Assuming I pass the background check.
We did not stumble across any more kittens. Thank the gods. But I did work through one last little thing that had been nagging me about the Sue Allen project and get that stuck in a couple of paragraphs here this morning.
I’ll have a post going up on the Hooded Utilitarian this week, maybe today, that directly comes out of our talk about Man of Steel and supersessionism. I think it turned out really good.
I also continue to work on my witches for Halloween. Which I mention because it would be fun to have you participate.
I have to find a way to get down to this next Saturday, even if it means cutting into my grocery money for gas money. Old churches, a secret figured out by going to a cemetery? This is my thing. My happy thing.
In other happy news, I sold “Beyond, Behind, Below” yesterday. And the editor who bought it really, really seems to get it. Which makes me happy, because it’s not a regular story. It’s the story of a… “man” of sorts… and his relationship to an outbuilding on an old plantation. It’s a story about geography. Creepy, terrible, tragic geography. So, whew, thank goodness for someone who gets that.
If you were there, it’s the story I read a draft of at East Side Story back in October. Which involved brief singing. Ha ha ha.
More as I know it.
And I guess that is that. This living alone shit is tough, but, if it means I can write, it will be worth it. Just the first ten or twelve days scared the shit out of me because it was all panic and feeling terrible about my ability to write.
I’m happy to clean the litter box if it means I can also craft some sentences I feel good about. But the prospect of having to clean the litter box and feeling like my writing sucks? Ugh. No thanks.
In related news, I have to remember to text the Red-Headed Kid and see if he’s going to mow my lawn or if I need to remember how to start the lawn mower.
I know you were wondering how I was going to top a shirtless Mark Twain.
I give you, “Report of Fertility in a Woman with a Predominantly 46,XY Karyotype.” In short, everything you were taught in high school biology just got more wronger.
More wronger. I was going to fix that, but, if high school biology is wrong, maybe high school grammar is, too.
Remember when I said, “A firefighting uniform has got to be the sexiest uniform in existence, followed in close second by a baseball uniform. I don’t know why, it’s just true. Seriously, if those dudes at the end had been all ‘Hold my kitten, my adorable kitten, while I take my coat off’ I would have died.”
Remember when rheather was all “My commercial before the last dance featured a fireman and a kitten. Google trolling or coincidence?”
Well, grandfille sent me a link to the commercial which, while not as hot as Captain Morgan, does indeed feature a fireman in his sexy uniform, making trashy margaritas and holding a kitten!
Firemen, I am available on most Sunday afternoons for smooching out in the hammocks. Please call ahead and park your trucks in the driveway, so that we don’t block the new bike lanes on the road out front.
If you’re doing something that, when it comes out, causes you to almost instantly resign, because you know there is no good defense for it, you shouldn’t do it.
Plus, my daffodils are starting to bloom.
So I am not blogging about how I saw the final pages for a project I’ve been working on for years, like half a decade kinds of years. And they are beautiful. So beautiful. Full of color images and beautifully laid out and just everything I hoped it would be.
The thing about this project that makes me wish it were more affordable for regular people is that it’s probably some of the most delightful porn you’ll ever see–people who look like they’ve having a good time and who like and enjoy each other. I didn’t really realize how much of our imagery, even the stuff that’s just supposed to be ‘sexy’ and not straight-up porn, relies on tropes that don’t really have to do with people looking happy. So, it’s really jarring, even though, in real life, the vast majority of my sexual experiences have been way more “hurray!” than “uhrungh” (or whatever the noise you’re supposed to make when your eyes are half shut and your mouth is hanging open like you are a zombie with a good make-up artist), to see a culture’s erotic imagery revolve around a lot of moments of “hurray!” is disconcerting.
Even if that’s what sex normally looks like to me, it’s not what “sexy” looks like to me. So, it’s cool and wonderful to see images of people who look familiar.
Or, you know, it would be, if I blogged about work.
Ooo, a great story set in South Carolina. I really, really love this kind of stuff. I think it’s really important to take our old stories and make them fresh.
And some day, I will have betsyphillips.com! If I have to become a super villain to do it, I will! (My origin story is, I know, incredibly stupid. But really, what does Lex Luther have to be so pissed about? “Oh, I’m rich. Boo hoo hoo!” I can’t get a .com I want. That’s at least a real thing.)
Doesn’t it look great? I’m doing a little tidying, trying to make sure it says just what I want it to say. But I love how it looks. My favorite thing is that, when I have a tab open for it in Firefox, there’s a darling “b” on the tab. It’s just a nice touch.
It’s fine. Really. But I’m just not seeing this kind of behavior among my librarians. Um, I guess that link is probably not safe for work. Unless you work at a library, where apparently things are at a level of sexiness surpassed only by fire stations.
But this begs the question. Why are firefighters sexier than police officers?
If I had to rank public servants, I’d go 1. firefighters; 2. librarians; 3. EMTs; 4. teachers; 5. police officers. But firefighters and police officers are natural enemies, like cats and dogs or peanut butter and jelly. So, perhaps it behooves us to wonder, just momentarily, why firefighters are at the top of the heap.
Here’s my theory: It’s the giant pants. We learn to be positively predisposed to giant pants as children, putting on the pants of our parents, being handed down the giant pants of our older relatives. Giant pants say “there’s room for you.” And then, as we get older, we come to associate giant pants with clowns, which for anyone born in the post-Stephen-King era, means we associate giant pants with heightened emotions, usually terror, and the fun of having that terror relieved. And then you stick good looking people in those big pants? With the hint that maybe we will be able to see down those pants?
It’s just a cultural recipe for sexy.
Edited to add: I should give a shout-out to Rachel for pointing me in the direction of these sexy librarians. Thanks, Rachel.
Today Tiny Cat Pants is seven years old. Since I started this blog, a lot has changed, three marriages, two messy divorces, four kids, a hit TV show… Okay, fine, in a lot of ways, nothing’s changed that much.
I still live in Nashville. I still work at the same place (though in a different position). I still hope to be a writer.
On the other hand, I simply cannot imagine that I would have all of the wonderful things I have here if not for this blog. I wouldn’t know most of my dear friends here in Nashville. I would never have met almost all of you. I wouldn’t be a published writer at all, period, the end. No short stories, no nothing. And therefore I wouldn’t have had the awesome Southern Festival of Books experience last year. I wouldn’t have heard Nina Cardona on Nashville Public Radio call me “Nashville writer, Betsy Phillips.”
And these aren’t even all the good things. It’s just where my head is at because SFB is coming up again soon. I mean, would I even own a house? I think any other real estate agent than Kathy–who I met through blogging–would have killed me long before we found this place.
I am very, very lucky and it’s because of you guys. I hope I bring you even 1/100th of the joy you’ve brought me. But I just don’t think that’s possible.
Thank you so much for reading and commenting and lurking and making this all possible. From the bottom of my heart.
Now, excuse me. I have a little something in my eye.
1. This chick has a forthcoming book called The Princesses of Iowa. (I found a brief synopsis of it here.) I love this title. I want to change the titles of all my blog posts to end in “of Iowa.” Is there such a thing as Midwestern literature? No there is not. Why not? Because it would be unseemly. But, if there were, I’m totally already championing any books with titles that end in “of Iowa” as being quintessential examples of the form.
2. Four words: Rob. Zombie. Woolite. Commercial.
Campfield tried to get $1000 plus expenses out of a Hollywood dude to debate his Can’t Say Gay Bill. This seems to violate the state ethics code, the state senate ethics code, and possibly campaign finance law.
I almost feel bad for how gleeful I feel and then I remember that it’s Campfield we’re talking about and I laugh.
Also, I am getting a new washer, which the Butcher paid for.
And my other brother and I are going to this thing.
Updated to add: Oh lord, and Tony Gottleib weighs in. I swear, if only David Fowler becomes ensnared in this, it will be perfect.
I think y’all know that I got my start at the Wake Forest University Press, a small, wonderful press which is pretty much the only place in the United States you can get published if you’re an Irish poet who doesn’t have some kind of major international prize.
Working there was one of the best experiences of my life and shipping out poetry books feels like Gods’ work.
While I was there, we published the Wake Forest Book of Irish Women’s Poetry, 1967-2000, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. If you love poetry and poets, and want to feel all festive for St. Patrick’s Day, buy this book. Less than $20, it’s a steal.
Edited to add: Holy shit! I take back my recommendation! They’re releasing an updated, second edition in October. If you can only buy one edition, hold off. But seriously, anything they publish is going to be good. So, order something random now and get the other in October. You can thank me later.
So, this morning we learned that NASA is about to announce they’ve discovered a new life form here on earth. But then we learned that the truth, though not as exciting in some regards, is even stranger.
Wolfe-Simon and her colleagues designed an experiment to take a particular type of salt-loving bacteria called GFAJ-1 from Mono Lake’s mud sediments, wean it off phosphorus, and see if it could switch its diet to arsenic. In the paper published today, the researchers report that some of the bacteria could survive on arsenic and incorporate it into their cellular biochemistry. Instead of the usual phosphate-rich DNA, they observed arsenate-rich DNA. Heightened levels of arsenic also showed up in the cell’s proteins and fats. The scientists used mass spectroscopy, radioactive labeling and X-ray fluorescence to confirm that the arsenic was really being used in the biomolecules rather than merely contaminating the cells.
This just blows my mind. I mean, it blows my mind that there might be forms of arsenic-life around here that we just haven’t found. That’s weird enough. But there’s something truly weird about being able to switch an organism from phosphate to arsenic.
I know science-folks are probably already laughing, but if there’s one thing you can say about life, it’s that nothing is ever settled. You’d think that phosphorus v. arsenic would be something a life-form would just have to choose at the moment of existence and stick with it. But no. We may find that some can switch back and forth.
It’s weird in a way I had to laugh about in the way into work. I know how to get through adversity. I know the panic before hand, the complete ridiculousness, the crying, and the putting one foot in front of the other until it is far enough behind you.
But going through an incredibly cool thing is also something. It’s also a challenge. Like a race with your sibling is a challenge. Or holding three puppies at the same time is a challenge.
I wonder if I’ve just never been happy enough in my whole life for this long to notice this?
You know what I’m saying? I’m not sure if I’m making any sense, but it’s strange. Cool, but strange.
Edited to add:
This is an actual artistic representation of how I feel today:
The nice thing about September is that, even if it’s going to get back above 90, the earth has changed relations with the sun enough that it never feels like it can get at you with the same intensity.
And it can’t keep the cool promise of fall from the early morning breeze.
It’s really happening! It’s up on Amazon.com. Yes, there will be a Kindle edition in the next little bit. Oh, god, I am so tickled. So very tickled.
Okay, but you maybe don’t want to order from Amazon. If you order directly from the printer, you can have 15% off if you use this code: SNLKXXFH
Now, if you don’t want 15% off or if you want to order other books from Amazon, feel free. I don’t really care. I just want you to buy my book and abide by the three guidelines:
1. If you like it, please tell someone.
2. If you don’t like it, please denounce it loudly in public.
3. If you’re a church who wants to burn my book, contact me about bulk discounts on orders over 25.
Oh, holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
Update: Holy fucking shit again! My Amazon ranking this afternoon is #22,428. Which is pretty amazing.
4:02: Sorry. I know this is obnoxious, but please. This is so damn cool. #15,911.
I made them stop at Sonic again yesterday for a Cherry Lime-ade.
It was a reward for having to go to Walmart.
My story is up! You can even listen to me read it. I tried to convince the Butcher to get his friend to do a dance remix of it, but so far that hasn’t materialized. You should wait until tonight to listen to it, put it on right before you go to bed and let me tell you a bedtime story.
Or you could listen to it now, and then take a nap.
Or just read it.
Hee. I’m so excited.
I heard a song, once, on the radio when I was little. The lyrics were simple. “I’m a neanderthal man. You’re a neanderthal girl. Let’s make neanderthal love in this neanderthal world.” Stupid, but they stick with you.
But then I never heard it again. And I never met anyone who had ever heard of it. So, I convinced myself that it was maybe a novelty song by a local Chicago band from the 70s, so there was no use in ever hoping to hear it again.
I still sang it to myself every once in a while, though, because, well, when a song you hear once can get stuck in your head for almost 30 years, you have to honor it by singing it.
So, tonight, I read this story, which, for obvious reasons, gets me thinking of the song. And I found it on Youtube! It’s a real song. It exists and you can listen to it, just once, and then sing it to yourself for 30 years. It’ll be great.
I honestly can’t believe they got four minutes out of this material, but hey, what can I tell you?
Edited to add: Oh, my god, forget that video. Check out this one.
Not one week ago, I daydreamed about a day when we would get a press release from the TNDP featuring supportive words about Democrats and nothing about Chip Forrester’s negative feelings about Republicans.
Today, which is NOT A FRIDAY! I received a press release from the TNDP with supportive words about Joe Towns (D – Memphis), about an interesting subject (healthcare reform). And at the end? It outlined ways Democrats could do stuff.
I am not even kidding you.
This is me upon reading said press release:
I know, it looks like a sad image, but that was just me being overcome by this strange feeling of happiness. Also, quite possibly, I am eating an earthworm. Don’t ponder that picture too deeply.