This week was my birthday (do-do-do-do-do-doo-do-doo). That's 37 trips around the sun and here I am gearing up for another go.
After the close of every league season at the local hockey rink, they hold an Iron Man Tournament.
I always feel like I need to qualify this one to my friends who run. This is not like an Iron Man Triathalon where you run/bike/swim 140+ miles (despite the fact that no zombies are chasing you). Nor is it an I-must-train-for-ten-years-to-do-this-and-not-die-in-the-process kind of deal.
It's also not an I'm-a-super-genius-with-personality-issues-and-I-built-my-own-robot-super-suit kind of deal, though that would be cool too.
In honor of the passing of Sir Terry Pratchett, I thought I'd share with you some of my favorites of his books. Perhaps those of you who also traveled Discworld would be so kind as to tell me your favorites in the comments and then we can all add them to our reading lists. It is the best way I can think of to thank the gentleman for giving us so very much to read.
Our kid started piano lessons a few weeks ago, which were a Christmas gift from his Grandma, and which he is quite enjoying. My husband took lessons as a kid and still plays a little. I'm fairly non-musical myself.
February is Women in Horror month and my favorite fiction podcast is joining the party with a line-up of female writers who love their craft, or their Lovecraft, as the case may be. So if the standard February world dripping in red paper hearts is too much for you, you might head over to Pseudopod and check out some stories dripping in something else. If that's your cup of poison, that is. I found last week's story "The Godsmaid Clara and Her Many Smiles" by Sharon Dodge greatly entertaining, and the reader, Kim Lakin-Smith, nails it.
A few months ago I found myself with an important work meeting on the horizon, and I thought it was possible that this was the sort of thing for which I might have to dress nicely.
My daily office environment is such that I don't have generally have to worry about this sort of thing. When I roll out of bed in the morning, I grab a pair of jeans that falls into the category of "clean enough", pair it with a t-shirt with a spaceship on it (fun fact: 28% of my t-shirts have spaceships on them; I ran the numbers), pull my hair into a pony tail, and I'm out the door.
Seems like lots of things around here are in need of repair right now. The heater went out and the roof got a terminal diagnosis from the roof guy. The dentist told us the kid has a couple of cavities which makes me feel like I need to clear some space on my dresser for the "Worst Parent of the Year" award, and I took the cat in to the vet where my standard line of "Oh no, it's just that he's really really fluffy" was carrying absolutely no credence with the weight scale. On Sunday I got hit in the chest with a hockey puck and then tweaked my ankle at practice.
So it's the fourth day of Christmas. We ran the Bay Area traffic gauntlet, visited friends and family, and landed back home in time to have two full days of loafing around the house. Probably the last thing I should do, full of Christmas food as I am, but, my, did it feel good.
On Saturday morning I woke up and went to brush my teeth. There was a high-pitched sort of electronic buzzing sound in the house, similar to the sort you get when you have an auxilary cable plugged into a stereo on one end and dangling loose on the other with the volume cranked. At first I thought my ears were still ringing from the night before (the band at the company Christmas party was Awesome) but as I moved about the house I found the sound had a directionality to it and it pulled me to a corner of the house where we keep our server cabinet.