Today has been my week for belated Christmas gifts, and I love it. kalluna got me a lovely little head of Ganesh for the wall, and ajare_demon (who, until I die, I will think of as a felinoid barbarian named Slash, and have a regrettable tendency to address packages to her thusly) sent me a fantastically marked African locust. It’s so cool! It’s got magnificently black spotted wings and maroon armor. I could almost understand what gryllus sees in bugs. Almost. It helps that it’s dead and looking like an object d’art rather than wiggly and flailing those lovely little limbs about like a bug.

Now I gotta actually get my arse in gear and send Slash her present, which, what with the moving and all…well, y’know.

This is probably my record for most usernames linked in one post, but I was feeling like an overachiver today. In that vein, slapped a bunch of prints into frames and hung them, (mostly from trades which had been languishing unhung,) did laundry (requires laundromat) mailed schtuff, sent various essential e-maily bits and got various essential e-maily replies. Not much work at the moment, but that’s to be expected following the move–freelancing is one of those momentum things, and once you shut down for a month, it takes awhile to get the engines heated up again. Should get some work rolling in in a coupla weeks on at least one front, though, so s’all good. And I should really get my arse in gear and do some real paintings while I’ve got down time.

Now, to finish up the next Digger and get that buffer back in place…

Oh, also–I think I can announce this–Digger’s contract was happily renewed at Graphicsmash, so the wombat need not go seeking a new home come March. I wasn’t worried, actually, more because of being busy as sin than out of any particular self-assurance, but it’s nice to know.

I have a zit on my forehead.

Normally this would not be something I’d regale you with, O readers, since A) it’s icky, and B) despite being twenty-six, my adolescent acne never really vanished, only went mostly dormant, so it’s not really an event. I’m not one of those unfortunate individuals who looks like the surface of Mars, thank god, but at certain times of the month, I do break out. I blame the birth control pills–they’re supposed to control acne, but in a minor segment of the population (namely mine) they do rather the opposite. My mother tells me that the advantage to suffering this indignity for the first thirty odd years is that your skin is more elastic in later years, but I really don’t care–when I get old, I plan to go dramatically gray, wear exciting hats and purple shirts, drink martinis and curse like a pirate with Tourette’s, and if my face doesn’t resemble canyon country, I’ll lose the total effect.

But anyway, this zit.

If you’ve ever had a really unpleasant zit in this location, you know that it’s like a friggin’ third eye in your forehead. People make eye contact with it, then eventually drag their eyes back down front and center. Were it summer, I could wear a tank top and go for the eye-contact trifecta–zit, face, cleavage–but I suppose I gotta deal with the cards I’m handed.

Attempts to conceal the offender behind makeup are generally futile, since it just looks as if your third eye is wearing a little flesh colored hat. Fortunately, working at home means that I’m only self-conscious about it when I go out for Coke and package mailing, and having worked retail in the past, I know the great secret of retail–if you don’t kick up a fuss, the clerks don’t see you, couldn’t pick you out of a line-up five minutes later, and wouldn’t bat an eyelash if you had a rhinocerous growing out of your forehead, let alone a belligerant pore. So it’s not that big a deal, but damnit, I felt like complaining anyway.

Who’d’ve thought?

My sudden mental image of a dysfunctional rattlesnake clan sniping over the Thanksgiving rat should probably be immediately squelched…

Damn straight.

This expresses, rather more clearly than I can, my disgust with the anti-Nader thing goin’ on recently. Blaming Nader for stealing the election from Gore is…god, metaphors fail. There were a great many people who didn’t vote, and a great many who voted for Bush, and we decide that All Fault In Perpetuity lies with 1% in Florida who voted for Nader. Because he had the temerity to be on the ballot. The horror. What about all the people who checked “Bush” on their little dangling chaddy things? Don’t you think they had something to do with him getting elected? Maybe a teeny bit?

Nader’s a fruitbat, yes, but he does not control the election. If he did, I’m pretty sure he’d manage to get into the debates, or something.

Just to round out the shameless pluggery, only one day left on the Digger cover auction!

My buddy Kathy is telling me that I gotta do a wombat beefcake auction–something silly of a buff male wombat leaning on a pickaxe. I confess, I doodled a sketch. It’s pretty silly. I draw the line at wombat cheesecake–Digger just isn’t the type, and anyway lacks a waist, hips, or external nipples–but there’s something so cheerfully absurd about hunky bodybuilding wombats…I dunno. Possibly my brain is getting wrenched from doing all these Diggers in rapid succession to catch up to my backlog.

Which is, in fact, what I oughta be doin’ right now…

Today started out with a bang, as James set my coffee cup down on my desk and I promptly knocked it over, sending scalding coffee cascading across my keyboard, desk, and thighs. The little birds at the feeder got more of a show than they probably wanted, as I did the frantic get-out-of-burning-jeans dance, while making that “AH! AH! AH!” noise of someone who can feel their flesh starting to cook. It’s probably a tribute to my rapid disrobing skills that I emerged unscathed.

My keyboard, however, was both soggy and then the glue holding the little key dealies on melted, so we gave it up as a lost cause and went and picked up a fresh one. I am glad, once again, that I no longer have my ancient Amiga, where a dead keyboard meant a dead computer. Whereas now, for a mere twenty bucks, I can acquire a perfectly serviceable replacement, instead of having to shell out for a new machine.

‘Course, these days, an Amiga 500 can’t be much more than twenty bucks anyway, but that’s neither here nor there.

Still playing Temple of Elemental Evil. Hmm. I dunno. It’s not bad, but…well…there’s no PLOT. I mean, I love subquests. I’ll do the subquest dance until the cows come home. But there also has to be a main quest, or else there’s no real point–I’m just a party of weirdos lurking in town spying on people and marrying off the farmer’s daughters. (Seriously, half the quests are matchmaking. I can’t help but wonder if I’d really want to get married on the say-so of a group of guys covered in orc guts and zombie chitlings.) There doesn’t really seem to be anything that I’m supposed to DO, though. I realize that I’m comparing it–perhaps unfairly–to Baldur’s Gate, against which it can’t help but measure up pretty poorly, but it’s just not holdin’ up, and despite patching, it still has some funky buggy bits too. I dunno. I’ll keep giving it a shot, since James insists that I spend at least part of the weekend relaxing and playing games, lest I court burnout yet again, but it had better pick up here shortly.

Still Life with Squirt Gun

So Athena, our dumb-but-usually-friendly cat, has this bad habit of attacking toes in the night.

I’ve mentioned this before, I’m sure. I don’t think it’s neccessarily her fault–James’s feet twitch when he sleeps as if he’s gotten his wires crossed and is having Rapid Foot Movement sleep or something, and the twitching Something under the blankets must be irresistable to a small, bored predator. But nevertheless, to be awakened several times a night by clawed paws slapping your toes is not conducive to a cheery morning, particularly when you’ve dutifully gotten up several times to confirm that yes, she has food and water, and no, she doesn’t want to snuggle.

Building ramparts around the feet only means that the attack will come from a different angle. She’s really quite persistent.

So yesterday, in the interests of finally breaking her of this habit, which was renewed in spades when we moved into the new place, we got a squirt gun, one of those double shot ones that shoots two streams of water, one high, one low, and put it on James’s side of the bed. Deep in the night, the claws came down, James groped for the squirt gun, and the cat got a face full of cold water, which did not please her at all. (Fortunately, she dislikes water–Loki considered water to be yet another of life’s trials to be ignored. If he was sleeping in the sink, turning the faucet on onto his head only made him grumble.)

A few minutes later, either having completely forgotten the water gun, or wanting to test her luck, she launched another foot assault, and got another face full of water.

This displeased her mightily, and she stalked over to the nightstand on my side, under the window, stretched herself up, and began to play the Venetian blinds like a xylophone.

It was about four AM at this point, and James was arguably not at his best, and has exceedingly poor eyesight without his glasses, and the squirt gun was already in his hand. He squirted the cat, forgetting that it was a double stream squirt gun, and that his wife–that would be me–was laying mostly dead to the world next to him, directly in the path of the lower stream of very cold water.

The blast took me in the right ear and across the cheek, and caused me to make the sort of noises one usually associates with wolverine dentistry as I was catapulted brutally into consciousness.

The conversation that followed, I’ll leave to the imagination, since I wasn’t entirely conscious for it, but both husband and cat, chastised by the night’s events, went back to sleep, and everyone lived to see another dawn.

This was too funny to pass by, even if it does mean I’m putting one of those thingies in my LJ.


Neon Tetra

| Strength
| Stamina

Battle Rating

UrsulaV was hatched from an ancient egg, uncovered in the arctic

Can your fishy beat UrsulaV ?

Spam in my in-box today informs me–I quote–“Over 72% of all women need a larger and thicker p e n i s to reach sexual orgasm.”

Damn those women with their subpar penises!

The joke’s been made before, but I’ll make it again ‘cos it’s late and I’m punchy–waking up one morning to discover that I had a larger and thicker penis would not noticeably improve my chances of orgasm, although I think my chance of aneurysm would probably skyrocket. (Arguably, of course, any penis at all would count as larger and thicker than the current equipage, so they may get me on a technicality, there.) However, I’m obviously a weirdo in that 28% minority. I mean, they have percentages! On the internet! It must be true!

In other news, new art! Vaguely Froudish, as anything vaguely pastel and weird and fairyish inevitably must be.

And nary a penis in sight, either.

Just to shamelessly plug–the very first (and so far, only!) Digger cover, a rare original in a mostly digital strip, is up for auction over at e-bay, starting at quite a reasonable price.

Because hey, if it’s a wildly breakout hit that someday sweeps the world, think of the bragging rights!