Several packages arrived today.

“Awwwwright! A dremel set!”

“Awwwwright! My sex toys arrived!”

…I swear, the two aren’t related.

Gracias to the nice fan who got me a dremel set and morning thunder tea! I have caffeine and power tools! LIFE IS GOOD!

(I paid for my own sex toys. There’s a principle involved. I think.)

The sweater-with-cleavage-window met with great approval from my buddies Linda and Wendy over coffee, and I wore it happily into the local comic shop, whereupon I got very attentive service. “Is there anything I can help you find? Anything…any questions…at all…” Possibly everyone gets that, but I may have bent the poor clerk’s mind a little when I appeared with the first two books of Preacher.* He looked at it, then actually met my eyes without more than a passing pause below the collarbone. “Have you read this?”

“Yup.” (The first one, anyway, and about a year’s worth of the comic following. Not for the faint of heart. If you do not run to the theatre when you hear that Quentin Tarantino put out a new movie, do not buy this comic on my say-so.)

There was a brief, but perceptible pause. Then he grinned and said “Well, then! Have you read Garth Ennis’s latest?” and launched into an enthusiastic recommendation of something called “The Boys.”

It has been an excellent day.

*It is a point of pride with me that I cannot walk into a real flesh and blood comic shop and buy a “girl” comic. I loved Sandman and Bone and the Books of Magic as much as anybody, I drool over the collected Little Nemo, I eye the latest manga collections…but I order them on-line. If I’m going to wander in a bastion of nerdly testosterone, I am damn well not gonna play to stereotype.