allrighty then

I don't think I sat on this one long enough. I'd cut two lines and two words if I could.

And while you're there, read this one. Isn't it lovely?!

The kitchen sink

I'm thinking back to when I started blogging and how conscientious I was about posting regularly, leaving comments on other blogs, and lord. I do so suck now.

But you know what I'm doing? I'm writing a book. For really and truly. And it's kind of awesome. (Not the book, necessarily, but the writing of it.)

What will become of it? Who knows. Does it matter? All I know is this: That feeling I've had for the past 10 years, that feeling like you get when you leave for vacation and you think, "Crap. Did I leave the stove on? I bet I left the stove on. No, not the stove. What then? What did I not do? What what what?"

It's gone.

We're staying afloat so far with the freelancing, which is just fine, considering that it's only 6 months in and that I'm pretty much supporting four people with only a fairly modest amount of child support. I've had a few pieces published here and there. I have picked up several writing jobs and some new editing clients. I may have an opportunity to return to full-time work, and I may take it, but who knows?

I haven't been very good about writing here, because I'm writing not here. And I'm trying to decide how to handle the necessity of blogging as a writer. Do I disappear and suddenly pop up somewhere else, living out my bloggy life under a new name, like a virtual Elvis? With less sparkle, of course. Do I manage two blogs? Should I point from here to things I'm writing (which as of now are also under pseudonyms so wouldn't likely threaten my anonymity, but would make it likely that people could trail back here)?

So these are the things I think about, and then I think about the stack of editing waiting for me and that damned first draft that is waiting to be finished. And I wonder how everyone is and I try to catch up reading a few blogs but don't have time to leave comments or write here and that's a little bit of what's happening and why things are quiet.

Just so you know.

Who said that?

The Boy understands attribution. You read a quote; you read the name of the person who said it. "Grown-ups never understand anything for themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them." Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

We're in church, and there's a Whitman quotation up on the on the side screen. He reads it out loud. "That means Walt Whitman said that," he tells me.

"Yup."

He thinks for a moment. "Say something by Shakespeare," he asks.

"Uh, okay... 'To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune--"

"Shakespeare. 'I don't understand anything you just said.' Boy K."

RIP, Psycho Kitty

The best cat in the whole fucking universe. Rocks wept.

Can't...breathe...

I realize most of you have probably already seen this, but if you haven't...treat yourself. You deserve it.



Brilliant.

Thank you sweet little baby Jesus

Nothing makes the day a little happier than an acceptance letter. Except TWO acceptance letters. That makes it happier.

This just in: It seems I am not a complete hack. I might be mostly a hack; the jury's still out. But for now, less-than-total is enough.

Foiled again

So, the Girl. She does this thing that I did at her age. She doesn't like to sleep in her own bed.

She starts out there, more or less. But somewhere in the wee hours, she wakes up. And that's when my bed shines with the light of Mecca, beckoning her to its warm embrace. Someone once wrote about how sneaky a similar Scorpiolette had become in her nocturnal wanderings, which had prompted me to inform the Girl that if she was very, very quiet when she climbed into my bed, so quiet that I didn't wake up, I wouldn't be able to put her BACK in her bed. This worked like a charm at the time, my priority being to get some damned sleep. Now that my priority is to get the kid to sleep in her own bed? Not so much. Plus, she's sneaky getting in, but eventually she sticks her feet in my ribs, which means I wake up every morning, around 3:00 a.m., which really throws off the whole sleep cycle thing.

So I've vowed to haul myself out of bed when she comes in, take her back to her bed, and lie down with her there until she gives up and just figures the extra walking isn't worth it. Some day soon, I envision a full night's uninterrupted rest.

The other night, I managed to get both kids to sleep without falling asleep myself, lying next to one or the other. The reward: A hot bath, that rarist of luxuries in this house.

But damn, the thing wiped me out! Maybe I made it too hot, maybe I stayed in too long, but when I got out, I collapsed into bed. I seem to remember thinking, "Well, at least I'll sleep well."

Which I did, I guess. Until I woke up, around 3:00 a.m..

In the Girl's bed.

No idea how I got there. But she was sound asleep, so I guess I was sneaky.

And because we believe in equal airtime...

Scene: The Girl is playing with the v. awesome Anatomically Correct Schleich Pony. (Have you seen these? They rock. Target has them; I tried to find a link but no luck.)

The Girl: I don't know whether Pony is a boy or a girl.
PK (turning Pony over and offering Exhibit A): Pony's a boy, honey.
The Girl: But he hasn't decided yet! He hasn't decided whether he wants to be a boy or a girl!
PK: Well, he's got a penis, honey, but I don't see why he can't be whatever he feels like being.
The Girl: He's gonna be a girl.

Another reason to love him

The Boy's Cub Scout den toured the new Police Services building today. He was great--kept his hands to himself, raised his hand when he had a question, only threw himself against the side of the building once (sirens are exciting!). They learned about how the officers have training to learn how to handcuff people or to deal with mace, and they got to see the juvenile holding cells, including the one with the "soft walls". These are the particulars that interested the Boy, of course: Conference rooms shmonference rooms, do you have any big weapons?

[As an aside, I just must say: Either a mighty coincidence was afoot or DAMN this town has some hot Protectors of the Peace. I'm not kidding. I think I need more tours of Police Services. Again I say, Daaaaamn. Plus, the building is super friggin' cool.]

Where was I? Oh. On the way home, we were talking about the holding cells. The Boy said, "One of them had a toilet in it! But the door had a window! So people would be able to SEE you PEE!" And I explained that one of the consequences of deciding to commit crimes is that if you're caught, you lose the right to privacy and freedom, more or less. "What if someone took a picture of you peeing, and spread it all over the world!?" the Boy wondered, and that question launched a conversation about what you don't lose the rights to (or should I say, what you aren't supposed to lose the rights to): decent treatment, and so forth. "But what if they did it anyway?" he asked, and I told him that they would likely get into trouble, but that sometimes that sort of thing happened, and that it was one reason I don't like the current president et al., because of something like that that happened to prisoners in another country.

Then the Boy said, "Yeah, I think it isn't good now. I mean, Lincoln was good. And Washington was okay, and other people, but you know what we should really have? A woman president. Because we've never had one! And we should!"

And then I pulled the car over and bought him a pony.

Ooh, Shiny!

The great thing about having my mom sharing our home is that she's providing a wonderful balance to my more...Bohemian...tendencies. Perhaps my housekeeping skills are not all they could be. Perhaps, during college, I put sheets on my bedroom floor for a few months and called it art. Perhaps, just perhaps, I've been known to go a long, long time without dusting. Or mopping. Or, you know, putting away the laundry, unless the floor of my walk-in counts as "away". My mother, she likes the doing of the laundry. I have told her that if all she ever does is the laundry, her room and board are more than paid for. (Obviously, I don't expect her to do jack. But if it makes the woman who birthed me happy, who am I to fight it?)

Now, you may think that children raised in my...well, for lack of a better word, let's call it squalor...would be used to it. Apparently not:

PK: "Yo, Mama! I finally hauled away all those gym bags under the coat rack."
Mom: "That's nice, honey."
The Girl: "OOOOOOOH! It's so SHINY! Can I sleep under there tonight, Mama? Can I? Can I sleep under there?"

We here chez PK like to enjoy the simple things. Like sleeping under coat racks. Sigh.

That's the rub

From the AP:
"...authorities didn't consider Laurean a threat to Lauterbach, or later a flight risk, because they had indications the pair were on friendly terms."

Dear God. She's meeting with military prosecutors because she says he raped her. How fucking friendly do you think she feels toward him? How the hell can you be on "friendly terms" with a person you're accusing of raping you?

Such a short phrase to reveal such an insane mindset--one that keeps too many women in danger or in fear.

Make me some moNAY with your spatuLAY

Thanks for all the support, you sweethearts, you. Of course I mean that in a totally nondescriminatory way.

Happily, the new Endeavor is keeping me busy enough that I haven't had more time to blog than I did pre-Endeavor. (Pre-Endeavor. That kind of makes me sound like an astronaut. I like.) I am officially a business owner, joy, bliss, and I'm currently searching for legitimate ways to claim vodka as a business expense. (If you work for the IRS: That was a joke. If you don't: Email me with your ideas.) If you or anyone you know have need of an editor or writer, email me and I'll send you my contact info.

I'm spending all my non-editing and non-business-setup (and, ok, non-kid-wrangling and non-house-cleaning and non-vodka-drinking) time writing, writing, researching, writing, and what was it, oh yes! writing. This feels fucking fantastic, even though nothing has come of it yet. (Notice all that writing has not yet been followed by any mailing.) No matter; everything in good time.

The sky's a bit bluer, the grass a bit greener--although that one I'm taking on faith as it's currently covered with snow that's a bit... Look. I won't lie to you. The snow is lacking in the White department. The snow is more than a bit greyer because it's been on the ground for a month. Let's just agree to cut the snow some slack, shall we?

xo
PK

The Deal

Happy new year! Are you all happy? I certainly hope so.

To start the year off right, I'll expand on the previous post. Here's the deal, which I could not fully explain until I had certain contractual amendments in my hot little hands:

I got laid off from work.

Surprisingly, considering my somewhat precarious financial situation, this did not freak me out.

Although I do have moments during which I need to lie flat and breathe into a paper bag--I have more moments during which I feel truly excited.

Which might be crazy.

But.

Anyway, here it is: I'm going freelance. I'm now officially an Editing Whore, which means that for a low, low rate, you can pay me to play with your words all day long. Hey big boy, is that a dangling participle in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? I know those of you out there who do or have done the freelance thing are making all sorts of gestures at me right now. I will have to hope that you aren't yelling at me to Stay out of the basement!!!, metaphorically speaking.

And after I've satisfied my (soon to be many, manifest, manifest) clients, I am going to write. Lately, I've really wanted to, more and more. Is it something I can do? Will it serve any purpose? Am I crazy? We'll see, I guess. I just know that I'm not at all stressed about any of it, which either means that I'm following my right path, or I've finally lost that last shred of sanity.

Either way, I think it's going to be a fucking awesome year.

xo

PK

The line is thin

Orange has cheered me, and in gratitude, I remove all references to squirrels.
(Even though I had to remove a sneaky add from the HTML.)

But still, I cannot figure out how to change the template. Orange, I tried!

The 10:00 to Midlife Crisis

Guess what!

It's been pretty quiet around here, so you are all probably off carousing with other, more lively blogs, but if anyone's still around:

On Monday, a big ol' opportunity to dive right into my midlife crisis presented itself.

I think this is going to be a Good Thing.

I will write more, but I just wanted to say, any Good Thing confirmation vibes you could send my way would be groovy-doovy.

Thanks!

Either way (or, one throw-away story won't make up for all that Cinderella crap, fellas)

The Boy (reading): "...Ariel knew her father would never let her race."
The Girl: Why not?
Me (under my breath): Because he's a sexist.
The Girl: No! Because he's a poopy-head!

Holy crap, where'd that come from?

Forty, babies.

Uh...ok. I didn't want to sleep anyway.

From the WTF Department:

Eeeeeeeesh. Get thee behind me, Scary Robot Beer Corpse Woman.

Go, Dumbledore!

Did you hear that J.K. Rowling outed Dumbledore?

I can't decide whether it rocks that this fact is simply another piece of Potter trivia along the lines of what Ginny's job is after she graduates--because dammit, this freaky obsession with what goes on in people's bedrooms is half the stupid problem, if I like you I don't give a fuck who you're sleeping with. And regardless of who you're sleeping with, you deserve to have the same rights and be judged on the same principles as everyone else. Anyway, I can't decide between thinking that makes sense or being pissed that she never said anything sooner.

I think I'm leaning toward the former, because the private lives of the teachers never came into play except as necessary to drive plot--as it should be in a children's book, I think--do kids ever care about the lives of adults, except as they apply to their own lives? Not if they're safe and healthy, I think.

Hmm. Your thoughts?

Ayieeeee! !!!!

Of course just when I'm feeling care-free and sassy because I laughed in the face of West Nile after the Boy's soccer practice and let him--nay, verily ENCOURAGED him--HELPED him, even!--catch tadpoles in the mucky pool that formed at the bottom of the soccer field...

Brain. Eating. Amoebas.

[Obviously, that should be Brain-Eating. Amoebas. There aren't mutant brains running around gobbling up amoebas. But the correct grammar just doesn't properly convey my sense of dread and despair.]

Dear god. Is there no end of things over which I must lie awake at night?