Right Before the Murderer Gets Caught

It’s so cold my laptop is freezing my fingers off, and what I really feel like doing is making a potato salad. I’m the only one at home and potato salad is an iffy dinner choice for small lad, even if paired with sausages. And sauce. And dinner is eight hours away. Harumph.

I’m a hospital scientist, and this is my day off.

I’m annoyed by everything at the moment, but mostly because I didn’t sleep enough on my day of sleep in between, went to work Tuesday and didn’t do my best. I spent yesterday evening second-guessing what I’d done the morning before and please, brain, just lay off. I didn’t fuck up, I was just slow.

Other than poo-pooing myself, this kind of annoyance has no particular focus, I can pick up anywhere and start ranting. For hours. I don’t want to inflict that on anyone or deal with the consequences of shouting at random people, so I shut up. Which also annoys me, and gee I love this spiralling gyre leading inevitably down to mind-numbing, eye-squinting, teeth-clenching rage if I don’t get out of my own head. Soon everything will be in caps.

Cooking would make me feel better, but small lad and I have entered some kind of power struggle over food…and it stinks. I know better, and it hasn’t been an issue (much) before - a dietician friend had clued me in before small lad came along about how to feed a littl’un. We’ve always been fairly relaxed about food, and careful about what’s on offer. Some junk, of course, but beyond the Coco Pops and occasional crap (fast food, in other words), it’s meat and three veg or variations thereupon (by which I probably mean fruit, but don’t take my word for anything today).

But small lad’s tastes are changing and I’m struggling to keep up. Dammit. Some of it, too, is my fault. He has a habit of asking what he can have to eat in the afternoons after school, and I tried out letting him decide what to eat - with the proviso that he’d have to eat dinner. It didn’t work, and dinner time started being a struggle. Gah.

Today I have half-arsed plans about something that isn’t sitting around (boom-boom) “resting” where I usually fall asleep right before the murderer gets caught, but I’ve only gotten as far as what I don’t want to do. This two-on-two-off bit of my roster is the pits. I should probably start drinking coffee again.

My laptop has warmed up and my fingers are no longer freezing, so that’s something, and when I’m finished here I’m going to make a cup of tea. Mmmmmm, tea.

Mmmmm. I need that tea. Take care, and laters.

The View May Be Dazzling: Oxygen Masks are Optional

A few weeks ago I got a delightful surprise in the mail. I subscribed to the Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and promptly forgot I had. Since all I get are bills in the mail, the marvellous package of issue 50 made my day. The stories were exceptional, which made all of that joy (and giggling) worthwhile.

For myself, I've turned into Gene Roddenberry: can't write for sour owl poop. (Thank you Harlan Ellison). I keep false starting on a short story that I think may have a novel in it somewhere, but, sucks budgies, it's just not coming.

I've discovered I'm overly fond of the semicolon; it seems the book on grammar wasn't entirely wasted.

Or perhaps it was, I'm undecided; just because I like punctuation marks doesn't mean the rest of the world will appreciate my use of them. Okay. Stopping on that now.

Umm. Err. Where is my constant stream of bullcrap from yesteryear? It seems I have lost my way in the verbosity stakes. How frightfully dull of me.

The Royal Wedding is, by now, done and dusted, or nearly so. I tuned in to see the dress (ahem, The Dress), but aside from the light moment of seeing Wills and Kate trying not to crack up at the altar (?), couldn't have cared less. And still don't.

I did some more ironing today, yip-yip-yippee, then transferred recipes to "my" recipe book. Does that sound profitable? I thought so, until I remembered all of the other things I intended to do today. Since I'm starting a run of five in a row, I'll be a bit pushed over the next few days, but I think I'll just have a go at a bit at a time. At least the new and improved bathroom only takes a little while to clean.

That's what I'm telling myself now, but of course I'll do less and beat myself up all over again. Never mind, it will all come out in the wash. Literally, since that's what I needed to get done today.

There was some excitement in our street this afternoon. I heard sirens start up and had that automatic thought of "is that coming to our place? Naaah, can't be", as you do. Then I realise that it is in front of our place. Cue looking out the front door, like the nosy neighbour that I am (in this context, anyway), since it turned out that one of the girls next door decided to dial triple-0, just for the hell of it, and ask the fireys to come out. Nice. Yes, she is old enough to know better. Young people today.

I was thinking about my last entry (blah, blah, nothing to say) - the fun stuff that happens at work I have to leave at work. The nerd stuff (gee-I-like-this-different-method-and-actual-work) I wouldn't even bother boring anybody with, but oh sigh, the hilarious clinical notes (explosive headache after hitting brick wall with face (you think?)), names and general silliness of some of the things we get (please test this clear fluid to see if it is anything) I can't say anything about. Patient confidentiality, anyone?

Disclaimer: I made up the examples above. Of course I did. And any resemblance to anything or anyone is a complete coincidence. Really, honest and for true.

Speaking of making stuff up, and I usually do, we have a running saga on our kitchen whiteboard about three frog brothers, Bob, Clob and Shlob. Although they may have to turn into butterflies - my audience of one (yes, that would be Alex), complained about them being frogs. I did include some butterflies in the last story. In terms of story we are talking two paragraphs at most, but I stand by it being a story. Even if one of the kids from the street poo-poohed it. Sucks budgies, I say. The particular kid is twelve and my target is seven. So nerts.

(Not the same kid who called the fireys today, that was a different one.)

(Children! Everywhere! It's frightening!)

More speaking of making stuff up, and I told you I usually do, although this is only barely in the same category, I want my patterns to arrive from the US. Hurry up, International Checkout! I went mad about a month ago and made bags left, right and centre (actually...no I won't do that joke to you). I have a new sewing machine and everything. Thank you, ebay. So now I want to make myself some stuff. HURRY. UP. This toying with my emotions is not fun.

Shh, it's a secret, I'm also waiting on a sonic screwdriver for small lad's birthday. Don't tell him, okay?