Thursday, April 21
(From a discussion Dan and I were having last night on the pope getting....)
Dan: ...what do you do to the pope, anyway?
Me: Popify him?
Dan: That's a joke, right?
Me: Well, how should I know? I'm not Catholic. Maybe he gets poped.
***
Funny, yes, but I feel like I should apologize to all the Catholics out there for my appalling ignorance. This is nearly as bad as the time I went to my cousin's Catholic wedding and asked my dad why people kept dipping their fingers in the birdbath.
Dan: ...what do you do to the pope, anyway?
Me: Popify him?
Dan: That's a joke, right?
Me: Well, how should I know? I'm not Catholic. Maybe he gets poped.
***
Funny, yes, but I feel like I should apologize to all the Catholics out there for my appalling ignorance. This is nearly as bad as the time I went to my cousin's Catholic wedding and asked my dad why people kept dipping their fingers in the birdbath.
Sunday, April 17
A few statistics of my life.
Ninety-five cows milking, unless somebody else has calved I don't know about. That means we've about ten cows to go. Woo! *exhausted*
Fifty-five calves for me to feed, the rest of which have been sold. Twenty-odd more will be sold eventually. Sadly, all of these calves know exactly who I am - I am Calf Momma, who Brings feed - and they're basically little mobile stomachs at this point, so all I have to do is enter the barn and all fifty-five bawl at me ("MOMMY! We're HUNGRY!"). At the same time, no less. The roof vibrates.
The really weird thing is that I've been Calf Momma for some years now. Every so often one of the full grown cows looks at me carrying a bottle and suffers a memory relapse, and there's nothing weirder, or more embarrassing, than a thousand-pound cow following you around making suckling sounds at you.
Something upwards of 200 comment spams. Fortunately I got a blacklist plugin up and working before the real deluge hit, but one sneaks through the shields every now and then. What is with these people?
One really good boyfriend. Darlin' man, he lives in Canada, so I was I expecting him to walk through the door two weeks ago? No, I was not. Pity my facial expressions can't be sold for air fare. Dan, dear, if I ever start grousing about how you never do nice things for me, you have my permission to point me towards this post.
One mostly finished novel. I spent the last week reading and doing minor revisions on what I've poured two years into; my overall impression is that it's crap, but I've come to recognize that feeling as what happens when you're reading what you've written and comparing it to what you thought you'd written. Give it a month or so and the memory of that ideal and unreachable Story will have cooled enough that I can look at the current incarnation without loathing.
In the meantime, anybody think they'll have time to read a novel in the next, oh, month or so? And then tell me what they read?
And, finally, two car blowups in less than a week. The first time when I was taking Dan to the airport; half an hour out my muffler fell off. On the interstate, no less. One panicked call to the father later and Dan got to the airport in time.
The second was coming back from Blacksburg on Wednesday, in my parents' car (mine being still muffler-less). I'm in the left lane, I put my foot on the gas, and... the car slows down. Never good. I barely got it on the shoulder before the engine died.
To make matters worse, it was pouring down rain and in spite of me having my flashers on people didn't seem to notice me until they were right on top of me, causing a lot of panicked veering and honking. I got the car in nuetral and rolled it backwards off the shoulder into the ditch, but people still honked. Bastards. Until the nice cop parked behind me, that is. Then they were all quiet and slow and stuff.
Anyway, two cops, one tow truck, and an hour and a half later, I finally got home. Thank god I'd indulged in my bookstore habit before I'd left, or it would have been a completely miserable experience.
And... I think that catches y'all up on my life. Now if only I could catch up with my life....
Ninety-five cows milking, unless somebody else has calved I don't know about. That means we've about ten cows to go. Woo! *exhausted*
Fifty-five calves for me to feed, the rest of which have been sold. Twenty-odd more will be sold eventually. Sadly, all of these calves know exactly who I am - I am Calf Momma, who Brings feed - and they're basically little mobile stomachs at this point, so all I have to do is enter the barn and all fifty-five bawl at me ("MOMMY! We're HUNGRY!"). At the same time, no less. The roof vibrates.
The really weird thing is that I've been Calf Momma for some years now. Every so often one of the full grown cows looks at me carrying a bottle and suffers a memory relapse, and there's nothing weirder, or more embarrassing, than a thousand-pound cow following you around making suckling sounds at you.
Something upwards of 200 comment spams. Fortunately I got a blacklist plugin up and working before the real deluge hit, but one sneaks through the shields every now and then. What is with these people?
One really good boyfriend. Darlin' man, he lives in Canada, so I was I expecting him to walk through the door two weeks ago? No, I was not. Pity my facial expressions can't be sold for air fare. Dan, dear, if I ever start grousing about how you never do nice things for me, you have my permission to point me towards this post.
One mostly finished novel. I spent the last week reading and doing minor revisions on what I've poured two years into; my overall impression is that it's crap, but I've come to recognize that feeling as what happens when you're reading what you've written and comparing it to what you thought you'd written. Give it a month or so and the memory of that ideal and unreachable Story will have cooled enough that I can look at the current incarnation without loathing.
In the meantime, anybody think they'll have time to read a novel in the next, oh, month or so? And then tell me what they read?
And, finally, two car blowups in less than a week. The first time when I was taking Dan to the airport; half an hour out my muffler fell off. On the interstate, no less. One panicked call to the father later and Dan got to the airport in time.
The second was coming back from Blacksburg on Wednesday, in my parents' car (mine being still muffler-less). I'm in the left lane, I put my foot on the gas, and... the car slows down. Never good. I barely got it on the shoulder before the engine died.
To make matters worse, it was pouring down rain and in spite of me having my flashers on people didn't seem to notice me until they were right on top of me, causing a lot of panicked veering and honking. I got the car in nuetral and rolled it backwards off the shoulder into the ditch, but people still honked. Bastards. Until the nice cop parked behind me, that is. Then they were all quiet and slow and stuff.
Anyway, two cops, one tow truck, and an hour and a half later, I finally got home. Thank god I'd indulged in my bookstore habit before I'd left, or it would have been a completely miserable experience.
And... I think that catches y'all up on my life. Now if only I could catch up with my life....
Sunday, April 10
*deep breath*
I. Finished. THE. FUCKING. BOOK!
YES!
*throws confetti*
January 2003. That's when I started The Fucking Book. At the time I was confident I'd have a rough draft done in three months. Other people were writing books even faster, why not me?
Oh childish innocence, where art thou?
But two years and I don't even want to think how many trashed partial drafts later, I am finished the fucking book.
*throws more confetti*
Final word count is 106,967 words, not counting "THE END", which I typed, it must be said, with vengeful satisfaction. That's roughly 428 manuscript pages to you non-word-counting people.
And it's DONE. Of course, I have to revise it, but I'm not thinking about that now, I'm basking in the glow of done-ness, don't bother me with silly details. It's done.
Let there be balloons! Let there be music! Let there be alcohol!
*throws more confetti*
*realizes she's getting confetti everywhere and stops*
Okay. Y'all can stop staring now.
I. Finished. THE. FUCKING. BOOK!
YES!
*throws confetti*
January 2003. That's when I started The Fucking Book. At the time I was confident I'd have a rough draft done in three months. Other people were writing books even faster, why not me?
Oh childish innocence, where art thou?
But two years and I don't even want to think how many trashed partial drafts later, I am finished the fucking book.
*throws more confetti*
Final word count is 106,967 words, not counting "THE END", which I typed, it must be said, with vengeful satisfaction. That's roughly 428 manuscript pages to you non-word-counting people.
And it's DONE. Of course, I have to revise it, but I'm not thinking about that now, I'm basking in the glow of done-ness, don't bother me with silly details. It's done.
Let there be balloons! Let there be music! Let there be alcohol!
*throws more confetti*
*realizes she's getting confetti everywhere and stops*
Okay. Y'all can stop staring now.
Blogarama
