etumukutenyak: (Gromit puzzled)
Today, we started out with a migraine, and ended with a headache.

Sonny had a soccer game, as he does every Saturday afternoon throughout the fall. His idiot ex-mother decides that this will be her one visit of the year to see him play, because Honey will be out of town or otherwise busy for the next few months. (Note: she would never come visit when Honey isn't here, because she doesn't acknowledge my presence.)

I felt it was more important to clean the basement than spend any time with Idiot and her enabling boyfriend, so Honey took them off to the game as soon as they arrived. Afterwards, she came home to let Sonny change quickly before dinner, and they were outside smoking. Then the morons came inside the house, with their stench. Idiot, for the first time in years, perkily says "Hi, etumukutenyak!"

As if.

I chased them out of the house, because we are not smokers and we don't put up with that unlike others in the family. I really don't care if I was rude. Wait, let me correct myself: I don't care that I was rude. She's done enough damage to enough people in her family to earn a permanent spot on the List, and I'd have to be dead before I could be polite to her.

Yes, I do hold grudges until they die, and then stuff them so I can keep them on the wall for all eternity. I'm normally tolerant of just about anything, and I'll ignore things I don't care for, but once I put someone on the List, they're not coming off, and I'm not going to waste any time or energy being nice.

Besides the fact that I can't trust her to keep her thieving hands to herself, I also cannot stand the stench of filthy smokers -- not just smokers, but ones who can't keep their environment clean in any way. They smell really nasty. They bring it inside with them.

I left the front door open, to get the fresh air through the screen door, lit some candles, and made fresh applesauce with the apples sitting around not getting eaten. First, I started the water boiling with a stick of cinnamon. I chopped and cored the apples, tossed them into the boiling water, and let them soften before mashing them with the potato masher.

Warm applesauce with vanilla ice cream: it's like apple pie without a crust.
etumukutenyak: (skull with nails)
I just called out to Honey (in the kitchen) that "our girlfriend is on!". We likes our Rachel Maddow Show, we does.

The lungs are settling back into place, the energy levels continue to rise, albeit slowly. Amongst other things, I wrote a 6 page letter in support of one of the "alumni" fellows who is running into some interdepartmental difficulties at a far-distant university. This can be described best as "some people are effing idiots".

Got my copy of Chris Anne Wolfe's "Fires of Aggar" and tried to read it last night. Uh-oh. I may have to spork it. Apparently, she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer just as she wrote the first book, the predecessor to this one, and consequently "resisted any changes" to her no-doubt deathless prose. Only, this was a bad idea.

For example (you knew I was going to do this, didn't you?):

The third sentence in, we read "With a sudden drop, the small winged-cat fell through an air pocket...." Well, no. Air has no pockets, nor pocketses, my preciouss.

A few sentences down, as she described the hellish landscape, we read "There was grit that tasted of carbon and sand." Really? Sand? And what would sand taste like? Perhaps, possibly, like silicon, another element to go along with carbon?

"The smaller of the sandwolves turned and trotted back along the trail while the other continued forward." Redundant, much? An editor could have suggested "One sandwolf trotted back [to do something plotwise]." The very next sentence is "The horses behind were plodding along with heads down bent into the winds, and they paid no heed to the sky above nor to the sandwolf returning from the front." How about "One sandwolf trotted back, passing the laboring [or even "plodding"] horses with their heads bent down against the winds, and [did something plotwise]"?

Because now, we're up to page 2, and I've seen a flying cat, two sandwolves, three horses, and absolutely no plot in this hellish landscape. Why am I reading this? I'm tasting something gritty, all right, and it isn't sand. At least this doesn't seem to have any "tall, dark" women, or perhaps not just yet.

In comparison, the beginning of "California Voodoo Game" (by Larry Niven and Steven Barnes), pulled completely at random from the nearby bookcase:

"Late afternoon shadows crept across MIMIC."

"Built forty miles northeast of Barstow, about twenty miles west of the California-Nevada border, MIMIC looked east with a facade that resembled a nineteen-story rust-colored sandwich board with a vertical convex crease."

"After the Quake, MIMIC lay cracked and rotting for almost 50 years."

After three paragraphs of setting, we get the people, and we're immediately pulled into the complicated world of Game Masters planning the Next Game. Everything's vivid, nothing's wasted, and nobody hits an "air pocket".

OK, lungs are feeling left out of things, so I must go take medicines and crawl into bed.


Mar. 2nd, 2009 10:26 am
etumukutenyak: (skull with nails)
Ugh number one: Have a nasty virus, doing the coughing-a-lung out thing all weekend long. Less coughy now but still not better.

Ugh number 2: We've collected about 7 inches of snow since last night. Nobody is going anywhere. Called in sick anyway.

Ugh number III: going back to bed now. Need more tea. Can't stop whining. Ugh.


etumukutenyak: (Default)

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