Wednesday, October 12, 2011

I hate it when the weather changes.

 It's the start of orange tree season! I loves me some orange trees.
Not that I don't like new weather. I do, I love new weather -- particularly when we arrive at the beginning of  Supposed To Be Cold season (we have two seasons in these parts, Supposed To Be Cold and Supposed To Be Warm, which is why I always laugh when someone says they won't move south when they retire because they "like having seasons." What seasons, for the love of qiviut?!?!?) I love the first half of Supposed To Be Cold. But the change, the actual process of going from STBW to STBC, gives me headaches. I've been battling a rather nasty one today, as a matter of fact. As I was trying to function and write despite the feeling that my head was being slammed repeatedly in a metal drawer, I realized my tolerance for pain has radically dropped since I had my wisdom teeth pulled. The magic of the little brownish pink pills has made me weak, I suppose. So I began  to frantically toss my desk drawer like a robber on the clock, looking for my bottle of magic beans. No love. I start moving things on the shelf of my desk complex where my drive sits, trying to find the bottle. Again, no love. I knew there were some pills in my purse (insurance against facial swelling from days of old), so I got one out, swallowed it and came back to my desk to await the magic.

And then I just about slapped myself silly. Here's my desk as it was this afternoon (taken only moments ago; I swear I haven't touched anything but the sticky note pads):

Oh, my. What could that ever be sitting right in front of my monitor?

Maybe I should have slapped myself. Not that it would help, the Advil is helping (my headache is no longer pounding, it just feels like my sinuses have been filled with lead shot), but slapping myself around would not help. I will blame the loopiness on the pain. Yeah, that's it, the pain. Because I'm totally not blonde or anything like that. *facepalm*

In other news, the work situation may be looking marginally more hopeful today. I just have to not screw up an interview I've got on Friday and hope for the best possible outcomes. Which is, really, all anyone can do -- hope for the best possible outcomes. Control is a seductive illusion, and giving it up is hard, hard, so very, very hard to do. But I understand that, while I can control myself and my reactions, I cannot control others or their reactions, either to me or other events.

I hate that aspect of life.

I also got some work done on one of my fiction projects. Precious little else to do today, really. I've got that and a non-fiction project in process, and a second fiction project that's on hold until I get my first one done. It's a trope that your first fully-realized piece of fiction sucks, and I want to get that out of the way before I work on the one that I really, truly love. In the hopes that it won't suck, if you see. I figure I can use any help I can get when it comes to writer juju and rituals.

Writers are very superstitious, you see. I suppose all artists are. Because we know, deep down in our heart of hearts, the art isn't coming from us. We're just transcriptionists of something that floats out in the ether. So we do all we can to raise the best antennae we can muster and hope we get the best signals to transcribe.

Despite the fact that I've been worrying myself sick and cross-eyed the past three or four days, I managed to get some work done on Little Loki. I'd show you, but seriously, do you need to see three more inches of left-leaning mesh? If you do, might I recommend therapy, because, dang, that's strange. I mean, it's my scarf and even I'm having trouble working up enthusiasm for looking at any more left leaning mesh.

But I'm thisclose to getting to the end of the left leaning mesh (and, oh, the parties we'll have then, my friends) and finally, finally!, gaining the tail section, which is chocka-block full of beady, stockinette goodness. And then the cast off. And then the blocking and the wearing. *shudder*

Is it wrong of me to feel more enthused about wearing my Little Loki scarf than I ever have at the thought of an actual man? I know I'm a yarn pervert, but I hadn't realized how much of a yarn pervert I was. Then again, I can honestly say that Little Loki is absolutely perfect for me -- seeing as how I designed him (well, took the transcription on the coolest scarf inspired by a movie villain ever) and then made him my very own self -- which is more than I can say for the poor guys who had to endure my presence in the years I was pretending to be Little Miss Business Suit.

I wonder if I can send them apology cards after all this time, that had to have been a trial....

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