October 25th, 2007

Life’s Little Mysteries

·         I was chatting with a woman I’ve known a fair number of years about a fun, superquirky, small-towny-old-timey event held annually in my fair city. It’s always fun to talk to her, and especially because she lets fly with comments such as: “I don’t know why anyone comes!” I’m pretty sure I snorted (wouldn’t you?). And of course I had to squeal, “Can I quote you on that?” (She said no. Which is why that quote is going unattributed here.) 

·         Probably this is just my own personal prejudice—but I honestly thought a person who worked as a professional writer/ editor would be, oh, I don’t know… a good writer. Evidently that is actually not a prerequisite. (Or has using prepositions properly gone out of style nowadays?) Furthermore: if someone asks for a piece they’ve written to be edited, I’m just not sure they have the right to feel irritated at the edits they get. 

·         So: if the office holiday party is a pajama party… how many of us think that’s just a euphemism for “more-festive-than-usual orgy?” 

I don’t understand how my bike got to be more popular than I am. (Well, that’s not totally true. As it talks far, far less than I do, it is probably a far, far better listener. And people love that.) The other day Nessie and I went downtown to drop something off at a friend’s business. Said friend—and I may be using that term loosely now—asked if I’d walked there. I said, “No, I biked.” And she squealed, “Nessie’s here!” and raced outside. To greet my bicycle. 


·         Since we’re on the subject of bicycle betrayal… yesterday I rode over to the bookstore. (What a lovely sentence, eh?) I managed to find the bike rack. I managed to back Nessie into it. But between my bike, and the two already there, and my general inability to use the fancy schmancy combination lock I bought, I was huddled over the bike rack for far more time than most people probably generally require to lock up their bikes. When I glanced up, the security guard was standing there, watching me. Suspiciously. For locking up my own bike. 

·         In my spambox today was an email with a title that indicated there is some sort of pill that can enlarge a particular body part (which I do not happen to possess) to such a size that the owner’s friends would be able to play football on it. I had no idea that was even an option. 

·         I am not even at the 10,000 word mark on my finalfinalREALLYfinal draft of my MG fantasy novel, and already my MC has surprised me. And this was a pretty big surprise. Her reaction to an event early in the plot was, I thought, going to be a positive one—and gradually she would come to see that that event was not actually as positive as she’d believed. But what do you know? She’s way more independent than I anticipated! And already—the event just happened—she is not altogether sure she approves of it. Which makes me wonder how some other events are going to play out. I’m not sure how to handle this much sass.

·         Is it a Pavlovian effect, do you think, or just a natural reaction, that every time I see an AT&T truck I huddle into a ball, roll into the corner, and sit there rocking and muttering to myself? (The bigger question: do other phone companies cause similar reactions in other people? Or maybe other utilities altogether?)

·         How, one might ask, exactly how would one work the very entertaining They Might Be Giants song “Birdhouse in Your Soul” into a primetime television program? Not as incidental music, mind you, but as an actual piece of dialogue that then morphs into a musical number? That, my friends, is the magic of “Pushing Daisies.” And if you aren’t watching it, you are missing out. (I mean, I never would have thought that ballroom dancing in beekeeping suits could be romantic. But I would have been very, very wrong.)


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