I don’t know what celebrity POS show I was watching, but one of the stories was about a set of identical triplets all pregnant at the same time. Not just any triplets. The Dahm Triplets of Playboy notoriety (NSFW). Or so I’ve read since I let my Playboy subscription expire years ago.

Apparently they’ve also shown up several times on The Doctors, which is due to one of them being married to the executive producer, who also happens to be the son of Dr. Phil. Keep the crazy in the family, and all that.

I love my sisters. I confide in them. One of my sisters was my Maid of Honor. But it would take a hell of a lot of liquor combined with illicit drugs to get us to strip naked and mutually admire each other’s boobs. And with them being identical, isn’t that the epitome of narcissism?

I never would have given the story another thought if it hadn’t been for the announcement that these three women are no more than eight weeks apart in their pregnancies.

Most days I feel like I’m freeing myself of the sticky web of bitterness that was spun from infertility. But literally in an instant, I am mentally right back where I was two years ago: entangled in angry bitterness.

<a href=”http://knockuout.wordpress.com/2009/11/21/21-hit-me-over-the-head-with-a-frozen-drumstick-ple

Several people have noticed that I forgot to announce what I finally got my beloved for our wedding anniversary. Well, wonder no longer – it was two triple packs of Walnut Whips. She is indeed a very, very lucky girl

I was typing the phrase “I don’t” just now in a text message. I missed the space bar and it suggested  “Odontoceti” as a correction.

What’s more reasonable? That the combination Idont is supposed to be I don’t or that I intended to write Odontoceti?!

I don’t even know what the word Odontoceti means.

Home
Apples
Pajamas
Pink
Youth

Toes
Happiness
Afternoons
Nature
Kisses
Smiles
Giggles
Internet
Vacation
Invitations
Nights
Grass

These are just a handful of everyday things in my life that I am very grateful for.

We should remember that we don’t need a holiday to give thanks to the little things that make us smile.

I used to share idle thoughts on Facebook.  I’ve moved away from that lately, and I’ve moved to Twitter for my status updates.  Strangely, the more it becomes Twitteresque, the more I use Facebook for its other features.  But sometimes I have fears of spamming the Twitter, and I can’t always compress things to 140 characters.  So here, have some thoughts that aren’t well-formed or interesting enough for their own blog-posts or tweets.

I really hate the D terminal of the Cleveland Hopkins International (really?  where to?  Canada?) Airport.  It’s always under renovation, it’s a mile away from the rest of the airport, and it means I’m flying Continental, “The Official Airline of People who Failed to Book a Flight on Southwest.”

So tired.  I got five hours on Monday night, so I decided to go to sleep really early last night.  As I got into bed, the fire alarm went off.  I put on a robe and flip-flops, assuming it would be over within ten minutes.

A half-hour later, I was pissed off and went next door to Noah to heat up.  It didn’t help my mood that a pair of complete strangers had pointed and laughed at me.  Fuck them.  Anyway, I ended up in Nathan and Monica’s room, watched a little Mythbusters, threatened to flash them, and went back to bed, finally.

If I learn nothing else from Systems Programming, at least I can revel in the fact that I came up with a great C++ pun today (department t-shirt worthy?).

const int & opole(){ return istanbul; }

Actually, though I usually won’t admit it, I have learned a few things from Sys Prog.  Last night I finished my first C++ program, an implementation of a “Huffman Map.”  I don’t completely understand how it works (apparently I need to take Information Theory), but the point is that it does work!

My program can compress and restore files, all without losing any of the information contained within.  For instance, I got a 2.7 KB text file to compress all the way down to…2.5 KB!  I saved ~200 bytes of space!  (Supposedly, the effect is more dramatic on larger files).

Lingering shingles pain: not so much fun.  Every day I think, “Today is the day my leg won’t hurt, and I’ll get through the whole day without Tylenol.”  Every day, I am wrong.

Speaking of recovery, my leg looks a lot better now.  You know how when you skin your knee or something, you get a big scab which you aren’t supposed to pick at?  Imagine two dozen tiny scabs that you aren’t supposed to pick at.

I make it sound like I didn’t pick them all off.  I…did.

Drivel’s really late in publishing, but it’s because we’re considering an increase in the number of color pages and a decrease in the number of planned issues.  At least, that’s the story that doesn’t make us sound like a bunch of fuck-ups.

My computer’s broken, but the folks who built it think that a few tweaks and a BIOS update are all it needs.  I’ll be getting it back next week.  That’s something to be thankful for.  I’d be more frustrated with the computer, but Assassin’s Creed II for PC was delayed, so at least I’m not missing out on that.

More in part two.

Why is it that people sound so surprised when it’s cold and wet in winter? There is nothing wrong with what they’re saying, the weather at the moment is awful, but it’s November, it’s supposed to be cold.

Of course, people aren’t really commenting on the weather, they just hate silence and have to fill every quiet gap with inconsequential small talk, which is invariably made up of mundane clichés and fake smiles. People really shouldn’t waste their time, this country probably wastes millions of hours a year between all the small talkers.

Just think what they could do with their time, I know what I’d do, particularly if I was also partial to the odd bit of weather chat: I’d set up Sky Plus to record every second of Laura Tobin’s weather forecasts. Good grief, what a fantastically gorgeous woman. Since when have weather forecasters been meant to look so good? And if it’s pouring down you get the chance to snigger like a little schoolboy when she mentions the word “moist” and “warm fronts”:

She certainly makes my isobars tighten. More of Ms Tobin please BBC, I might even pay my licence fee if the standard of weather presenters remains so high*

Anyway, the small talkers will have plenty to moan about in the coming weeks seeing as winter is well and truly in full flow now – something which happens every year, yet still seems to catch people completely unawares. I’d just rather they kept their weather chat to themselves. Yes it gets cold, it gets wet, it gets windy. Put a jacket and scarf on and shut your face. “I need some sunshine” they moan, bollocks do you. You’re the same people who spend all summer moaning that it’s too hot and that it’s so dry your plants are dying. Make your minds up or better still, just get on with your lives and let the weather take care of itself. It will be ok, not passing the time of day with someone whilst pondering whether or not the weather will “make its mind up” won’t hurt you, the world won’t end.

Though if people stopped caring about the weather, would that mean forecasts would be pulled and there’d be no more Laura Tobin? I daren’t contemplate that, keep it up smalltalkers! You’re doing a fine job.

*I do pay my licence fee, I was just being humorous. Guffaw!

Low: I’ve been working too much and am exhausted.

High: We exceeded all our fundraising goals for the event I’ve been slaving away on. HALLELUJAH!

*****

Low: I still have only made a handful of felt pins.

High: The sale isn’t until Dec. 5th and I have Wed-Sun off this week so I should be able to craft enough of them in time.

*****

Low: I still have two open apartments available.

High: I have four messages to return about setting up viewings.

*****

Low: I still am not working out as much as I should.

High: My eating has not falling off the wagon. I’ve let the wagon go, apparently.

*****

Low: I have been emailing with a few guys I’ve met on line but haven’t made any concrete plans.*

High: Dating is not on the top of my priority list and I am totally okay with that.*

*Should these both be highs or both lows?

*****

Low: Our laundry room is being upgraded. When they put the washing machines back they didn’t hook them up right. No one has really been able to do laundry for a week. There could be a dirty underwear mutiny on my hands.

High: The repair guys have been called.

*****

Low: I stayed up too late.

High: It was worth it. The Swell Season show at the Paramount was FANTASTIC.

*****

Low: I am hosting Thanksgiving this year and have realized I don’t have enough plates to serve the 8-10 people coming over.

High: Reason to buy new dishware- score! Plus, I love being the hostess with the mostest.

*****

What are your highs and lows today?

Television:  A medium – so called because it is neither rare nor well done.  ~Ernie Kovacs

Today I had a visit from a “TV Licensing Enforcement Officer”.

It went something like this:

ACT ONE

FADE IN:

INT.  SMALL STUDIO APARTMENT – DAY

The curtains are drawn, the sound of snoring fills the air.

Cut to LEE (26), an overweight fleet controller, sound asleep and evidently the cause of the snoring.

Suddenly there is a loud, continuous hammering at the door.

LEE  wakes suddenly, with a snort.  Wipes the drool from his face and staggers to the door.

Opening the door he is confronted by the smirking face of TELLY NAZI (30s), a middle aged asian man who looks a lot like a UPS delivery guy, but is in fact a TV Licensing Enforcement Officer.

LEE: (sarcasm) Can I help?

TELLY NAZI flips open and closed what appears to be an ID CARD, in the style of a detective in an 80s American cop show

TELLY NAZI: (smirking) Our records show that this address does not currently have a television licence.

LEE: And?

TELLY NAZI: You need to have one

LEE: Why?

TELLY NAZI: Because it’s the law

LEE: No it isn’t

TELLY NAZI: Do you have a TV?

LEE: Yes

TELLY NAZI: Then you need a TV licence

LEE: No I don’t

TELLY NAZI: (extreme sarcasm) And why not?

LEE: Because I don’t USE a TV

TELLY NAZI: You still need a licence

LEE: No I don’t. Now seeing as you woke me up I’m going to make this brief.

I DO own a TV

I DO NOT need a TV license as I DO NOT USE said TV

TELLY NAZI: (completely baffled) Why not?

LEE: Well, firstly, I work nights, so generally I’m asleep in the day. Secondly, I don’t have an aerial as I’m waiting for my landlord to fix it.

TELLY NAZI: You should still have a TV licence

LEE: (quietly) Fuck off

Lee closes the door and returns to bed.

END OF ACT ONE

Why is it that TV Licensing can’t seem to accept that some people just don’t watch TV?

This has got me thinking.

As soon as an address is seen to be unregistered in respect of a TV licence, the occupant is subjected to an unending stream of letters, the constant message being that you are guilty of harbouring an unregistered TV.

In the early stages, the letters are just accusatory but rapidly become bullying, insulting and finally intimidating and highly offensive.

What other government organisation, business or even court of law would send out a letter in an envelope adorned in large print with the message ‘Notice of impending prosecution’ or ‘Your next appearance could be in court’?

All this, when no evidence whatsoever of  “illegal TV possession” exists.”. . .

The Television Licensing Authority (TVLA) seems to treat TV’s like the Borders Agency treats immigration…

I wonder how much of the (more than) £4.26 billion collected by the TVLA is wasted on these letters and idiot door to door visits?

Ya know,  Sometimes you just want to have one of those nights. A night where you gorge on candy, choke on cola and get decadantly dirty with delicious chocolatey delights.

But with gastric bypass you cant. Well actually you can for a little while. If you plan it correctly you can eat as much candy, sweets and tasty treats as you want for about 15 minutes. Of course the whole time you are experierincing the exctasy that only fine chocolate can bring you, a little voice in the back of your head is sayin “You are dumb, you are dumb” over and over again.

See about 15 min after you start consuming the forbidden fruit your body starts to tell you you have had enough. And it tells you loudly and painfully. It starts with a little cramping, a little sweating, some disorientation and being really really lethargic.  That soon progresses into agonizing cramping and profuse perspiration with a little drooling. Sexy I know. Then you start to have these small body spasams and soon comes the upchuckin. Your breathing shallows out and your pule raises as your body tries to get rid of all the sugar you just put into you system. In short you are pretty damn miserable. Generally you stay this way for about 2 hours or so hoping that you will die and the world will stop spinning.

Happened to me last night during an otherwise wonderful movie night. The culprit was 1/2 a tub of Orville Reddenbocker’s Poppycock. And since i survived, barely I might add, It will probably happen again. But not for a long long time.

No matter what, I am glad I had it done but sometimes Gastric bypass sucks.

Pudsy: he’s a big yellow bear with a chronic eye injury raising money for sick children. So why does Pudsy and his associated gaggle of BBC stars in fancy dress make my blood run cold?

Some might say the charity telethon is a mawkish and grotesque horrorshow designed for people who derive a kind of entertainment from what amounts to tragedy porn.

It’s a compelling argument. I remember my best friend’s funeral vividly: all the old women from his village got to the church early to get the good seats, while his friends stood at the back.

There’s a certain type that loves a good funeral, and they’re the folk who tune in to watch first-person accounts of the trials of Leukaemia interspersed with vignettes of Jeremy Paxman dressed as a stripper.

Also, a feelgood mass media charity appeal seems to me to discourage interesting questions like ‘How is it that children’s hospitals are short of cash in the first place, when there seems to be plenty of taxpayers’ money available for paying bankers’ bonuses and conducting wars of choice in countries 3,000 miles away?’

While many of you ho-bags have not only started, but perhaps even finished, your Christmas shopping, I am realizing that this year I will surely end up in full-fledged panic before the month of November is out.

Shopping has been complicated by 1) hey! I don’t have a job!! Whoot!; and 2) I’ve got one kid who thinks that by next year, he should get a car TO DRIVE and another kid who I really should try to find something more meaningful then a pair of shoes and the box they came in.

I could pat myself on the back because I normally wait until December 23rd to even start looking, so I’m not quite sure why even though I’m thinking of it early enough, I can’t seem to find anything, much less get any idea what I should even look for!

So I put on my thinking cap and realized that since my son could now read and write, I’ll just go get the Christmas catalog from Penney’s. You know the one: it’s the size of Des Moines phone book. Or Kansas City. Or somewhere else comparable to having a phone book about three inches thick.

My sisters and I would go through the second half of that book, the half that had all the toys in it, and dog-ear the pages with the items we wanted. Then we would sit down and make our lists to Santa, copying the name of the toy, the item number and even the page number, just to make sure Santa wouldn’t have a hard time finding what we wanted and give us socks, or training bras, or mittens with a matching hat instead.

I was actually really pumped to show Doodicus the book. I imagined him staring at the catalog in open-mouthed awe as I handed it over to him with a warning, “Be careful. It’s really heavy!”

Imagine my disappointment then when I got to the customer service counter at Penney’s and there were no gargantuan catalogs piled up on top of each other in the middle of the floor like they normally did. I asked the kid at the counter who had no idea what I was talking about. Instead he walked over to the display and pulled out this wimpy 20 page piece of shit catalog and told me that was it.

I was bummed. Doodicus was bummed (since I had told him all about this HUGE toy catalog).

What happened, JCPenney??

Oh. I see. The “kids” weren’t digging the catalog? Screw them. There not the ones depending on it to help them find toys for their nieces or nephews or grandchildren or children. I want the catalog that I can use to double as a booster seat for Aitch!! I want to be able to use the pages of your catalog as packing material!! I want to feel the weight of the joyous potential on my lap days – nay! weeks! – before Christmas!!

*smooths down hair*

And now? This “newsletter” didn’t inspire my son in the least. It was like any other piece of mail flotsam that comes and quickly goes in our house. I’m afraid that I’ll end up watching Nick one of these weekends and just taking notes everytime he says, “Oooooh! Can I have one of THOSE?!?” during the commercial breaks of a Sponge Bob marathon.

Shame on you, Penney’s. Shame on you.

Question: other than fiddling one’s expenses and having a deep mistrust of change, what do hundreds of my colleagues and I have in common with a large proportion of Labour MPs? Answer: we will all be looking for new jobs sooner rather than later.

My bosses – sorry, ‘senior colleagues’ – have concluded, possibly through a series of high-level meetings and complex drinking games, that decimation is the best way to save money during the recession. They are making redundant 10% of the workforce; specifically those who actually make the company profitable – and it is at least still making a profit, unlike many of its competitors. Jolly clever, I’m sure they believe, but doomed to failure.

Not that I care what the long term effect on the company is as, having become more disillusioned and increasingly lazy with every passing month, I decided to volunteer for the chop. The consequence of this brave/foolhardy (delete as appropriate) decision, however, is the terrifying prospect of having to make a curriculum vitae.

I will admit that having been employed without a break for more than 20 years, albeit by two different (yet depressingly similar) employers, keeping my CV up to date has been just below holidaying in Helmand or being Gary Glitter’s agent on my list of ‘50 Things To Do Before I Diet’ [sic]. The last CV I authored – right after I left school – was compiled so long ago that instead of printing it I had to have it written by a monk onto vellum. Unfortunately I suspect that most prospective employers are going to be more interested in the experience, technical expertise and interpersonal skills I have gained throughout my employment, rather than the B grades I gained in Maths and Geology. Unless of course they are looking for mathematician geologists, in which case a B probably isn’t going to be quite good enough.

An unimpressive CV wasn’t a problem when I applied for my first job – a sales assistant in a sports shop. “No need for a CV, mate.” He was an Australian living the dream. “Can you tell the difference between a footy and a golf bat?” Nor, indeed, for my second job as a carpet fitter; “Can you carry carpet and make casual racist or homophobic comments?” It’s a shame they hadn’t asked if I was allergic to underlay or I could have saved myself four weeks of uncontrollable itching.

Regrettably, my achievements and accomplishments since I left school are not particularly noteworthy either. I haven’t been the CEO of my own global company, I have never backpacked across south-east Asia during a gap year, and nor did I quite make it as far as university (damn that Geology B! And I suspect I could have made a fair stab at it too, had a mad knifeman not had a fair stab at me during my final term at school). I’ve never even seen an episode Hollyoaks. In short, there’s barely enough to fill half a sheet of Basildon Bond’s finest A4.

So, what am I going to do? Well, I’m going to do what everybody else has always done and make it up. Now all I have to do it find a job that requires someone with an Olympic Gold Medal in Archery, three Academy Award nominations for Best Best Boy and a PhD in propulsion technologies. It’s not exactly rocket science.

Or I could just claim to be the man who was in charge of a large multinational and sacked all its best staff. But no-one would want that on their résumé, would they?

I subscribe to Qwitter which lets me know when a Twitterer follower unfollows me. It’s awesome for that alone.

I also am signed up for NutshellMail, which sends me Facebook and Twitter updates right to my email. It’s got a few bugs, but again I think it’s awesome.

The combination of Qwitter and NutshellMail have provided me an extra benefit. While I would normally be bereft upon notification of a Twitterer quitting me, even the oral-pleasuring whores and spambots, the animation that goes with the notice takes the edge off.

Here’s how it looks in my email.

But wait, we need a closer shot to really appreciate it.

See. It’s like a little fart drawn out as if to say, “Pfft! Smell that? That’s the smell of me quitting your ass because you failed to follow me back even though I don’t know you and you don’t know me and while I may use a picture of me performing fellatio on my avatar* but the way you described yourself in your profile, I just KNOW we could be GREAT friends!”

.

.

* A little credit to both of the Qwitters used in this post, neither were performing fellatio. And I should clarify that the one I didn’t show wasn’t performing fellatio on their avatar, but were using a picture of themselves fellating AS a picture for their avatar. Semantics can be a bitch.

Today’s language is so fraught with tripe, drivel and political correctness that I’m surprised it’s even possible for us to communicate with each other. There are many words and phrases that are absolutely maddening. Who comes up with this stuff? I’m beginning to think that all of the academic linguists in this country must have gone to a convention and spent 100% of their time in “Uncreative Language” breakout sessions. Here are some examples of the type of gibberish to which I refer.

A teachable moment. What in the devil does this mean? Literally speaking every moment can be teachable in some way, shape or form. Win-win. What is wrong with win-lose? Hot button. In all my years I don’t think I’ve ever seen a button that was hot unless someone applied a blowtorch to it. Have a nice day. How about have a “puke on your shoes” day? To be perfectly honest. So, let me get this straight. Everything else you’ve been saying is a lie? Think outside the box. What box? I can think inside a box as well as outside a box. Undocumented immigrants. They are actually called illegal aliens.

African American. What’s wrong with being black? Plus sizes. Let’s call them what they are – fat sizes. Visually impaired. Me thinks it’s just blind. Overseas Contingency Operation. No way. It’s a GLOBAL WAR ON TERROR. Outcast. Black sheep. Oh no! This could be viewed as racist-speak. Out of control. Running around like wild Indians. Developmentally challenged. It’s still the same as being retarded. Seniors (chronologically advantaged). Old people. Utility hole cover. Manhole cover. Really. Nondiscretionary fragrance. Body odor. Chalkboards instead of blackboards . . . once again there is a fear of offending black people.

Had enough? Oh, but it doesn’t work that way. You and I have no choice but to continue to endure the assault on our language. But there is one way to fight back. In the coming weeks if someone wishes you Happy Holidays, reply, “No, it’s MERRY CHRISTMAS!” And by the way. Let’s ixnay that little smiley face thing that people are always putting in their e-mails.

Every now and then something happens at work that truly amazes me…  Tonight one of those things happened.

A regular customer phones up distraught from miles away having just broken up with her boyfriend and orders a cab home.

Thanks to our computer system I dispatched the job while still on the phone.

She then proceeds to pour out her heart to me, including her entire life story. (This isn’t the first time this has happened)

She told me things that were so personal you should only really tell someone you really know about them, and it made me realise something quite bizarre.

People trust their cab company.  Implicitly.

Cab companies know your name, phone number, home address, work address, local pub and doctor.  Sometimes we know your spouse, children, best friends and bits on the side.

We pick you up from strip clubs, brothels, dealers and church.

And no one ever questions it.

In a world where people are so paranoid about “information security”, we regularly divulge masses of information to our cab firms.

We pick your boyfriend up from your house while simultaneously picking your husband up from a brothel.

So next time you call for a cab, think about how much the man or woman answering the phone may well know about your deepest darkest secrets, and has never breathed a word about it…  And probably never will.

Controllers and their telephonists are like the clergy used to be.

Today started out with good intentions. I showered. I tried to take care of things that actually would have to wait due to things being closed on Veterans Day. I made cookies to bring to the write in.

Left work late, grabbed subway and skiddadled to the the Write-In I was supposed to be “hosting” (IE it was my idea). With my arms full of laptop, purse, keys, cookies, and a soda, I waddled in, found the only empty table, and dug into my sandwich.

Shortly thereafter, I realized I’d forgotten my journal, and until I had a plug, could not use the laptop. So… I had two sheets of lined paper, and needed to use SOMETHING else for the NaNoWriMo sign I still hadn’t made. I used two index cards and slid them into the table notice stand thingies (which worked quite well) then proceeded to write a full front and back of a page while watching the seats near the single outlet like a hawk. When one became available, I jumped up and snatched it mid-sentence.

However, once my computer was happily plugged in and sucking on the power, I discovered Barnes and Noble and their ATT internet were not in the mood to work. Oh well. I typed up all I had written, and even added some. Grand total… 600 or so words. Pathetic. And my back hurt. And I was getting cold. And no one had shown up. I gave up just short of two hours, and went home to sulk.

Being that my laptop is a particular beast, it’s not exactly convenient to cart around. The whole point of suggesting a write in was to have people. I left my schedule open, but noooo. They said pick a time. I picked one, and no one came. AND I MADE COOKIES!

I don’t think I will be hosting my own again.

After two hours of sulking, I realized my little graph would look even MORE sad if I did not get more writing done, and thus visited write or die. First, I passed the previous day’s goal. Then I did another sprint. And another. And then a break. And then another.

I had the help of a thoroughly annoying noble to spice up some drudgery. It was almost fun to write.

At the end of the day (even if it is after midnight) I am caught up! I wanted to push myself just a little further, but I was falling asleep. Then, noting my total progress (2,768) I decided I could put in 200 more. I have officially written more than 3000 today.

Total Word Count: 18,360

Where I Should Be: 18,333

Progress Today: 3,058

My time mysteriously disappears down several Internet black holes. Facebook is a big consumer of time, what with keeping up with the quotidian minutiae of the immediate world,  playing endless games of Scrabble with Calvin and friends, and playing endless, mindless games on the evil Mindjolt games there. E-v-i-l. I have openly admitted my addiction to the online version of Ticket To Ride. My desk screams for attention as do the stack of books on my nightstand. Oh, and of course this blog. Many days this month I’ve found myself racing against the clock to post something before the stroke of midnight.

Hi, my name is Alto2, and I’m addicted to my computer:

Etched in stone.

1. I am not powerless over my computer. I just choose to ignore the ugly reality of my life.
2. I believe a power greater than myself can restore me to sanity. They’re called children, spouse, and bills.
3. I have decided to turn my will and my life over to the care of G-d. I’m waiting for Him to clean the house and pay the bills.
4. I made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself. And I like it.
5. I have admitted to G-d, to myself, and to all you blogfriends the exact nature of  my wrong. Won’t you join me?
6. I am entirely ready for G-d to remove all these defects from my character. G-d, while you’re at it, can You delete my potty mouth, too?
7. I humbly ask G-d to remove my shortcomings. I also humbly ask G-d to remove these 100 pounds I’m struggling with.
8. I made a list of all the persons I have harmed, and I am willing to make amends to them all. Just as soon as I find it in the pile on my desk.
9. I have made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would be inconvenient or uncomfortable for me.
10. I continue to take a personal inventory, and I admit that I am wrong to continue forsaking my responsibilities for that 101-point Bingo! in Scrabble.
11. I seek, through prayer and meditation, to improve my conscious contact with G-d. Yes, I really do this weekly in synagogue.
12. I have had a spiritual awakening, and I’ll practice these principles in all my affairs. Just as soon as I get them in order. Later. After I play another round of Scrabble with Calvin.

And, if I have offended anyone, please accept my profound apologies.

Been swamped all day. I’ve made it a third of the way through this posting everyday in November and I’m determined not to let work stand in my way!

I agreed to make nice with the etsy owner, but emphasized that I’m truly not interested in a refund.

I think it’s unfortunate that the feedback system is all or nothing. What’s the point, then? Should I then look at the total number of sales versus feedback and conclude that the difference between the two are the purchasers who felt either neutral or negative about the store owner? Feh.

After asking questions in the conclusion of the past few posts, it’s your turn. Any questions you have for me? It can be whatever you want.

I’m STILL a little behind from missing Saturday, and I haven’t had enough inspiration to make up the difference. I did do a couple sprints today, which helped. Everything else, however, has been in the “write, check word count, update word count despite the pathetic 100 word difference, and repeat” fashion. Slow, tedious, and painful.

Also, NaNoWriMo widget is broken again. Oh well. I’ll keep my not so snazzy little graph instead.

Total Word Count: 15,542

Where I Should Be: 16,667

Words Written Today: 2,048

This is merely a perfunctory post. I walked 2.5 miles today and had a busy day. I’m sleepy, but I need to post something.

Currently, my favorite scents are Narciso Rodriguez, Sisley’s Soie de Lune, and Cartier’s Le Baiser du Dragon. I like Narciso because it is clean, modern, and floral without being citrusy or soapy. Soie de Lune enchants me with tuberoses; it’s slightly exotic and reminds me of a blast from the past, Maroc by Ultima II.

As for Cartier, they are fragrances for a woman of substance. Le Baiser du Dragon (Dragon’s Kiss), is a heady, sexy, sandalwoody scent meant for evening wear.

What’s your favorite fragrance?

It takes a lot to gross me out. Bring on your blood, guts, protruding bones and gory stitches. When my husband sent me pictures of the time he squished the fingernail clean out of his finger or how he sluiced his kneecap with a rogue piece of metal, while I may go, “Gross!” I don’t cringe or look away. Maybe part of that tolerance is related to growing up on a farm where one is exposed to all kinds of biological fluids, gore and generally the icky stuff on daily basis. I once watched in fascination when my dad took his pocketknife and plunged it into the abdomen of a grain-bloated calf and then stuck a piece of rubber tubing inside the hole to vent the bloat.

Gross, huh?

But this weekend I saw something that made my stomach lurch. The quaint expression, “I think I just threw up in my mouth,” while overused, captured the feeling of revulsion.

I went to an event this weekend that had a concession area set up with several tables for guests to sit and enjoy a moment to rest or a bite to eat. I was mowing through a sandwich when I scanned the tables around us. I watched as a middle-aged woman pulled a comb out of her purse, ran it through her thick, wavy hair, inspected the comb, and THEN removed the hairs from the teeth of the comb AND THEN sprinkle the newly acquired hairs ONTO THE FLOOR next to her table!!

Good god! Who does that kind of shit IN PUBLIC??! When I was describing this to a friend of mine, she asked, “Doesn’t it make you wonder what her car or house is like?” “Uh, no, not until now, thank you,” I answered, fighting a mild stomach heave.

What socially unacceptable grooming behaviors have you witnessed lately?

A day trip turned into an overnight trip, and thus I wrote not a single word yesterday. And I was a whole 3 words ahead, leaving me with 3330 to write today. Being that I then fell asleep when I got home, that didn’t look likely.

Suddenly, though, after an agonizing thousand or so, I got to a really fun scene. You see, my antagonist is a foreigner. One of the chief exports of the country he’s currently in is Chilies. He knows this, and has encountered a few spicy dishes thus far, but tonight, is unknowingly served the first intentionally spicy dish (because in Keth, a little spice is not so little, so intentionally spicy…) The other two characters are looking at him like he’s weird. Yeah. That was entertaining.

Also, my plot ninja is working! I earlier decided he needed to get up and pace during the night, trying to figure something out, but it seemed kinda odd. Well, now he has a reason. Too much water with dinner, hehe. Ah, plot, falling into place. Beautiful!

Anyhow, I need to get to bed. I have work early in the morning. Early for me, anyhow (anyone remember how I woke up at 1pm last week?) But last… note the snazzy NaNoWriMo widget. Cooler than the one I made, but it doesn’t seem to like the sidebar. Oh well.

Words Written Today: 1,843

Total Word Count: 11,846

Where I Should Be: 13,333 (some catching up to be done)

But once a year comes the most important date for a man. Not his birthday or Christmas Day, not even the annual bath. No, the one day which sets the tone for the entire following twelve months is the Wedding Anniversary. Get it right and almost everything else can be forgiven; get it wrong or, worse still, forget it and, well, good luck.

This year, our anniversary falls on, well, the same date as always. In this case, tomorrow*. This has somehow managed to sneak up on me and take me entirely by surprise – again – despite the far too subtle hints dropped in my path by my partner in matrimony.

Unfortunately, due to the fact that the shops and my employers have, by hilarious coincidence, chosen the same employment hours, getting a card and present would have been a fraught business even had I remembered weeks ago.

It should be nice and straightforward as we only give token gifts – there is a heady £2 limit – but the pressure placed upon me is enormous if only because my other half is always so inventive. Instead of looking for online bargains or in charity shops I have a feeling that she is pocketing the money and has begun stealing things from wealthy neighbours just so she can look smug when I open the recycled-from-fathers-day wrapping paper to find a Faberge Egg or the Cullinan Diamond. Shopping for gifts for my wife is stressful at any time (which is why I tend not to do ‘ad hoc’ presents), but even more so with that kind of competition.

The price limit ensures that all but the mankiest of flowers are a no-go, as are clothes (not that I would even try as I have no fashion sense) and even my faithful fall-back position of giving her a four-pack of her beloved Wispa bars has been made to look less impressive since a friend sent her a box of four dozen by way of apology for some minor misdemeanour.

So, with the deadline approaching faster than Usain Bolt sprinting downhill with a following gale, what did I decide to get? Well, to avoid giving the game away I’ll post an update after she’s opened it. But I will say this: wish me luck for the next twelve months.

*Technically, it’s today, as it has just ticked past midnight.

I’ve hit 10,000, which means I’m 20% done. That’s 1/5.
A few of us met at Barnes and Noble for a Write-In, and for once, I made the daily word goal before midnight. I still plodded along slowly, but it was good to visit. I even was gifted with stickers and a plot ninja by our wonderful Municipal Liason.

Some highlights include the creepy supposed writer that noticed us (and due to his proximity to the only outlet, we ended up sitting next to), and eavesdropping on a very awkward blind date.

Also, I have a nasty habit of putting my laptop on hibernate instead of restarting, and it almost cost me 1000 words. When I woke up, it didn’t want to go back on… and I hadn’t saved. Thankfully, auto-recover saved every last word. Thus, I want to compose an ode to auto-recover

Total Word Count: 10,003

Where I should be: 10,000

Progress for the day: 1636