What rhymes with orange?

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.


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!

Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry

Christmas is a-comin’

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

Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry

My Marriage Is A Goldmine Of Dialogue

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.

Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry

Fast Draft Day 12

5:37 — Ringler’s Annex, in the basement 32 minutes

6:15 — Max 23 minutes

Ringler’s Annex — very unlike me.  Not that being here (here being the refurbished basement of a tiny corner bar; glossy finished wood behind walls of windows above, but exposed concrete walls down here, pillars holding the floor overhead, celtic knotwork and whimsical elves painted in subdued gray on the walls, floor, ceiling, and mosaic of broken tile from more respectable construction moving in organic curves over some of the corners and pilasters) is unlike me, but to be here, alone, on a work night, when I could (and my training screams should) be home with my darlin’ — that’s unlike me.

But here I am, thanks entirely to my darlin’, who suggested that I was sot in my ways and could use a break.  ”Stop,” she said.  ”Replenish the spirit while keeping that increasing liver at bay.  Stay the flood of beer that is covering the countryside, and save us all.  And you might write a bit while you’re about it, and do it in a more pleasant place than you’ve been doing.”

So here I lurk, away from the upwardly mobile crowd sitting on their downward dropping backsides upward of me.  It may say something about my character that, with all of PDX to sit and drink and write in, I chose a cave.  This basement is lit with a dozen 25 watt bulbs in age-yellowed fixtures, with table candles to augment.  But for the barkeep, I’m alone, and in the back, around the corner and under the staircase.  My hat is pulled low over my forehead to keep me from idly watching the empty room, and there’s a beer at my elbow for pensively sipping while I consider what happens next in my novel.

Which takes me to it.  Go, you lot, back to your terrain haunts, and leave the shadows to me.

Oh — and Shannon, you are an excellent mate and I love you.


Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry

Leaving Martyrdom By The Tracks

Today was terrible, horrible, no good, and very bad. I overslept. There was no coffee, and when I found things for breakfast it was a bad bran muffin that I never got to eat and a mushy banana that I only got a bite of by almost-lunch. Then I didn’t get lunch until 1:00 and it sort of sucked so much that I finished my mushy banana so that if I died the sucky lunch wouldn’t be the last thing I ever ate.

Read the rest of this entry &raquo;

My Brain Has Lost Its Virginity

Yesterday, I developed a lovely headache. It started behind my eyes, moved outward latitudinally until it described the outlines of a lid for letting the pressurized contents of my skull out. Light hurt. I was talking to Shannon of this, and noticed that her head pulsed unusual colors in time with her words. Eventually, nausea moved me to the bedroom, where I suffered, listening to the oppressive thunder of the cat’s sleeping breath.

Migraine. Never had one. Don’t want another.

Shannon gets them from time to time, and knew not to nudge me, not to turn on lights or speak loudly, knew I didn’t want anything but to die. Knew – bless her – where to gently rub my nose and forehead to soften the rock-hammer strikes of reality striking skull, my pulse. She fed me the magic black pill (she promised blessed cyanide, but she lied; they were a barrage of herbal remedies) that further gentled things until I could sleep.

Today I feel fine – my hands are a bit unsteady, but that’s the end of it. All hail Shannon, bringer of the healing waters to wash down magic black pills!

Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry

String & Stories

We rose and shone with vigor and purpose today, rather earlier than I’d have liked.  We dropped $50 on gas and went to the Black Sheep Gathering, where I strolled around with my darlin’ as she ooed and ahed over various fleeces, fibers, yarns, and a variety of obscure ornate devices that one may use to change these things from their natural state to that of, say, a one piece body suit or felted hedgehog.  Then she and a like-minded crony sat down to practice their arts and I took me to a coffee shop.

So I could practice my art.

There was a dearth of blood sugar in there someplace, where I tried to be fussy and self-abusive, but a snack and micro-nap on the lawn fixed that, and here I am, pretending to be productive but instead nattering on to the aether.

There could have been nobbing about with my cronies today, but the time window was too small and the time table too undefined. Better to have less weekend, but less stress, too.

So. Time to crack the whip over me.

Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry


Yesterday my darling spouse and I went to the Japanese Garden, smelled the last of the wisteria, looked at growing things and flowing water, and then popped over to the zoo for a walk among the animatronic dinosaurs. A very nice time was had.

Today, by darling spouse took me to a coffee shop, where she parked me at a table on the patio, set up her spinning wheel and spun while I let the words out of the One True Pen (Mark III). 500 words flowed nicely onto paper, with little of the self-editing that I’ve been doing lately. Coffee was drunk. Sitting between water features and sipping took place. All things were perfect in this, the most perfect of worlds.

I called my email provider and discovered that, by adding web hosting and taking away services we aren’t using, I get more server for less money and a place to park my website.

AND, there is still time to type up what I wrote today. I am, by my reckoning, very likely to have a second short story to go out for consideration before the first one is accepted or rejected. This is having an amazing effect on my morale; having something out there looking for a home seems to make it easier for me to work on things in progress. We’ll see if I can remember that when I am next blocked up inside.

Lovely weekend, and it isn’t over yet….

Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry


Saturday was being nice to my darlin’. She was especially wonderful this last week, and I was happy to do it. There was fluff and dye and all sorts of things. Sunday was being nice to us, doing couple-y things and I like us so I’m good with that, too. Today was supposed to be dealing with housework and chores and stupid things that have to be done, and somewhere in there we would take me to a coffee shop to write and to a movie.


Life happened, and I got my darlin’ sick, so instead I did housework and cooked several times and did more housework and will, in the end, have done housework and cooked. I really want to be grumpy about it, but it’s just the way life is and nothing’s to be done and that doesn’t change that I really want to be grumpy. So instead I’m tired from keeping my balance all day, which at least means that I can sleep tonight.

As soon as the kitchen is clean and the laundry is done.

Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry