, you have saved my everlovin' life. The year I discovered Laurell K. Hamilton when just the thought of going back to teach made me cry--shotgunning nine books in a row (some would argue the best nine)--and cooking for the kids with a book in my hand got my ass back into the game. There were the early years, when my son wouldn't stop crying, my daughter was on the way, and my mother-in-law's regency romances were everything the world had to offer--and more. Or when I was longing, longing for a third child, and suddenly I plunged into heady, beautiful moment, when I realized J.D. Robb had over twenty (now nearly forty) books under her belt, and I could be Eve Dallas for fuckin' ever.
Oh, blessed Goddess, to not have to be myself for a few hours. To be Harry Potter or Anita Blake or Sookie Stackhouse or Mercy Thompson or Temperance Brennan. To trade in my obligations for theirs, trade in my own demons for those of someone far more capable of handling their own.
To disappear from all of the things pressing on my chest until I can't breathe.
Of course, like all addictions, there is a price to pay. Puzzled children, needing my full attention, a house that tends to collect crap in the corners that is suddenly overflowing, a spouse who is surprised by the emotional needs of the children and who sort of wanders lost without me when I am not wholly present.
But when I crawl out of the cave made by other's words and my imagination, I am always so much more game, so much more able to deal with these things than when I crawled in.
My favorite flavor of drug has changed multiple times over the years--and I'm afraid I'm not very faithful to any one brand. I step off frequently, often as soon as my shotgun run has passed, and I usually regret not being able to continue my indulgence. It's for this reason that I never indulge in books written by people I actually know, a list that is getting smaller by the year, I might add. It is vitally important that I not be answerable to anyone for simply stepping off a series and walking away. I am well aware that my bailing point very rarely has anything to do with the author's skill or with the series itself--this really is a case of "It's NOT YOU, it's DEFINITELY me!"but that's a freedom you don't have when you talk to the writer on a regular basis. There are often hurt feelings involved, ("You didn't like that one? I loved that one. That was MY FAVORITE BOOK IN THE WHOLE SERIES!" Why no, I've never felt like that, why would you think so?) and since I genuinely love all of my writer friends, I'd just as soon not do that to them. It is, in fact, much easier to do this with perfect strangers, so there.
It also can't be canonical fiction. Because there's an obligation there, right? "I am reading IMPORTANT FICTION. I must ENGAGE BOTH LIZARD AND ANGEL BRAINS. I must not, by any means, ENJOY THIS EXPERIENCE." (Or no, Amy, you're the only one who does that. Dork.) So, to me there is an obligation when reading canonical fiction that makes it less…
Less of a drug. Less brain sugar, more brain protein. And I won't lie--I need the damned sugar. I need it. I need to mainline it, straight into the cerebral cortex, no waiting, no hem-hawing about the delicate beauties of language or the overpowering benefit of this piece of writing to the collective unconscious of mankind.
I just need my fucking cookie. I need a box of them. A case. My cookie lets me escape myself long enough to heal. My cookie bandages my psychic booboos and gives me a shot of mental morphine and helps propel my battered ragged ass back into the fray of human existence.
There's a period of withdrawal, of course. A period of sleeping. A long, exhaustive, heartbroken moment of realization: I am NOT Eve Dallas/Harry Potter/Temperance Brennan/Jack Reacher/Anita Blake/Mercy Thompson/Sookie Stackhouse/Number Ten Ox/Betsy Davis/Whoever the flavor of the month is. It's a sad time--I deal with it gracelessly, disillusioned with the world without my word-colored glasses.
But I get over it. And I re-enter my world refreshed, with a new perspective (and usually some new facts, collected like a sixth grader collects trivia learned from How It's Made) and the serene knowledge that me--mere me--can deal with whatever lies outside my fevered brain.
Even if it's picking up kids from school and dealing with the garbage and the laundry and several new deadlines and holy Goddess is it fucking soccer season again?
After being someone else for a period of time, I can be me again, and with the empathy engendered by a full-powered charging, my misanthropy passes, like the storm of stressed neurons it was, and new stories can grow.
August 16, 2015
So Long, Chicken...
Squish, pinkening nicely in the heat. Yesterday was Opening Day for soccer, and tomorrow morning, Chicken is leaving. Today was sort of a lazy, doughnut kind of day, with a venturing out into the cauldron of hell that IS Sacramento so we could meet grandparents and Chicken could get one last chance to socialize with family.We came home and watched Ferris Buehler's Day Off--and Mate made a really impressive observation:
Remember the part where Cameron does the impression of Sloane Peterson's father? He gets the deep voice and pretends to be a real fucking prick?
Yeah. Mate was watching it tonight and he said, "You know he gets that from listening to his own father on the phone."
And as goofy/fantasy oriented as that movie is, that was an important thing right there.
Because it's no less true today.
My children and parents, happy after Chinese Foodand catching up. We're sending our Chicken out into the world tomorrow. She has no school to attend, and she's going to be searching for employment in a really competitive market. She's terrified. She wants to get a job, she thinks she can get a job, but she's not sure. She has all of the scaredy girl things that I had when I was a kid. What if I fail? What if I can't do it? People try to get this job/pass college/enter the arts fields all the time-- what makes me special?
And I worry-- what would Cameron's father think if he heard Cameron on the phone? Would he be proud that his son assumes he's an unmitigated asshole who's every utterance is meant to inspire hatred and fear?
What have I passed on to my daughter besides an emerging sense of self worth and critical thinking skills and a love of the arts and some stunning red hair?
Well, it must be something wonderful. It must be. Because she loved it at home. She was safe, and we fed her doughnuts when she asked, and movies were sacred and mom was here to talk to and she loves her siblings intensely.
But I must have taught her something. I must have.
Because in spite of all the fears and in spite of knowing that home doesn't suck…
She's going back to her apartment in San Diego tomorrow, armed with a laptop and a volunteer job and plans to find more things.
She says it's for the shower that she'll get to herself--but I like to think it's more.
I like to think that there's a little bit of fearlessness in her, and some confidence too. I like to think that she'll wake up someday and think, "Oh my God! My life may not have followed the path I planned, but by golly, it followed a path I loved!"
It would be the best going away gift I could give her, if I could give her that. It would be the best parting gift I could get, if she could give it back.
May we all raise fearless, generous daughters and compassionate, brave sons. Let them conquer their fears instead of the world, and accept diversity, defeat, and the joy of life's eternal struggle.
Let us see the best in them, and know that if we gave that to our children, we gave them something grand.
My my little girl travel safely and sally forth into adulthood with a lot of confidence and a little luck.
Holy Goddess, merciful God, so may it be.
Amen
August 14, 2015
Augh! Noooooo...
So, I was working on a pair of socks for a friend, and I finished the first one. I had Zoomboy turn them on and…AUUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Internet response was terrific and sympathetic-- I've been given virtual chocolate, virtual kleenex, and lots of virtual hugs.
And someone on FB told me to "put it in the timeout basket until it behaves!"
Which made me think…
I have crafters and writers and quilters and knitters galore out there--we all have our own way of dealing with setbacks like this.
This first thing *I* did was cast on the next sock, figuring that I'd start from scratch and unravel the fucked up sock to fill in the toe of the second one if I needed to. Of course, I fucked up THAT sock and need to recast, but still. It was something to do, right?
When I have a newish release and I get hit with the first crappy reviews (and yes-- there are ALWAYS crappy reviews for EVERY new release-- even the ones that have decent scores on GR or Amazon) I always throw my energy into what I'm working on now, because that work I can do something with, and the other one has been set loose into the world already and can either make friends or enemies but it cannot be changed.
So I've got my ways of dealing with screwups and disappointments in the things that I create.
What do yOU do? Do you have a timeout basket? (Brilliant idea!) Do you jump on the frog-wagon like it was an olympic sport? Do you cast on a totally new project RIGHT NOW because the old one is dead to you? I'm just curious-- how do we deal with the agony of defeat?
August 13, 2015
Pithy Observations
* Today was the first day of school… and the first day of the rest of my life in traffic. Good God--I'd forgotten what a time suck kids in different schools could be. So glad I brought my knitting!* While the kids were gone, the dogs spent their time barking outside at the workmen next door. When it came time to go pick up the kids, only the small dog elected to go. This is her, asleep in the car. No, people, she's not dead.
2014
2015* Soccer practice has started again. I know that in years past I have posted pictures of the kids practicing on verdant green fields.What a difference three years of drought makes.
* The kids have started playing MAD LIBS, which is great, but it resulted in the following convo between me and Squish:
"Mommy, do you want to play a game? You don't even have to come out of the toilet to do it!"
0.0 "Uh, okay, Squish, you can just wait for--"
"No, no, no! Let's do it now! Name an adverb!"
* Also, unbeknownst to me, Chicken has instituted a new house rule: Farting on the couch gets you kicked off so someone else can come sit. Of course, this rule is a by-product of A. Not enough living room space for the whole family to sit comfortably and B. Too much gas.
As a result, Zoomboy was dragged off the couch, kicking and screaming I might add, so an exultant Squish could sit between her father and big sister.I like this rule. So do they-- but that's because they haven't realized that the winner has to sit on the other person's farts. They'll figure it out soon enough.
* And that's about all. For those interested in the "list"--
~ Finished Winter Ball-- it will be out around Christmas.
~ Finished Lollipop-- it will probably be out around February
~ Working on Selfie-- it will probably be out around April
~ Next project is one of the DreamSpun Desires-- a categorical romance project from Dreamspinner Press. These are just like the Harlequin or Silhouette romances we all grew up on-- a little bit predictable, a little bit tropey, and a whole lot enjoyable and comforting and fun. I'm so excited for this line of books-- and so excited to be writing for it. *happy purry sound* I'm pretty sure that one has a 9 month lead in, so it will probably be out around June or July.
~ Then I have a stand alone novel of WHEEEE!!!! I don't want to commit to whatever this will be, because the last time I just dove into a stand alone novel of WHEEEE!!!! I wrote Winter Ball, and I think it was pretty special.
~ Then I will be working on a sequel. I have so many to choose from, but I think first stop is going to have to be Johnnies. I have some plot work to do.
~ Then I will be reassessing my queue and seeing where I'm going with it. This needs to be done sometimes. I know I would love to write Wasted Grace and Chicken Sh*t-- but we shall see how things go.
So there you have it-- the first day of school and the rest of my year! Enjoy :-)
August 12, 2015
Parenting Fail #371
Last night, Squish lost a tooth RIGHT before she went to bed.
I had no one dollar bills for the ritual appearance of the Tooth Fairy (whom Squish suspects is not a real thing anyway.) After asking Big T if he had any ones, I was told, "There's coins left over from cleaning out the Crapmobile. You could use those."
Oooh… "Yeah, sure! Get me eight quarters!"
So, I took my life in both hands and walked across the hastily cleaned floor and somehow managed to shove the quarters under Squish's pillow-- but I couldn't find the tooth. I should add, at this point, that Squish and Zoomboy sleep in full daylight because reasons. All I know is that my idea of heaven is sleeping in natural dark, and waking in natural light and fresh air. The kids have now such dreams. Anyway, I left the tooth. I mean, a tooth under a pillow is less incriminating than a parent groping your head with the light on, right?
So this morning, Squish comes out of her room, her bullshit line FIRMLY in place. She is holding her quarters in one hand-- and her tooth in the other.
"Mom?"
I look at her quickly and look away. "Yeah?"
"Why did the Tooth Fairy leave my tooth?"
"I, uh, have no idea."
"Didn't she want the tooth?"
"Maybe it was hard to get out of your room without waking you up, you ever think of that? Maybe you were lucky to just get your money!"
"Yeah, but my money is sort of, uhm… dirty. Why are the quarters so grungy?"
"I, uh, have no idea."
"I mean, one of them had a nickel stuck to the back."
"I don't know why."
"Mom, how come you always say, 'I' before you say 'The Tooth Fairy' or 'The Easter Bunny'?"
Okay, so I've guessed where this is heading.
"Because mom does a lot of shit, Squishy, and sometimes she forgets which task she finished and which task everyone else finished, is that okay with you?"
"Yeah, Mom. I know. You do do a lot of things."
"Go spend your money, Squishy."
"Okay, Mommy."
My Goddess, I hope that's the last tooth.
I had no one dollar bills for the ritual appearance of the Tooth Fairy (whom Squish suspects is not a real thing anyway.) After asking Big T if he had any ones, I was told, "There's coins left over from cleaning out the Crapmobile. You could use those."
Oooh… "Yeah, sure! Get me eight quarters!"
So, I took my life in both hands and walked across the hastily cleaned floor and somehow managed to shove the quarters under Squish's pillow-- but I couldn't find the tooth. I should add, at this point, that Squish and Zoomboy sleep in full daylight because reasons. All I know is that my idea of heaven is sleeping in natural dark, and waking in natural light and fresh air. The kids have now such dreams. Anyway, I left the tooth. I mean, a tooth under a pillow is less incriminating than a parent groping your head with the light on, right?
So this morning, Squish comes out of her room, her bullshit line FIRMLY in place. She is holding her quarters in one hand-- and her tooth in the other.
"Mom?"
I look at her quickly and look away. "Yeah?"
"Why did the Tooth Fairy leave my tooth?"
"I, uh, have no idea."
"Didn't she want the tooth?"
"Maybe it was hard to get out of your room without waking you up, you ever think of that? Maybe you were lucky to just get your money!"
"Yeah, but my money is sort of, uhm… dirty. Why are the quarters so grungy?"
"I, uh, have no idea."
"I mean, one of them had a nickel stuck to the back."
"I don't know why."
"Mom, how come you always say, 'I' before you say 'The Tooth Fairy' or 'The Easter Bunny'?"
Okay, so I've guessed where this is heading.
"Because mom does a lot of shit, Squishy, and sometimes she forgets which task she finished and which task everyone else finished, is that okay with you?"
"Yeah, Mom. I know. You do do a lot of things."
"Go spend your money, Squishy."
"Okay, Mommy."
My Goddess, I hope that's the last tooth.
August 11, 2015
Manipedis
Okay-- I typed that in there without the dash and decided it looks like a special bug--like an alternative universe millipede or something: Behold, the manipedis, terrifying arachnid/insect hybrids with a zillion brightly colored enamel toes!
And on that note…
Today was "last gasp of freedom" day. The kids go to school on Thursday, and tonight was their last night to stay up late (although I called time at 11 pm, even though Jaws was not over!) The kids went school shopping and then we got a manipedi.
Yes.
We.
Big T was (by his own preferences) excluded, but the rest of the kids…
Let's just say I taught them a bad thing the last time we went.
I taught them that it was cool.
And apparently, I tip decently, because the nail salon was not adverse to lining up a full complement of staff to do our feet, and then to do Chicken and Squish's fingers.
And yes-- that is Zoomboy. Last time, he wanted a foot bath--complete with manly red nail polish. The pedicurists thought this was adorable, and ZB plans to keep his toes under wraps to avoid things like teasing--but you know what? I think if someone DOES spot his red nail polish, he'll tell them the truth: he got his feet oiled, sanded, and massaged--and he liked it. Little hedonist!
But all of them were happy and grateful and sweet about it. You know, I was 43 years old before I got my first pedicure--I had no idea it could be a family affair.
