Nattering

Happy Veteran’s Day, everybody.

We’ve spent it eating delish cornmeal strawberry pancakes (the dogs got their Mickey Mouse pancake, per tradition) and singing along with too-loud music (Magnetic Fields, Johnny Cash, and Kristin Hersh, thus far) and painting the front room and some assorted pieces of furniture and reorganizing. Earlier, I finally gave up on the return of VHS* (I was a hold out on cassette tapes too), and tossed all our tapes. A trash bag and a half full of Buster Keaton and weird Houdini movies and many, many fine screwballs and proto-screwballs (all of which, I’m now assured, are on DVD). A technological era has ended. And our DVDs now fit in the glass case that previously held the VHS tapes.

The sad thing about painting the front room (which, to be honest, Christopher is mainly doing — I’m much better at purging and organizing and prepping than the actual physical labor… especially in a room with elaborate trim!)? Is that it makes me want to paint the living room and the kitchen even more.

See: Home ownership, the joys of. (It is joyous when the painting is done though. But the dogs and cat are nervous and exploration-inclined in the meantime and there are stacks of displaced books everywhichwhere.)

Pictures someday soonish. The great e-mail answering project returns tomorrow, but I’ve already got ye olde inbox down from 2,000+ to 78 or so.

*I will be insufferable at being forced to give these up if, in the great zombie apocalypse ahead, all we can find for entertainment are VHS players.

Well, obviously, I think you should.

I don’t do a lot of politics around these parts, but Colleen has organized a big nonpartisan celebration of voting. Go throw some love her way and check out the tons of posts she’s rounded up on the subject.

I’m not one of those people who believes you’ve got no right to complain if you don’t vote. As far as I’m concerned, that’s one of the most awesome things about this country — you’ve got the right to complain about anything at any time. (With mainly logical exceptions.) And I sympathize, too, with those people who feel the two-party system doesn’t serve them well. All those people who wish there were more options to choose from, options closer to their own personal views. And I’m also sympathetic to those people who have to stand in line for five hours or more, if they happen to live in unlucky, probably swing-state precincts–the great shame of our voting system.

But I don’t know that I buy anything as a particularly good reason not to vote. Participation in life, and the world, and, yes, politics is a good thing.

And that’s about all I can say without getting partisan. So go vote.

Tired, whirl, saw nothing of the city, must walk dogs then couch. And hope to not have been contaminated by lady with the Incredibly Loud and Violent Stomach Flu at the Atlanta airport.

Flying is a HELL. Let’s all just admit it.

Back tomorrow!

Is it really possible that we don’t know anyone in San Antonio? ANYway, I’m going to be there for a couple of days next week for a conference and wondered if I was forgetting that one or more of you lovely friend-types live there and should we maybe have a drink or dinner?

Drop an e-mail, if so.

Back later with an actual post.

We haz a liberry laddah!
Originally uploaded by Christopher_V_Rowe

Christopher has uploaded some new and improved office pics. The lights do, in fact, make the bookshelves look even more incredible at night. (And we will put art back on the other walls soon.)

This one shows off the pretty green wall. And this one shows off the swank used swivel valet I discovered at a furniture store over the weekend — swivel storage is the office wave of the future.

The next room up is the study, which means front room seating area and more bookshelves, of course. A better desk pic from my side of the office to follow, perhaps?

I’m a klutz and so this means that many activities are fraught with peril, sometimes even common ones. You can’t avoid them all.*

You can, however, let them pile up for a good month or so (well, two), as I did with the ironing. My only visible hand scar is from an ironing incident in college. At least the result of this evening’s effort, with still half the ironing left to be done, only yielded the steaming of one thumb. This is a fairly routine injury for moi, who is queen of pouring the tea water onto my hand from the electric teakettle. It’s been a few months though, and it smarts nonetheless.

This weekend: grabbed a fun bite with Scalzi and cohorts Toby Buckell and Paul Melko, in town to do a bookstore appearance, which was fun but we had to flee immediately afterward to exercise dogs and collapse after tough week;  bought new shoes from John’s during fleeing (Christopher had to make a quick trip to Whole Foods for dog treats–I shop fast); chose bathroom paint colors and painted bathroom; stayed up late to read the final Upper Class book, Crash Test, gleefully bought at the bookstore Friday; got eye exam; checked out a big bunch of books at the library; did second coat; ironed; watched Gossip Girl season premiere; and started Susan Vaught’s fabulous young adult novel Big Fat Manifesto. Not necessarily in that order.

Long story short version: The master bath is mango-ish colored! Feel free to visit. It is lovely. (Even better after Wednesday when the floor people come.) We got a start on the office, but C’s doing most of that this week.

* Of course, I’m also just kind of lazy about hefting stuff and even moderate physical exertion in high humidity–earlier in the weekend Christopher asked me to take a few loose shelves from a bookcase he was going to carry outside solo to leave for passersby** and when he raised his eyebrows at my pathetic attempt, I replied, "My work is the life of the mind." Or something similarly lame. I may not be proud, but I know my limits. I did the edging on the painting in the bathroom though. So there.

**Gone inside 15 minutes, and to very nice liberal arts students.

Why It’s Called the Fit
Originally uploaded by gwenda

In our quest to continue with the revamping and painting and etcetera-ing, we made a trip to Ikea over the weekend for tall bookshelves. That would be eight of them with extenders. Plus a library ladder! And a sofa bed. And lights for the bookshelves…

We love car.

Painting and putting stuff together? Not so much, but afterward will be nice.

Yes, yes, I know. Promises, promises. It hurts me as much as it hurts you not to write or call. I promise.

Things are a little nuts, and will be until (at least!) this time next week. There is home improvement underway of the Professionals Installed a New Floor and now we paint and assemble stuff and buy more stuff to assemble variety  (guest room redone and finished soon–come visit!). And because we never tackle such projects in manageable chunks or when life has left plenty of space and time, well, things are the aforementioned nuts. My first packet’s due in a week, for instance, and C has a similarly big project to finish up too. I just read a (brilliant) novel draft for a dear friend and need to collect thoughts more nuanced than (brilliant). Etc.

So the e-mails that are languishing? Probably will be for another week. Posting here? Will continue to be sporadic as well, though I’ve got more than enough links collected for a hangovers post in the near future. Facebook? What’s that again… Photos of completed painting*? May abound.

*You can’t plan the perfection of something like me arriving home yesterday after work with Emma and Puck fresh from the groomer, where they had been sequestered during the reflooring of the back rooms, only to discover Christopher hard at work already with the sky blue paint… Emma promptly stepped in the tray and began racing around like crazy leaving sky blue paw prints everywhichwhere on said new floor, and on the old floor, and everywhichwhere. At least it came up easy.

So, it’s not an actual Lush store, but there’s going to be a counter in the local Macy’s. I’ll take what I can get out here in the sort-of-hinterlands. Bye, bye shipping charges!

Back to bookish links tomorrow. Promise.

Presently, we’re sitting on the tarmac at the Newark airport (very similar to one of the more unsavory levels of Dante’s Inferno), waiting out a squall (hopefully). Hateful air travel. I’ve officially exhausted my reading material — and the people will Not Stop Talking. Hateful.