I went there for lunch and it was fairly busy. There was only one guy in the place at one point. Otherwise, it was all women, just shooting the shit about how to season cast iron and whether you could make a fish have sex with a kernel of corn (obviously not).
It was strange, but nice.
The Butcher has a theory that my parents are much happier if, when they come to our house, they have things to complain about. In that spirit, I did the most half-assed job of cleaning the bathroom ever seen in the history of half-assed jobs of cleaning a bathroom. You’re not going to get MRSA in there, but the bathroom is totally traveling back through time and giving someone’s grandma shin splints.
I haven’t sent out any of my afghans yet, because I wanted to wait to show them to my mom. But it’s on my list of things to do.
I have an almost final version of Project X in my purse. Lindsey has found the most delightfully creepy fonts. I think. They’re not trying too hard to be creepy, but they are awesome.
And I sold a story! “Zilpha Murrell and the Third Harpe’s Head,” which is a story about the time the mother of the famous land pirate, John Murrell, had the little-known third brother of the infamous land pirates, the Harpe Brothers, in her whore house. One might assume that this third Harpe is actually Samuel Mason, somehow escaped from death, but I didn’t have that in mind when I wrote it.
I have two more stories about Harpes and their heads, so maybe someday I’ll sell those.
Anyway, I’m nervous as fuck, but feeling like things are happening, so somehow it’s less stressful. I have things to do this evening–eat a big meal, make sure my parents know what’s going on and when they need to be places, get everyone to sign the living will, take out my ten-thousand earrings, bathe in the special soap, show my mom my boob in its current state so that she can recognize what’s not right when she sees it again tomorrow. If anything.
I swear, the second they’re like “Stop taking all over-the-counter pain medications,” is the moment your head is like “But couldn’t we have a head-ache? Wouldn’t that be groovy?” But I will soldier on.
Tiny Cat Pants 