New column up at Bookslut about why you should read Jo Walton's Farthing. And you should, even now, after there has been a shift from reddish-purple to blueish-purple. Can I get an amen?
In other news -- rain. And more rain. And, um, still more rain. With some fog just to keep it good and dreary. Woo.
Still life with toy cow, voting sticker and cup of tea.
I was going to avoid the whole "Go Vote" spiel today but, as it turns out, am completely unable to.
Others have explained why this particular election is important more eloquently than I ever could. And Scalzi does it particularly well. Here's why I vote, even in the elections that don't seem to matter.
But this one does matter quite a bit. Unless, of course, you're fond of watching the Constitution get gang raped, in which case, please stay on your couch doing bong hits. I'm talking to you, Tony Snow.
One of my students gave her informative speech today on "How to Survive a Zombie Attack." It was a funny, well assembled speech, mind you, but during it I realized that I don't actually have Strep. What has happened is that I've been attacked by zombies and will, in 24 hours time, be on my own quest for tasty, tasty human flesh. It's the only logical explanation.
In other zombie related news, Marrit's current Austinmama piece is zombie-larious. It has become my new shibboleth for finding moms to hang out with. If the mom in question doesn't get it, then she is not going to find me and mine the slightest bit amusing.
I'm also amused beyond belief that my friend Bob's site is one of the first the comes up when you search for "How to Survive a Zombie Attack."
Babies are a nuisance, of course. But so does everything seem to be
that is worth while: spouses and books and committees and being loved
and everything.
We have to choose between barren ease and rich unrest.
-Winifred Holtby (via Kim)
It had been three years since I'd posted this. Feels like the time to do it again.
And the word for the day is Amoxicillin. I officially have the Strep, too. Bets on who will be next?
This bag is where my projects go when they have pissed me off.
In the bag, which was given to me by the hospital where I had the Boy, are two projects. One is a shirt that I was sewing and that I'm still not ready to talk about. The other is the first sweater I ever started.
Note my used of the word "started." Here is my total work, which would be a front, a back and a sleeve. I got this far before realizing that it was not the right sweater for me. It was a basic V-necked box, which would only serve to make me appear to resemble a box, a lumpy green one at that.
In the bag it went. Until last week, when I realized that I could simply use the yarn for something else and that enough time had passed that I could rip without too much angst.
And so I did. Which hurt a little tiny bit because I remembered how long it took me to do all of that knitting and how quickly it all came out again. While my knitting speed has seriously improved, that front, back and sleeve seemed like a mountain of stitches.
The requisite yarn bath and ...
yarn mobile.
Now it is dry and sitting in the yarn closet waiting for me to tackle my most hated project ever, which is the ball winding. Urg. Ball winding.
Ultimately, I think the yarn is destined for a big shawl because I am a delicate flower and my home office is very, very cold, especially when I am sitting in front of a computer for hours on end. I don't want a sweater, just something schamatte-like that I can fling over my shoulders. I also suspect that this yarn will pill like a pop star if it has to deal with anything resembling the friction of a seam. And I have a yen to knit a big, dumb, simple triangle and this yarn is too bulky for any real lacey stuff. Ergo, shawl.
Thoughts?
On the sickness front, the Boy is better and currently watching his beloved Blue's Clues and dancing. I, however, am starting to feel a touch feverish. I am knocking back the Spice Tea, with its elixir-like Tang base, in the hopes that I can avoid the ick. Wish me luck.
There will be a longer post today, I suspect, and it will involve yarn. However...
Does anyone know of a book like Lamott's Bird by Bird or Stephen Kings On Writing but for writers who are focused on non-fiction? And, no, Writing Down the Bones doesn't count.
What I want is something sassy like Lamott but with practical advice and some exercises for people who want to write better essays or papers or articles or such. What I don't want is a book that encourages getting in touch with your inner moppet or sexual energy or muse. There should be no mention of "living the dream." Think personable, well-written and pragmatic.
Anyone think of anything?
The Boy decided to celebrate Halloween by running a 104-degree fever, which has turned out to be Strep. I'm starting to wonder if I'm coming down with it as well -- or if it's just a touch of Strep-by-proxy.
Some weeks it just doesn't pay to chew through the restraints, you know?
Still, the Snow Princess (pictured below with her evil feline minion) and I had a fine time canvassing the neighborhood for candy, while sickie and the Featureless Saint handed out treats.
As with past years, the Snow Princess seems to not care all that much about collecting candy and really just likes walking around and taking in the event. Around here, it is quite an event. Sidewalks were packed. I'm told the parade was a hoot. Oneonta does Halloween up right, I must say, and makes you glad to live in a smallish town.
