Cherie Priest

I’ve always been a bit of an awkward dresser, not least of all because I have an awkward body shape. My arms are Long Like Monkey, and I have no breasts to speak of. My feet could best be described as “comically flat,” which puts many cute shoes (and almost all heeled ones) beyond long-term comfort. I’m quite long-waisted, and I’ve always been very thin — though I’m less thin now than I was when I was younger; so really, dressing myself has been a lifelong chore.

What sweater has sleeves long enough to cover my wrists? What jeans sit high enough to prevent flash of ass-crack cleavage? What shirts are long enough to conceal my belly?

The answer: Expensive ones.
Which is to say: Not much that I, personally, have ever owned.

I’m getting a little better in my old age. Now I can occasionally afford a good pair of jeans, and I’m living in the land of layers which slouch with all the precision of Madonna’s socks circa 1983. So usually, I look more or less presentable when I leave the house.* But Looking Presentable is something I’ve spent years giving a frankly excessive amount of thought to, against all efforts to the contrary. I want to be one of those people who feels cool without really working for it; and I want to be content with whatever I find first in the drawer.

It’s happening more and more these days, but I fear it’s because of a perplexing slip in standards more than the rise of good taste. Submitted by way of example, the following items are in my wardrobe (some of which I’m sporting right this very moment) and — ten years ago — I would’ve sworn I’d never own them, much less wear them:

* Ballet flats. See also: Metallic ballet flats with which I am currently besotted. I used to think they looked stupid, like grown women were trying to wear Barbie shoes. Now I’m kind of digging it. A lot.

* Bermuda shorts. I grant, there is a perilous line between Bermuda shorts and culottes, but I do not believe that I’ve yet crossed this terrible line. When fitted correctly and detailed nicely … and oh, say, worn with cute ballet flats … they actually look pretty groovy.

* Hoodies with 3/4-length sleeves. I’m not sure why I ever hated these; with baboon arms like mine, they’re a damn perfect solution. My sleeves don’t reach my wrists? No problem! They aren’t supposed to!

* Capris. Yes, I know — but before you rip my eldergoth card out of my hands, let me say that they are, at least, black. I’ve long believed they were a middle-age cop-out of, “Oh, it’s too hot for jeans, but yipes, my legs are pasty and unattractive.” But my capris are kind of cool. They’re light and comfy (mine are linen), and they’re quite comfortable with tank tops and flip-flops.

* Dresses/shirts with a “baby doll” or “empire” waist. I’ve always thought they looked like pregnancy gear for the non-pregnant. (Thank you, Justine). But I actually own a lightweight cotton jersey (yes, black) dress with just such a waistline, and I’m forced to confess that it looks quite fetching with a jacket or scarf thrown over it and either knee-high boots or flat black shoes under it.

* Skirts that pass my knees. Once upon a time I was quite proud of my legs. I spent a lot of time in the sun and/or at the beach, and I don’t mind telling you that they were lean and kicky. But now I’m older, and now I live in Seattle so I can kiss that tan goodbye**. And now, most of my skirts are knee length or a smidge longer. Most of them are black. One of them is a layered quasi-gypsy skirt (also black.) The horror. The horror.

This is probably just the tip of the catwalk iceberg, but there you go. These are all things that I have made fun of other people for wearing, and now I sport them … proudly? Apathetically? I’m not sure. Sometimes I think that finally, after all these years of insecurity, I’m coming to grips with myself, and my appearance; and sometimes I think I’m just getting lazy. But where’s that line between effortless and lazy?

The closest I’ve yet been able to come to that steady ideal of comfort is with my body mods. I have nine piercings — eight in my ears, and one in my nose. I wear very understated jewelry in those piercings, usually sterling silver studs or the tiny hoop I’ve had in my nostril for the last 3 years; and I never take them out. But they’re they’re screamingly obvious; I mean, hell — they’re right on my head. I’m so exceptionally comfortable with them that I can’t imagine looking into the mirror and not seeing them … but somehow, I hardly even see them anymore. It’s not lazy. It’s literally effortless.

I also have two tattoos, one on my lower back and one on my left leg. The one on my back rarely gets displayed, but the one on my leg gets shown off every time I’m not wearing pants or boots. In a perfect world, I’d like to see the design expanded one day, but I don’t have the money to pay an artist and I don’t ask artists to work for free, so it’ll have to wait.

In some way I think that by changing myself this way — with the extra holes and the ink — I’ve made myself more easy in my own skin, so to speak. My tattoos are meaningful to me and I love them; I wear them all the time under whatever else I may put on, so between the art and the punctures, I start the day wearing at least eleven things that I know I like.

Maybe it’s just that simple.
And I’m sure it’s not that simple for everyone, but I think it’s working for me.

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* Note I make no guarantees about what I look like around the house, where I typically wear ripped-up skull-print three-quarter length leggings and tee shirts with bad puns on them.
** As far as my skin is concerned, it’s just as well. And I don’t do tanning beds or fake tanners. I don’t care if other people do it, that’s cool. But it’s not for me.

Holy crap, the season has finally rolled over (I think), and the weather is just lovely. Mind you, Aric is a sweaty pile of grumpiness, but I’m tickled pink at my newfound ability to wear skirts and tank tops without sweaters and boots atop them.

Naturally, this glorious weather would land smack in the middle of a whole bunch of work deadlines, but hey — I’ll take what I can get.

Yesterday, I went to get some summer shoes. As you may recall, our carnivorous closet ate all my sandals, flats, and flip-flops with mold over the winter, and I couldn’t see replacing them until the weather warranted it. Well, now I am the proud owner of some black patent leather flip-flops and a pair of metallic bronze quasi-ballet flats that sound atrocious, but are actually so cute that I can scarcely refrain from a squee every time I don them.

I also nabbed some fresh fruits and veggies out at the U-district farmer’s market, where I strolled the aisles with Ellen and her mom. Now my kitchen smells like onions and tomatoes,* which beats the hell out of dishwashing soap and stale cookies. I must now acquire some potatoes, because I have the makings for some most excellent hash browns. Also, I can now make a seriously well-dressed grilled cheese sammich.

Yes yes, I know. I’m not a foodie and I don’t do much cooking, so I don’t get too complicated with it. But dammit, I know what I like.

Now it’s off to brunch and then, I suppose, I’ll come back here to get some more work done. I’m eyeballs deep in a super-fun project and I need to have good content for it quite shortly — so don’t cry for me, Internets. I’m having a good time over here, even if it sounds vaguely like I’m tied to a millstone or something.

I’m not, I promise.

:)

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* Little-known fact about me: I love the smell of onions. Love it. Can’t get enough of it. Vidalias are my personal preference, but these Walla Walla jobbies are promising, and they seem to be a suitable substitute.

Late last night Team Seattle sent up the BatSignal (as Ellen put it); so, having unexpectedly finished up some work, I jaunted over to Fremont for shenanigans with Kat and Richelle. I finally staggered home around midnight, dropped into bed, and was awakened at 6:30 this morning when a very large delivery truck of some variety got stuck on the street outside my window. The driver kept trying to back it up, then pull it forward, then back it up, and pull it forward. And I understand his difficulty — hell, that street is barely wide enough to accommodate my Sentra; I sure as heck wouldn’t want to navigate it in anything larger.

But eventually I got sick of the BEEP BEEP BEEP WARNING WARNING THIS VEHICLE IS BACKING UP BEEP BEEP BEEP and I gave up, and got out of bed to get some work done.

So yes, though I haven’t been talking about it much lately, I’m still working — which is to say, I’m still writing. In the last month I’ve wrapped up sample content for three new projects and sent them towards my editor (bless her heart), and a couple of weeks ago I began working feverishly on a cheesy idea for a young adult title. I’ve got about 22,000 words on it for sample content purposes, but I’m going to set it aside now and let it cool off for a bit.

This brings my yearly fiction word-count to …





Next up, after I pull together a synopsis and/or outline for this YA thing, I’m going to start setting up another book which I shall tentatively abbreviate TEOW. I don’t have any real work done on this one yet, just a bunch of notes cobbled together. But I’m very excited about it, and I think it’ll make a great story once I can give it my full attention.

But for now, yes. I have errands to run and a week’s worth of noodling to wrap up. Have a good weekend everyone, and I’ll see you here later.

It’s a beautiful day — warm, and a little windy up here on the hill. Spain the Cat is loving it, and I’m out running around in it (doing errands I’ve been putting off, and generally taking advantage of the sunlight). Therefore, rather than pithy content, you get kitty pictures.

Click the jump link for more.
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[Ignoring, for a moment, the fractured comic canons and focusing on the condensed Hollywood and/or television versions of these men … here are some randomized brain squeezings that are, I confess, hideously oversimplified.]

Bruce Wayne: Old money, and effortlessly presents himself as such. Inherited his fortune. Adroit in complex high level social situations. Virtually never shown working on drafts one, two, or three of any given Batman device; his breeding prevents him from experimenting (and risking failure) in public. Though he’s deliberately charming, he’s careful not to appear too intelligent in front of others, because (a). acting like the smartest guy in the room is impolite, and (b). he doesn’t want to inspire the possibility that he might be Batman. His alter ego is, in some respects, the personification of a psychotic break. He stuffs the evidence of that break into a body-armored suit in order to contain it, and direct it outside the limelight of his public life.

Tony Stark: New money, and struggling to present himself as otherwise. Used his brains to build his fortune (sort of). Socially alcoholic which conveniently hides the fact that he’s not really very socially adroit; saying whatever’s on the tip of his tongue does not equate manners or suave interaction, though it does make for snappy dialogue. Likes technology much, much better than he likes people. Prefers to be left alone to tinker with his inventions, and presents a public face only as a matter of professional necessity. Acts like the smartest guy in the room because (a). he is the smartest guy in the room, and (b). he isn’t innately social and doesn’t realize (or care) that it’s rude. It’s easy to act arrogant and careless with a drink in his hand, but he doesn’t drink and fly — because the suit is more interesting than the alcohol. A bona fide nerd/genius who is conceited because he’s earned it, and up to a certain point, he has nothing to hide; his alter ego is not a physical representation of some deep-seated psychological failing. If anything, his suit-identity is something he flaunts with pride, as evidence of his long-doubted capacity for good.

Bruce Banner: No money, and consequently an itinerant fugitive. An employee/researcher for larger institutions (the university, the military), he has no means to manage his problematic alter ego. Though hypothetically the most powerful of the three fellows mentioned here, he’s also the most vulnerable and the most pathetic, because his condition is partly dependent on factors that are beyond his control. His attempt to rein in that alter ego is pitiful to watch; it’s a tragic parody of a man grappling with ordinary aggression or anger issues. He is ashamed of the Hulk — doubly so because he does not know if the hulk is a facet of his own self or a secondary entity he hosts.

More on HULK, since I just watched it last night: The Hulk emasculates Banner in all the ways that are most important to him, even as its release gives him quasi-godlike power. When Hulk’s in charge, Banner can’t think. He can’t articulate, and he can’t analyze. And to add insult to injury, even when Hulk’s not in charge Banner can’t get “too excited” since the reboot has tied the Hulk to his heart rate. The strangely de-sexualized Hulk is essentially an icon of uncontrollable, hyper-masculine violence that’s been imposed upon a tidy, sensitive, horny little man with a conscience.

Hulk isn’t a creature made for critical thinking or even communication beyond the simplest syllables; so when I hear complaints about how the Hulk movie isn’t as sparkling as IRONMAN I am forced to ask, well, what do you expect? The big, green, barely verbal man-child isn’t cut out for snappy dialogue or fine thinking.

HULK SMASH. HULK not do QUANTUM PHYSICS or SEXY BANTER.

As new trailers to INCREDIBLE HULK show, at the end, yes — you get a minute and a half of Tony Stark being Tony Stark all over the place. For a minute and a half, the screen crackles again as this egomaniacal billionaire snarks up to the sulking General who made the whole mess happen. It’s a minute and a half of dialogue that tells you as much about the general and Tony as you know about everyone else who’s appeared in the previous 90 minutes.

And maybe, as some have suggested, that minute and a half should’ve gone after the credits. It does feel jarring, after spending so much time with (a). HULK SMASH or (b). the quietly oppressed and gently nerdy Bruce Banner. I didn’t really mind it though, and I was glad to see Snarky Stark out on the prowl again.

All in all, the movie was perfectly enjoyable and sometimes, here and there, it was even a little bit sparkling. It wasn’t IRONMAN, but don’t forget: It wasn’t supposed to be.

To George.
Because comedy is about truth.

* If you’ve ever wanted to see me act like a total goober in real life, real time, now’s your chance. The esteemed and exuberant Jim Hall at Cult Pop interviewed me and the remarkable Jim Hines at Penguicon, and you can click here to see it. If I seem a little spacey … I apologize; I was working on about 4 hours of sleep at the time. But Jim is absolutely amazing — so sincere and wild. I just loved him to pieces. He does wonderful interviews, and he has a deep, real enthusiasm for speculative fiction. I recommend him most highly.

* The mighty and powerful Jeremy Lassen is in town this weekend, and I was delighted to play tour guide all day today. Thursday night Aric and I caught him for supper, and today I picked up the fabulous Lassen for sightseeing. We did Volunteer Park, the Pike Place Market, and the Underground Tour, in addition to several food-type interludes. Later in the day we were joined by Mark Teppo, who kept us company for the Underground Tour and afternoon noshings. Mark, for the record, is hilarious. Put him and Jeremy in a room together, and just add liquor. INSTANT PARTAY.

* Spain the Cat continues to be just fine. She spent 24 hours sulking after her vet’s visit, and perhaps not feeling terribly well due to the booster shots; but in case I didn’t make it 100% clear in my previous post, she’s not sick or anything. This was a routine, “Oh, your cat is 8-9 years old now and needs routine checkups” exam. She is, as far as anyone can tell, perfectly healthy. She gets quite a lot of love and attention, she’s very well socialized, and she’s quite well behaved.

The truth is, we’re not totally certain how old she is. When we adopted her in 2002, we were told (by the shelter, and by her subsequent vet) that she was a young adult, about 2-3 years old. So we sort of tell ourselves that she’s a millennium cat, born New Year’s of 2000. It keeps her approximate age easy to remember, anyway.

Because all cats are a little bit psychic, when the appointed hour rolled around Spainy was nowhere to be seen. Eventually I located her under the couch, extracted her accordingly, and stuffed her into the Pet Tote. Yes yes. Lots of fun.

Just imagine cramming an octopus into a sock, on a deadline.
That’ll give you the general idea.

Considering that her last trip to this very same vet* resulted in her being sliced open, robbed of a half-digested hair twistie, and kept overnight … it’s no great surprise she wasn’t feeling a wild thrill of joy about the whole experience. Even so, she actually behaved quite well.

She talked quite a lot, but she didn’t try to bite or scratch anybody, even when the needles came out and the booster shots were administered. Atop the examination table she held still and meowed pitiably, eliciting ear scratches, cooing, and general admiration from the doc and the assistant.

When the assistant left to go process paperwork and prepare the microchip, Spainy was allowed to roam the room at her discretion. By “roam the room” I mean “immediately hide under the farthest corner, behind a rolly stool.”

This last-ditch evasive action did not prevent her from being chipped.

So now we’re back home, and she’s sitting in the bedroom window like everything is fine and dandy … because, well, it is.

The verdict:

She’s a smidge fat at 11.3 pounds, and the doc would like to see her come down another half a pound or so. We’ll do our best; but in our defense, she weighed nearly 14 pounds when we adopted her from the shelter back in 2002. The poor beastie also needs a good tooth-cleaning, but I’m told that it can wait until later on this year.

She returns to her favorite window seat wearing exciting new bling in the form of two tags — one with her chip number and one with her registration/rabies confirmation — and she’s been given a couple of bonus bags of tartar-cleaning treat samples.

And oh yes. One more thing.
(Click the link below.)

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Sorry so quiet lately — I’ve been busy trying to catch up on life, the universe, and everything following a week or two of messed-up health issues. I have a metric ass-load of reading I need to do (for reviewing purposes, for contest judging purposes) and a bunch of writing I want to do (for sanity purposes).

I’m still fairly active over on Twitter because it’s much faster and easier than real blogging, and I’ll be back here before long. I just have some ducks that must be shoved into a row.

You know how it is.

It’s no secret that M. Night Shyamalan’s popularity has waned in recent years, and that people tend to either love his work or hate it. Let me be clear up front before I start talking about The Happening: I love his movies. Love them. When they’re good they’re sublime; and even when they’re “off” they’re clunky only because they carry so much in their pockets. If he ever falls short as a writer or director, then at least he does so ambitiously.

So if you’re an M. Night Hater and you want to read a good tear-down of his latest, kindly send your eyeballs elsewhere.

I’ll keep everything above the cut free of spoilers, but there will be some light discussion of plot events. If you prefer to take your cinematic experience as virginally as possible, then consider coming back to this entry once you’ve caught the flick for yourself.

So. Here goes. The Happening.

In Brief: Bizarre phenomenon prompts gruesome, exponentially spreading string of mass suicides. Marky Mark, funky bunch, et. al. try to escape the deadly and little-understood event. Terrorist attack? Natural but lethal occurrence? Stay tuned.

Overall Impressions: Not as thematically dense as The Village nor as grittily whimsical as The Lady in the Water (which I really loved) — The Happening is somehow both messier and tidier than the M. Night films that have come before it. I can’t tell if I was just told a capricious morality fable or a 90-minute joke with a wink at the end. I sensed elements of both.

Full-length assessment: Earlier today I ran across an article discussing how Shyamalan calls Happening a fun B-movie, and at first I made a little frown, and then I said, “AH HA! I see what you did there!” Because it’s impossible to talk about this movie without first explaining about the bees.

Most of the MNS movies have some thematic underpinning that’s either overt or understated-but-prevalent. In Happening it’s put right up front, from the very first moments of screen time to the tell-tale stripes on a stick at the movie’s near-ending. This one’s all about the bees. More specifically, MNS is running a fictional (and, one could argue, quasi-scientific) experiment that runs parallel with the widely reported disappearance of billions of bees. So, perhaps inspired by this real-life dilemma, Happening is a story about hives, and the breaking up of hives, and the question of what becomes of the residents from these vanished social and abandoned physical structures.

Except we’re not talking bees anymore. We’re talking people.

And we’re also talking about math. If there’s a secondary theme in Happening it’s the failure of numbers and the distancing effects of using statistics to talk about a catastrophic event. When you’re dealing with millions of anything it’s difficult to look at each individual participant; but that’s the beauty of storytelling — you can focus on one sub-unit of the big picture and chase it through the mystery.

Things are likely to get somewhat spoilery now, so this is where I’ll insert the jump. Click the link below to read the rest, if you are so inclined.

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* If you’d like a free Obama ‘08 sticker, you can get one via this link — courtesy of MoveOn.org. FWIW, I just put in for my own free sticker; and you won’t encounter any sneaky “give us your credit card number!” or “we need a donation to process your order.” Nor is there any shipping and handling. All you have to do is confirm an email address.

* Or, if you’d rather vote mutant party with a progressive sensibility, an internet buddy of mine has put his own very special spin on the democratic candidate.

* I may have mentioned before that my cat is a total slut for our friend Alex. Well, now I have proof. Click that link to see her practically humping his legs, even though — when this video was taken — he’d been comfortably ensconced at our place for over an hour. Apparently that “new Alex smell” takes much, much longer to wear off. I swear, if I didn’t know better I’d assume he was wearing catnip socks.

* Since yesterday’s baby animal cam was so very popular, well, here’s another one: Baby Beluga Cam at the Vancouver Aquarium. Just yesterday the new calf was born, and it swims around like a fat, adorable little ghost champ. And while you’re there, should you be so inclined, you can also check the Sea Otter Cam. Because I love you guys, that’s why.

I’ve been trying to restrain myself from posting this all day, lest I inundate the interwebs with a redundant link that’s already making the rounds, but on the OFF CHANCE that there’s someone out there who HASN’T SEEN THIS, I offer you Live! Nude! Cats!

Go on. Click this link.

It’s a live webcam from a zoo in Norway. This webcam keeps an eye on a mother lioness and her cubs. Momma alone is quite an beauty, but the babies are simply to die for.

As of this posting, the whole family is asleep; but just watch the tiny young’uns for a few minutes. They yawn, they stretch, they roll and twitch … and I swear to God, I CANNOT GET ENOUGH of their tiny little feets!

Fallout both good and bad continues to rain down in the wake of linkage from an SDA online mag. On the one hand, I’ve received a bit of hate mail — effectively telling me to shut my mouth if I don’t have anything nice to say about the church, which is funny, because I have not yet begun to legitimately badmouth the institution, if that’s what readers really want to see; but on the other hand, I’ve received random email from very nice Adventists who appreciate a little open discussion.

And this morning, I got a note from one of my undergraduate history professors at SAU. He was (and still is, it would seem) the head of the department — and a damn nice man. He was always the sort of fellow who took his material very seriously … but himself? Not so much.

Here. An anecdote. One day he strolled into class a few seconds late and began swiftly scrawling lesson notes across the chalkboard. For some reason, a very nice leather purse was dangling off his arm. Finally someone raised a hand and asked, “Erm, Sir? What’s with the accessory?” For a moment he looked very confused. Then he checked his arm, and laughed. “Oh dear. I’d completely forgotten about that. How embarrassing — it doesn’t even match my shoes!”

Apparently a student had left the bag in his office, and he’d been racing down the hall trying to return it when the bell rang, summoning him to the classroom. I suppose Teacher Autopilot took over from there.

But couple this with his insistence that he was no midterm testing tyrant — merely a benevolent despot — and you get the nickname with which this entry is titled. We referred to the poor fellow by this handle for years, and he never once took it any way but graciously.

In short, it was exceedingly nice to hear from him. It absolutely made my morning, even if it also served to remind me that there were other teachers at SAU with whom I’ve lost touch since graduation, which God help me, was ten years ago now.

So let me be absolutely clear in this matter: For all that the university’s administration went to great and outstanding lengths to make my life difficult,* I was exceedingly fond of the faculty. I had some wonderful teachers who were fine human beings, and let it never be said that I’ve ever claimed otherwise. As with so many religious institutions, the bureaucracy may broadcast the true spiritual intent of the denomination — but down in the trenches there are good people toiling away, valiantly managing (against great pressure from the hierarchy) to not be assholes.

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* Both while I was there, and for years after I left.

* My local buddy and fellow writer Jennifer Brozek has sold an anthology! A year or two ago she asked me to participate in this anthology, and I cheerfully contributed, and now my little post-apocalyptic vignette “Hell’s Bells” will appear in print via Morrigan Books.

* Contracts arrived today for The Clementine. Will print and mail within the hour. I love this part — it makes it all feel real, proper, and correctly in-process. I’m looking forward to writing this project for a variety of reasons, all of them selfish and greedy, but I’ve got a few things to clear off my plate before I get started. That’s okay. There’s time.

* Still no word re: the magnificent Jug O’Pee which I’ll be filling and then mailing. Of course, I’m not complaining. I’m not exactly looking forward to that degree of intimacy with my liquid waste, but I’m beginning to feel the compunction to get it over with. I finished my antibiotics for the infection today, and the bruise on my arm from the botched IV is almost gone; so I’d really like to be finished with this whole mess — insomuch as I ever will be.

* Our friend Alex (often jokingly referred to as, “Aric’s other wife”) has gotten himself a kitty. The kitty’s name is “Samson,” often called “Samsonite” instead — and he’s a damn handsome panther of a fellow. See? In other news, Alex I’ve uploaded your cat’s portraits and you are free to distribute them at your leisure.

I’ve gotten the go-ahead that it’s safe to announce this, and since I can scarcely restrain myself for one more moment, here goes: I’m doing another novella for Subterranean Press! [:: insert full-body bootydances here ::] That’s right, sometime late next year Dreadful Skin and Those Who Went Remain There Still will be getting a new baby sister called The Clementine.

It’s a blissfully tricky project, a stand-alone steampunk vignette set in the same world as The Boneshaker, which is next year’s offering from Tor (after Fathom). I could tell you I’m excited about it, but I suck at understatement so let’s just say instead that I’m thrilled for the opportunity to do another story in this universe.*

The hook? Oh yes. Well. The hook.

___________

1879. Maria Isabella Boyd has had just about enough of this goddamned Civil War. Her early successes as a Confederate spy have led to notoriety that prohibits further espionage work; and her loyalties have been called into question over a disastrous marriage to a Union officer. Exiled, widowed, and on the brink of poverty, she goes to work for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in Chicago.

But that’s not going so well either…

___________

Erm. Yes. I might have hypothetically taken a famous Confederate spy and given her a job at Pinkerton’s, where she shall Fight Crime. Sort of. Actually, in her very first case she ends up joining forces with the criminal — a runaway slave who’s felonied his way back and forth across the continent, leaving a trail of broken banks, stolen war machines, and illegally distributed weaponry from sea to shining sea.

She helps him try to get his ship back. It once was called The Free Crow, until it was swiped out from under him and renamed The Clementine.

OMG I cannot wait to write this book.
:-D

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* In case you’re new to the page, as part of the background to my steampunk universe setting, the American Civil War continues to rage in the late 1870s.

* How odd. Spectrum Magazine’s blog linked my commentary about the YFZ Ranch and how it was handled by the Texas authorities. I’m a little surprised by the lead-in (the post had nothing to do with the anniversary of Waco), as well as by all the comments there (they don’t seem to have anything to do with what I wrote), but, erm, well. Whatever.* That’s fine, I guess. And I will now very carefully restrain myself from making a sweeping statement about SDAs being prone to missing the point and/or thinking it’s all about them.

* You Don’t Mess With the Zohan — was awful, but sort of entertaining. I left the theater exhausted by so much exposure to Adam Sandler’s package, and craving hummus, and sort of wishing I had some cool disco to dance to (right there, on the spot).

* Kung Fu Panda — was really great. It was made even greater by being seen in the company of my husband and Ellen, plus a whole theater full of enthusiastic little kids. It was streamlined for the young’uns without being dumb and spoon-feedy; the animation was exceedingly fine; and Jack Black was truly wonderful … which is not something you’ll hear me say every day. The “moral” of the piece is one for the ages: Find something you love and chase it, and make it work with what you’ve got.

* I’m still doing okay. I’m taking my antibiotics and such, and there have been no further activities on the part of any kidney stones. My back feels sort of tight and uncomfortable, but I’m not really in any pain. It’s a sensation not altogether different from having worn a corset the day previously. I’m still sort of taking it easy, though — and trying to get a few writing projects off the ground over here; so please pardon me if updates are a little sporadic for a few days.

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* Likewise, I was bemused by one of the later commenter’s insistence that I must’ve been raised in/rebelled against a quasi-libertarian fringe sect of Adventism, which is not at all the case. I was given a mainstream SDA upbringing, and the high school I attended wasn’t one of the oddball extremist resorts — it was Forest Lake Academy, an institution that’s been one of the denomination’s educational flagships for decades.

So I went to the urologist yesterday. There, I was duly poked and prodded, prompted to pee in a cup, and generally told that a “wait and see” approach is going to serve me best.

In short, yes, I have kidney stones — more than a couple of them — but the remaining lurkers aren’t very big and there’s a chance they may not give me any further (significant) trouble. Until and unless I pass another one, we’re keeping medication off the table; but we’ll know more in a few weeks, when the results of my next big round of tests come back.

I say “a few weeks” because I haven’t received or filled my kit yet; though it should arrive within 7-10 business days. It’s a totally sexy kit. Everyone will want a kit like this one. Perhaps I’ll set a trend.

The kit in question is designed to help me collect a full 24-hours worth of pee, and then facilitate the shipping of this pee to a laboratory that will give it a full spectrum analysis.

That’s HOT.
Yes. I know.

I think that the Jug O’Pee is supposed to be returned via FedEx, which pleases me greatly. I’ve had nothing but terrible experiences with FedEx over the last couple of years, and I find it delightful that this service will be compelled to tote a big ol’ carton of my urine from coast to coast. It couldn’t happen to a nicer company.

Anyway, apparently it’s somewhat unusual that a woman my age is sporting such a fine and extensive collection of stones, but there’s pretty much no telling what might’ve caused them. It could be any number of things: living in parts of the country with hard water, drinking an excessive (and I do mean “excessive”) amount of whole milk for years and years, downing too much soda, poor diet, etc. Really, I’m sure I’m a perfect storm for this kind of thing. It sucks, but there you have it.

At least — should this happen again — I’ll be armed with a little more information, as well as a bottle of pain pills.

And I suppose it’s worth noting that I feel much better today. I’ve got a touch of that leftover “I spent a couple of days barfing and sleeping off a fever” achy thing going on, but I’ve become so restless that I was forced to get out of the house today — even though it’s kind of a crap day outside.

I didn’t go too nuts or anything. I just went down to the mall to visit with Psynde and do a little shopping. Not a lot of shopping. Just a little shopping. I picked up a swank new pair of jeans and some books, and I got a jump on my Father’s Day goodies, that’s all. But it definitely felt good to be out of bed and dressed.

And now, well. Now I’ve just finished sending off a few pages of notes for a new project that, it is to be hoped, will be well received by the project’s potential publisher; and now I’m going to sit down and start noodling up a few more pages of notes for a sequel to The Boneshaker. I’m tentatively thinking of calling the (unspoken for, yet deeply squeeful to me, personally,) sequel The Inexplicables after a pair of monsters who appear therein, but we’ll see. I might change my mind later on. I often do.

Also, I might make myself a cup of tea.

Have a good evening, everyone.
I’ll be around tomorrow.

Holy crap, we have a democratic party nominee.

Yes, yes. I know I could put an asterisk at the end of that sentence, explaining that Hillary hasn’t technically bowed out yet, and maybe I should mention it with a grain of salt and a grimace; but for all I’ve been aggravated with her lately, I still think she’s a great lady. She’s a powerful politician, and a history-making figure in her own right.

Let me be clear: If she had won the nomination, I would’ve campaigned my heart out for her. I would’ve worn her buttons, slapped her stickers on my car, and written fist-pumping, glowing internet posts with the express intent of educating and motivating voters to put her in the White House. And hell or high water, I would’ve voted for her with great gusto.

But she didn’t win it. And now, we’ve got Obama; and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy about it. I’ve been on the bandwagon, drinking the Kool-Aid for months now, and I make no apologies for it.

So I say all that to say this: There’s been a general media impression that no one knows what he really thinks, or what he’s supported, or what he’s really done during his time in public office. Well. I’ve been under the weather for a few days — stuck at home with my laptop, the internet, and a whole lotta free time. So here you go. Have a basic primer on his stats and figures.

But First, Some Disclaimers. This is only a “highlights” summary of some things that I, personally, thought were noteworthy. If you want to know more, check out his official website. And if there’s anything you’d like to see added, and you can give me a direct link to a credible third-party reference, submit it and I’ll update this entry to include it. Likewise, feel free to link this entry, either on livejournal or on my main website, if you’d like to share the info.

And now, Barack Obama: A few words on what he’s done, what he thinks, how he votes, and where to go learn more.

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1998: Obama sponsored campaign reform legislation banning most gifts by lobbyists, prohibiting spending campaign money for legislators’ personal use and requiring electronic filing of campaign disclosure reports. The disclosure requirement “revolutionized Illinois’s system,” said Cindi Canary, executive director of the Illinois Campaign for Political Reform. By giving journalists immediate access to a database of expenditures and contributions, it transformed political reporting. (1)

2003: Helped win passage of the “driving-while-black” bill, which required the police to collect data on the race of drivers they stopped as a way to monitor racial profiling. Law enforcement groups had repeatedly blocked earlier versions while the Republicans were in control; when the Democrats took over, Mr. Obama brokered a compromise between the police groups and the A.C.L.U. (1.a)

2003: While an Illinois state senator, Obama was key in getting the state’s notorious death penalty laws changed, including a requirement that in most cases police interrogations involving capital crimes must be recorded. Obama became the deliberate center of an emotional debate that brought together law enforcement and civil rights activists to help reform a system that sent 13 innocent men to death row. (2)

2003: Obama sponsored a bill that expanded eligibility for KidCare and FamilyCare by amending “the Children’s Health Insurance Program Act to provide that a child with a household income of 200%, rather than 185%, of the federal poverty level is eligible to participate in the Program.” Though he briefly came under fire for claiming to have insured 150,000 people in Illinois, he was later vindicated when it was revealed that the actual number of people helped by the bill was closer to 156,000. (3)

2006: Working with Republican Sen. Tom Coburn of Oklahoma, Obama won enactment of a law creating a single, searchable database of all federal contracts, grants and loans. He also partnered with senior Indiana Republican Sen. Richard Lugar, the former chairman of the Foreign Relations panel, to sponsor legislation to strengthen international efforts to destroy conventional weapons, though it did not advance out of committee.

Separately, Obama was lead sponsor of a bill to provide relief and promote democracy in the Democratic Republic of Congo, which was signed into law in December 2006. He introduced legislation in 2005 to require federal preparations for an avian flu pandemic, but it didn’t advance. (4)

The senator’s highest-profile ventures have been bipartisan, including a tutelage in nuclear nonproliferation with Indiana’s Richard Lugar that took Obama to Eastern Europe and Russia, an effort to bring transparency to government contracting with Oklahoma senator Tom Coburn, and a push for immigration reform with Florida’s Mel Martinez. (5)

2006: An August trip to Africa found him visiting the cell where Nelson Mandela was held, talking terrorism in Djibouti, taking an AIDS test in Kenya, and visiting the rural village where his grandmother still lives. The AIDS test was particularly significant because testing for this condition carries a heavy stigma in some parts of Africa; and Obama’s public, enthusiastic submission to the test both raised awareness and helped to dim this stigma. (6)

2008: Obama lent heavy support to the Webb G.I. bill, because it’s hard to serve your country in Baghdad or Kabul; it shouldn’t be hard to pay for college once you’ve come back home. This is an excellent means of both supporting returning soldiers and attracting new ones with actual benefits instead of empty promises and a Swiss Cheese veteran’s health care system (7). For a great article on why the Webb G.I. bill is important to those who serve in the military, check footnote (8).

Ongoing: In his spare time between campaigning stops, Obama makes an effort to help bring the electoral crisis in Kenya to an end. Interestingly, Obama hasn’t mentioned his Kenyan intervention during his campaign throughout New Hampshire, and his staff has done little to publicize his actions, even though they might draw a positive reaction. That suggests Obama may see this as a personal endeavor. But it also might foreshadow how Obama would handle foreign policy as president. Engaging the principals in the Kenyan crisis directly seems in line with the vision he’s spelled out in debates, one that includes face-to-face meetings with foreign leaders, including those opposed to American interests. (9)

A list (and summary) of bills that Barack Obama has sponsored in the Illinois senate: Available here.

A list (and summary) of bills that Barack Obama has sponsored in the U.S. senate, courtesy of the Library of Congress: Available here. Edit: The Library of Congress seems to be having server issues, my apologies. The same information, plus a list of Obama’s committee memberships, can be found here at GovTrack.us.

An excellent highlights version of Obama’s bill-sponsoring habits can be found courtesy of The New York Times (click that link for a helpful graphic with pie charts and breakdowns).

Because there’s been a great deal of discussion about where Obama actually stands on a wide assortment of issues, I’ll also include a link to his website where he breaks down his stances on the economy, energy, education, ethics, the environment, and many other things that don’t even begin with “e” — Click here and read all about it.

And here is a wonderful resource to answer the smears, jeers, and outright lies being circulated about him.

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(1). New York Times, July 30, 2007.
(1.a) July 30, 2007 (same article as above).
(2). CNN Nov. 12, 2007
(3). Media Matters Dec. 17, 2007, and Obama’s fact check site, Dec. 14, 2007.
(4). PolitiFact.com — a fact-checking project of the St. Petersburg (Florida) Times newspaper.
(5). The Washingtonian, Nov 1, 2006
(6). The Washingtonian, same article as above; and the Chicago Tribune, Aug. 22, 2006.
(7). Newsweek, Mar. 31, 2008; Obama’s vote for the bill recorded here at senate.gov; he takes on McCain’s lack of support for the bill on the Senate floor (YouTube clip).
(8). The Huffington Post, June 1, 2008
(9). CBS, January 8, 2008.

Since there was some confusion about my previous post’s subject line, well, here you go.

And first of all, and right out of the gate — thank you so much, everyone, for all the commiseration and well-wishes. You guys sure know how to make a girl feel loved, and I appreciate it immensely. I guess I ought to post something a little more in-depth and some follow-up, as a matter of general principle and curiosity satisfaction for those of you who don’t mind a bit of TMI.

So I didn’t go to the ER until I’d been having real problems for about four hours. The reason for this is two-fold: (a). I didn’t want to be one of those people who hits up the ER for every little thing,* and (b). I thought it was merely indigestion, or possibly food poisoning following an enormous and ill-advised lunch of nachos.

By as the night wore on and the pain went from “merely gastrointestinal” to “Lipizzaner Stallions practicing their drills across my abdomen and back,” I reconsidered my reluctance and — following two long hot showers that failed to improve my situation — cried out for a little face time with a doctor. By then, I couldn’t stand upright and I was just lying around crying, which ain’t like me.

Poor Aric. He tried so hard to be accommodating, and the ride to the hospital would’ve done Mr. Toad proud. He dropped me off at the ER window and went to park the car while I did my best to string a few sentences together for the nice lady at the front desk. Then I collapsed into a chair, curled up into a ball, and waited for Triage Man.

Triage Man was perhaps in his forties, with a 70s porn-stache and an English accent. He began taking my vitals and complaints, and then there was trouble. I’d been talking STABBY IN TEH BELLEH and then, all of a sudden, I realized I was going to spew. Ensuing conversation:

Me: Oh God, I’m going to throw up.
Triage Man: All right, I’ll get you a bucket.
Me: You’re going to have to move faster than that, buddy—BLARGH
Triage Man: [:: doesn’t blink as I barf all over his desk ::]
Me: Oh God, I’m so sorry.
Triage Man: [On the phone] Do we have an open room in back, for a 32 year old female patient with severe abdominal pains and vomiting?
Person on the other end of the line: [:: sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher ::]
Triage Man: No, not vomiting earlier. Vomiting now. Right now. As we speak. All over triage, yes.
Me: [:: dies of embarrassment ::]

Moments later I’d been given a gurney to curl up and whine upon, and shortly thereafter I got a room of my own. In this room of my own I was treated to a fashion-forward hospital gown with full-on fanny-flashing action, plus an assortment of heated blankets right out of a dryer. I was given a cup to pee in and (after a couple of tries) an IV drip. Then a cat scan. Then I fell asleep under my pile of warm blankets.

Alas, poor Aric was confined to a knobby-looking chair for the next few hours, but he was patient and sweet, and I was exceedingly glad to have him there. That adorable footprint-shape on his face (from where he zoned out and started snoring cheek-first against the wall) is a badge of honor which he did valiantly earn.

So the results are as follows: I have a collection of kidney stones, one of which decided that last night was its big debut. They’re smallish, and very likely treatable with meds instead of sonic therapy or surgery; but I’ve made an appointment with a specialist for Wednesday morning, so I’ll know more then. I was also creeping up towards an infection, since the wayward stone was blocking up processes and shoving bacteria back up into my kidney.

When all was said and done, they cut me loose around 3:00 a.m. Once I got back home, I threw up some more and then failed to sleep due to the sensation that my bladder was wearing a toaster oven for a hat, yet I could not pee. So I sat up and watched TV and finally, come dawn-ish, Yellow River Productions resumed operation. I am forced to assume that I passed the troublesome rock, but the urologist is just going to have to forgive me if — after a night in the ER, no sleep, and a couple hours hooked up to a hydromorphone drip — I lacked the either the presence of mind or simple coordination to strain my own damn urine to make sure of it.

Yeah. They gave me a kit and everything.
It’s … erm … cute. It looks like a mixed drink kit Ikea might sell on Tatooine.

Anyway. For the moment I’m all right — just exhausted. I’ve hardly slept since Saturday, and I just finished half a can of Spaghettios and a fruit cup. It’s the first food I’ve kept down since yesterday morning, and so far, so good.

I’ve got meds. The antibiotics are sitting fine, but I’m not entirely sure why I filled the hydromorphone prescription; I don’t plan to take them. I’m not in real pain anymore, and doctor-given pain meds wreak havoc on my stomach. Frankly, I’m happier being a little uncomfortable than ready to projectile vomit at a moment’s notice.

And now, if you’ll please excuse me, I’m going to take a day or two off blogging. I need a break, and I need more sleep, and I think I need another fruit cup. You’ll probably be able to find me over on Twitter, though; it’s less labor-intensive to post a line or two than to type out proper content.

Have a good one, guys, and thanks again.
I’ll be around, but I want a few days to get good and sparkling again.

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* My dad and my stepmother are a CRNA and a long-time ER nurse, respectively. I grew up in and around hospitals, and I find them strangely comforting, but I also am aware that the emergency room is all too often abused by trivialities. I’m not talking about people who lack health insurance and have no other recourse; I’m talking about over-insured people who feel free to wander in over a hangnail.

A couple of years ago, right before I moved out to Seattle, I had a kidney infection that sent me to the emergency room. I was granted antibiotics, painkillers that made me barf, and a sensation like a horse kicking me in the back repeatedly for a few days. So. Fast-forward to yesterday afternoon, when a vaguely familiar sensation — as if a large man were standing on my back — came oozing back into my nervous system.

At first, I didn’t notice it. I was too busy curled up into a ball and writhing in pain because of another epic pain, all throughout my lower abdomen.

For the first couple of hours, I assumed something ladylike and precious like a catastrophic gas attack. So I popped a couple of over-the-counter pills and tried to wait it out; but by 10:30 at night, I was puking all over the triage room at Swedish Medical Center’s ER while doubled over and crying to a blissfully unflappable nurse.

And ladies and gentlemen, should you ever wish to sprint through the triage process and get zapped into a room with all the speed of a Japanese bullet train, do ye also likewise.

Long story short (and perhaps uncharacteristically dry), I am now the proud owner of one less kidney stone than I had yesterday. — which is to say, I still have quite a few of them.

Yeah. Color me shocked and all that jazz. Also, color me somewhat peevish, exhausted, drugged, and ready to firm up that referral for the urologist. We didn’t get home until nearly 2:30 a.m., and I didn’t sleep until after 6:00 — when that incessant, agonizing impulse to tear out my insides and wring out my bladder for myself … finally subsided enough for me to nap sitting upright on the couch.

By pure, dumb coincidence I have an appointment with my GP in a couple of hours over an unrelated matter, so we’ll see where he wants to send me. I still need to get myself dressed, drag myself out of the apartment and get my prescriptions filled, and then see if I can’t keep some soda down; these may seem like lofty goals, but I’m actually feeling a little better now (exhaustion aside), so maybe I can make it happen after all.

As an aside, my husband was a total trooper about the whole thing.
He gets mad props.

Anyway, there you go. That’s the story behind this picture up on Flickr. I’d write more, but I’ve got to pull myself together now and try to start this Monday.