Since there’s nothing I can do about the wallet situation at the moment–the Lost and Found isn’t open on Christmas, but my options look like A) have it overnighted if possible, B) Fly without ID, be searched, and hopefully retrieve it in MN, and C) have my long-suffering but willing parents drive me seven hours to Minneapolis to get it (They’re willing and ready. I have great family.) or perhaps D) take Greyhound back (or E, have somebody drive my car up here and GET me, an act of self-sacrifice I can barely comprehend, but which has been offered.)

So, I’m taking refuge in oddity.

It came out over dinner that my grandmother, good Catholic that she was, used to keep saint medals and pardon crosses safety-pinned to her bra. My stepfather’s mother apparently used to do the same thing.

The brain boggles. What saint do you wear ‘pon your bra? Who is the patron saint of cleavage? (Grandma apparently favored Saint Anthony as guardian of the boobage.)

Somehow I had never heard of this tradition, but the way things are going, I may damn well buy Saint Jude and give ‘im a try…

Update: Further family discussion has lead to the question “Is there a patron saint of getting laid?” (Yes, I have an interesting family.) I thought hey, if anybody’d know, it’s the readers, and so I put it to you…what saint medal should adorn my cleavage?

2007’s Last Hurrah

Well. I am in Michigan.

My wallet, however, is in Minneapolis.

I cannot leave Michigan until I get my wallet back, as I cannot get on a plane without ID. The airline had found it, but I am still required to navigate the maze of Lost & Found to get it back.

2007 was not willing to let me go without a last kick in the groin, it seems.


Off to the wilds of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan I go! Happy Hogswatch, one and all.

I don’t know what my internet connectivity will be like, so if I don’t post again between now and then–Happy New Year!

I will not do a year in review, because…well…I lived through it once already, and that was plenty. Let us hope and pray and beg any god inclined to have mercy that 2008 will be better than 2007. Another year like that’d probably kill me. I don’t usually assign malice to impersonal divisions of the calendar, but 2007 was a right bastard of a year. It pulled no punches, left no stone unturned in the pursuit of unalloyed suck. It was like going ten rounds with an angry saguaro cactus. It hurt.

More than just me, apparently–2007 apparently sucked horribly for a lot of people I know, generally on the relationship front as well. Something in the water, maybe–seems like half my friends got it too. Divorces, nasty break-ups, the lot. Still, we lived through it, one and all–staggering, punch-drunk, limping over the finish-line, taking that last nasty little sucker punch from 2007 as we go–(oof! there it was–right in the kidneys, too!)–but…we made it.

Some day I will look back on 2007 and…well, “laugh” is probably too strong a term. Chuckle bitterly, more likely. But at least we can lift our glasses and say “Thank god that’s over with…”

To 2008–it can only get better from here.

(Having posted this, I will, of course, be eaten by fairy wolves sometime on the 31st. Still. It’s a death with interest, anyway.)

If today was a fish, it’d be circling the bowl…

A grey, wet, gloomy, miserable day. Went out to run errands. Got soaked. Brooded. Errands only partially successful. Wild goose chase in pursuit of duplicate car keys eventually ended sans goose. Discouraged, I headed home, to discover that the power was out. Oh…yay. Somedays even my native optimism and determined cheer falter and I just wanna prostrate myself in front of my miniature shrine to Ganesh and yell “MAKE THINGS BETTER!” (This is the essence of all prayer, I suspect.)

Oh, well. The power came back on eventually, obviously. The good days outnumber the bad by a healthy margin, which is all that one can ask out of life. Gonna pack for Michigan, then curl up with God of War 2 and hurt things until I feel better.

More Life Lessons Learned

It is difficult to dance to “The Ecstasy of Gold” (better known as the theme to The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.) Even if one is cleaning the house and boogieing down in the embarassing way that one does when alone and wielding a vaccuum, this tends to halt the boogie. (Why did I have it on the playlist right after Devo, anyway?) You can, however, go “Waaaah waaaah waaaah…” at the cat to make up for it.

The cat may or may not approve of this.


Every night, I crawl into bed, and a few minutes later, having done a last sweep for ninjas, Ben follows.

He plops down between my ankles, reclines majestically, and begins to groom.

Ben is not a quiet groomer. Some cats may settle their fur in silent dignity, but Ben slurps. And he chews his claws in a weird fashion, grabbing each claw between his teeth and yanking upward, so that it eventually slides out between his teeth with an audible click! (I have no idea why he does this. His claws aren’t overgrown, he has no difficulty walking, he has a scratching post which he uses and a number of objects that he’s not supposed to use but does anyway. Ben is an odd cat. Possibly he is honing them for ninja-slaying.) And in the course of grooming, as he leans far backward with each claw nibble or wiggles around to groom each part of his eighteen pound anatomy, he gradually inches north, in a process that I have dubbed “snugglecreep.”

He may start out at my ankles, but by the time I fall asleep, he’s generally wedged between and across my knees. His primary goal is apparently to maximize contact between cat and human (he is happiest when he can sit on someone’s lap and put a paw out on somebody else) and he has calculated the optimal way to do this. Despite nearly a year of single life, I still sleep on one side of the bed. Ben’s nefarious plan is to locate the exact center point this area, snugglecreep to it via a slug-like flexion of the trunk, and then curl up and assume the approximate density of lead.*

At some point in the middle of the night, I usually roll over on my side and pull my knees up, whereupon Ben wedges himself into the acute angle formed by the backs of my legs, a position which requires startling amounts of flex in the spine. Should I get up in the night to visit the restroom, get a drink of water, check on the weird noises coming from the birdfeeder or scribble down an idea about clipper ships made of giant beets, Ben will retain this position, requiring meto fit myself awkwardly back into bed around the cat. If I wish to straighten out, I am forced to sleep diagonally along the bed, at which point, after a few minutes, Ben will grumble and stretch out along my side.

On rare occasions where I attempt to sleep on my back the entire night, a disgruntled Ben will creep north until he can drape himself across my pelvis. I usually wake up in short order, as he has an uncanny ability to locate a human bladder and plant a pointy feline chin directly on it. (This also applies to naps, although he prefers to lay in the other direction on the couch, chin on human knees and one back foot planted squarely where it will cause a napping human the most discomfort.)

None of this is nearly so disturbing as when I sleep on my stomach, in which case Ben has a tendency to get up, stretch, lay down across my back and go back to sleep. He doesn’t do the loud get-up-right-now purr, he genuinely seems to want to sleep like that, even if he has to plant his back feet on the mattress and practically sit up to get his front feet and head across my back. (Ben is a very large cat. At full extension he can cover my torso from crotch to collarbone, and so he can fit part of himself on my back most of the time.)

Cats are weird.

*The fact that science has not adequately studied the occasional super-heavy properties of Felinium is a black mark against modern research.

Ahhhh…life is good.

I have hot cider and the latest Robin McKinley, I have eaten an excellent and fattening meal, my agent just got off the phone with what will hopefully be some promising leads (she’s talking to a lot of film people about various things, a notion which strikes me as simultaneously thrilling and patently absurd, but hey, you never know) the aforementioned book club thing, the Hama Sutra should have no trouble getting published, I have finished shipping out my pre-vacation prints, and I am at peace with the cosmos.

Also, “Chronicles of Riddick” is on. And c’mon, Vin Diesel makes EVERYTHING better.

Also, my feet smell like cucumber foot lotion. Which is actually a rather pleasant smell. And Ben is in Snugglemonster mode. It is a good day.

Neat! A major library book club apparently just bought the rights to print 7300 hardcover copies of Nurk!

…apparently this is good. (I have no freakin’ clue, but my editor says it’s fantastic news, and my buddy Deb, the romance writer, concurs,  so, um…yay!)

…See above post about success and dumb luck.

My recent baking experiments–and actually my life in general!–reminds me of one of my all time favorite quotes…

“All you need in this life is ignorance and confidence, and then success is sure.” — Mark Twain

I was telling

t’other day that I thought the keys to success were hard work and dumb luck, but there’s a lot to be said for enthusiasm, too…