Last night I hennah’ed my darlin’s head.  She suggested gloves, but I was all manly and stuff.  Besides, the gloves were at the other end of the house, and who wants to walk that far to keep his hands clean?  It’s just skin.  It’ll wash.

Heh.

45 minutes later her hair was covered in the slop, and so were my hands.  Washing it off, I found that I had a lovely burnt orange complexion on my hands.  And fingernails.

And it doesn’t come off.  Not with soap, nor salt scrubs, nor anything.  I look like my mother was frightened by a yam when she was carrying me.

Far be it from me to fail to admit when my lovely is right.  I just sent her:

• Oomp loompa doompadah doo
• I wouldn’t be orange if I’d listened to you
• Oompa loompa doompadah dee
• My hands look like yams for the whole world to see
• I put a henna mudslide on the head of my love
• Refusing to consider wearing protective gloves
• How bad can it get? is what I asked of you
• Then stuck my hands in the staining green goo!
• Oomp loompa doompadah doh
• You have the chance to say “I told you so!”
• You knew I’d turn a bright orange hue
• Like an Oompa loompa doompadah do!

Most nights my brain has gone away from me, and so writing doesn’t happen.  While that’s true, it’s still nice to do something that makes me feel I spent my life doing more than watching, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, reruns of Friends.  Lately, I’ve been accomplishing that with a bandsaw.

More on this later.

Word wars with Lisa and the War Room at the same time; 900 words that I didn’t have before, and moving along well in my short story.  I’m having a very easy time writing a detective; I’ll have to try another one of these when this one is done.

One without a Christmas elf as the detective.  That part is throwing me a bit.

Slept in.  Ate.  Avoided doing anything useful.  Fiddled with fitting together some woodwork I’m playing with.  Finally sat down to write, failed, waited, still didn’t write anything, logged onto the Word War and, with others doing just exactly the same thing, wrote passably for a half hour.

I think that I’ve left myself a place to pick up again.

Writing for the first time in, I believe, ever.  My darlin’ told me she’d build breakfast if, in return, I sat down with my cup of coffee and tapped out words.  How could I refuse an offer like that?  Besides, I was fresh from the RCRW meeting, and was suitably inspired with “huh, people write stories.  I remember liking that.”

I immediately began to slump at the notion of slogging away at Self Sacrifice some more.  Dutydutyduty called, and I wanted to let it go to voicemail.  Writing wasn’t a joy, wasn’t fun, wasn’t anything but heavy and gray and unlusterful.  Clearly it was time to contact the Muse and order up a fresh batch of joie de’ecrit.

So this morning I’m working up Hardboiled Christmas Candy (working title), a cross between The Maltese Falcon and Rudolph The Rednosed-Reindeer.  How can I not have fun with that?

scurries off for more fun with that

Me:  Let’s go to bed.

Shannon:  Good plan.  You kept me up way too late last night.

M:  I kept you – you kept me.

S:  How did I keep you up too late, Mr. Pokey-fingers?  I was rolled over and going to sleep.

M:  Well, yes.  Obviously.  You know what that does to me.

S:  <stunned look>

M:  I mean, I’m only human, and if you’re going to lie there and do nothing, quietly going to sleep, what do you expect is going to happen?

S:  Are you ever aware of the noises that come out of your face?  When your mouth is open, do your ears close, or do they just not process?  I’m only asking because I’m curious.