so now I smell like THIS all day


Ever wake in the morning and after your normal ablutions, when you smell so soapy and lovely, you add on a spray of some kind, like a floral scent, with a weird pink color, but it still smells pretty so why not?
Oh, no. No, me neither.
But ‘cept I did.
This morning was a rough one. Late night, slight remnants of the wee bit of adult beverage I may or may not have consumed, and then at his normal time — 7:20 — my Moose Dog insisted — by springing from the floor, landing on my center, and gargoyling over me while I gasped for breath and the mace on my nightstand –  that his day begin as usual, no matter what kind of evening I, His Person, may have had.
(Dogs don’t care, do they? And yet they’re still so much kinder than cats. Hm.)
So, back to me.
I showered, I sprayed with the floral stuff, and while rummaging through my makeup box, which is unusual — usually it’s closed up, locked away, shoved to the back — I found a teensy little pink squirty bottle of perfume. So cute!
What’s this? I ruminated while sniffing the itsy bitsy, can’t-let-aroma-out-tiny, squirter.
I shrugged, I squirted, and the humongous amount of liquid that was dispensed landed all over my chin/neck region, where it bloomed and flowed into every orifice of my face: nares, mouth, eyebulbs, all of it, coated with eau de meadow.
While florists may enjoy the pervasive redolence of flowers all day, I like it for a little bit, a nanosecond of time when compared to how long the oils in that eeny beeny squirty bottle can last.
I endured.
For five minutes.
Then I sneezed.
Huh. I’m allergic to the eau de crap inside that wee little bottle.
Two Benadryl and a four hour nap later, I’m good again.
Aaaaaaand, just in time for Moose Dog to venture out of the doors again…

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a night of writing dangerously


You know I’m NaNo’ing, at least in theory. It’s been a sticky November, I must say.
National Novel Writing Month (NaNo, for shorter vernacular) started beautifully, with my absurd diligence to stay in the game, keep up the word count, egg others on, encourage them to do the same. NaNo More, every day, let’s do this thing!
Then Day Two came and due to attrition, my group of NaNo-ers dwindled to … me, that I knew of; others were still writing, still attempting the race, and that was great, and I don’t push. This writing thing is a fickle mistress — sometimes she coos and plays nicely and other times, well, she’d best left alone, so I just admire anyone that attempts to play along.
We had a Skype session with a published author; we had weekly write-ins, a place made available for anyone to come in and tap out a few thousand words — but no one took advantage, including myself, I’ll admit.
Still, somehow I kept up with the requested word count, daily meeting the goal, eking out the required verbiage long enough to get sleep and let the guilt build for the night until the pressure was too great and I was forced to write more. more.more.
Then Wednesday of this last week came along and I was in a groove, in a zone, pecking at keys until I’d reached nearly 35,000 words — different words! not the same word over and over thirty-five thousand times, in case you were questioning my output — and one simple keystroke later, a key I don’t recall pushing, a key I couldn’t point to in a lineup, wiped out all of my November efforts in a blinding second.
I nearly vomited.
But I panicked early, I told myself, choking on the memory of all the words I’d cobbled together that rushed into my brain to be recalled and written before they were forgotten from my memory forever, and went through all the techno/computer savvy channels at my disposal.
The blinking cursor that had once read “34,729 words” now said “1 word”. The word “for”, its butt end blinking innocuously at me, stared up me as if to ask, “And?”
All gone.
Fortunately hubris and a need for support had caused me to email bits and pieces to a few select people who graciously copies what I’d sent them and emailed it back to me. Some of the words were in a different file folder, thank heavens. Some were in texts and some I’d printed onto actual hard copy paper. All of this I congratulated myself for, and over the course of three hours I pieced it together again, minus everything I’d worked up on Monday and Tuesday. Those five thousand or so words are gone forever.
But rage can make a better writer. Out of a giant need to say Screw You to the keystroke that tried to eliminate me from the race, I wrote. And wrote. And now I’m sitting pretty, at par for the month, around 38,000 words.
I’m still on the road, though the universe tried to shake me, and I’m stronger for it. Road rash heals, tire marks can be erased; don’t quit, that’s the motto of the day.
Though I wish it was a longer motto — more words in a longer motto, you know…
This night of November has been declared by NaNo’ers to be the Night of Writing Dangerously, the aim of which is to stay the course, drink coffee, while away the night time hours, greet the daylight having written for the duration of the night and walk away with the requisite number of daily words or perhaps finish the 50K goal.
I love the thought.
And I’ve taken advantage of the night until now: I’m caught up. Yay, me.
But I’m also done for the day, so at 1:21am, I am calling my dangerous night of writing to be a fait accompli and head to the boudoir.
I guess I get French when I’m tired.
NaNo, I shall conquer thee! You shall not beat me, no matter what Deletion Dwarves you send my way!
In seven more days.

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mashed potatoes of youth


Today was the Thanksgiving holiday feast at his school and family was invited to pay a small fee for the privilege of joining in. I paid, I joined, I even got a ticket. I had found memories of school cafeteria food before today. My memories have been shattered, because I would bet money that mashed potatoes are the Twinkies of the cafeteria world. I would bet the scoop of taters today came from the same batch of my third grade memory, the very. same. batch. Plus the addition of an intriguing new yellow gravy I can’t explain. But I was with my Bubs for the whole of his twenty minute lunch and that part was bliss. I went to Subway for lunch after lunch.

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