Nattering

The wonderful thing about my new lunchtime addiction, aka Dr. McDougall’s Vegan Miso Soup cups, is that no one expects you to eat thin soupy noodles daintily. This is good for me, since, as you know, I am not a dainty person. I am a clumsy person who would probably be better off going through life sporting a Level 3 Biohazard suit.

Of course, on the downside, you do have to brave boiling water to make the soup — but, well, I’m being more careful and my hand’s almost healed. It only has a faint phantom continent from that whole deadline-fueled pouring of boiling water all over it in the simple quest to make a cup of tea business last week.

Anyway, happy sigh. I love miso soup cups. If only someone would bring me a cupcake now…

We spent the day visiting the Tax Lady on the Mountain (due to our massive stack of evil 1099s we won’t know the extent of the damage until next weekend — please, fate and gov’t, be kind) and feeding fish in my parents’ pond, then came home and in a frenzy of spring nuttiness gave both dogs baths (!), then cleaned inside and mowed outside.

I also made my nomination for the next round of the LBC, and I’m superexcited about this book. I think it’s kind of funny that my two nominations are both going to be things that are (or could be) shelved in the mystery section; a fluke, that, but one that pleases me. (The first was The Girl in the Glass, of course, and this one you could probably puzzle out if you try.) Anyway, the discussion will be great fun, especially if we manage to "relaunch" (read as: refine) the LBC site/effort by then.

Tomorrow there shall be laundry and writing and email.

Carolyn has the fashion pics you guys were looking for from AWP. As you can see, faux posing is fun, especially with a cocktail. (And the wedding couple really was just that cute.) Here’s the vest shot.

A proper AWP report is still coming, but, really, this is gonna be the best part.

A proper AWP wrap-up tomorrow at some point, but this just to say we are alive, home, and the pets have semi-forgiven us for their abandonment/imprisonment.

Am dreadfully behind on all email from the last weekish; if you’re waiting for a response, expect it in the next couple of days (and feel free to bug me again if you need one sooner).

So, here we are at AWP. Kelly, Gavin, Carolyn, Jed and Christopher forcibly made me stay up until 3 a.m. last night — using the power of white wine and presents — long after the more sensible among us had gone off to bed. I’m not complaining, I’m just marveling that the rest of them are up Doing Stuff, while I’m waiting for my tiny headache to vamoose. Of course, our scene is also complicated by a massive catastrophe on OUR INTERSTATE EXIT. Early this morning, there were sirens galore and it sounded like an airplane was taking off from the parking lot every five minutes; turns out it was emergency vehicles and news helicopters (still out there) and the interstate is closed until noonish.

Here’s the thing I have to say so far based on a very limited amount of time spent at the actual conference hotel last night:

There are some seriously questionable and seriously bad fashion choices going on in America’s creative writing programs and English departments. I don’t want to hear another word about how people at science fiction conventions dress. Ever. Again. It’d be one thing if people just looked like they were auditioning for the part of Ignatius J. Reilly or Katie Holmes in Wonder Boys, but the fondness of the vest I’ve seen on display is truly frightening.

Until things are a go here, I propose you go read Bennett Madison’s expose of Tyra Banks.

This is the first normal winter night we’ve had in awhile, at a balmy 43 degrees. Emma (the Amazing Scrotumless Dog) and I took advantage of it to have a long, leisurely stroll around downtown — just us and the homeless guys and the fancy school’s groundskeepers, spying on second-floor bookshelves and dimly-lit private parties. A few of the restaurants weren’t closed-shop, but still had people in them; I’ve always had a soft-spot for the early-in-the-week, candle-lit, completely-indulgent dinner experience. It usually signals one of two things: a special occasion enabled by absence of a need to be anywhere especially early the next day OR total irresponsibility brought on by finding day one (or two, or three) of a work week harder to stomach than usual. Bet you can guess which I have the most experience with — and by a vast margin.

I swear, it almost feels like spring. And it is so not. It’s that deceptive thunderstorm feeling in the air, from the sudden barometric change. After all, yesterday’s walk looked like this:

LiveScience debunks some of the most popular myths in science; I know the 10 percent of the brain thing isn’t true, but I like to think its popularity comes from the (somewhat underrated or, at least, compulsively rewatchable) Defending Your Life. (Via Caitlin.)

Another myth? That not procrastinating means that you won’t suddenly decide to rewrite a key scene the day before your deadline.

The New York Times profiles my favorite cake of all: Red Velvet. Yum.

My grandmother’s recipe is the best though.

My new Godiva shampoo bar arrived not a second too soon; seriously, my hair will not respond to any other shampoo now. It gets angry at the chemical-laced drugstore stuff. Get yourself some, valentines and valentinos. Thank me later.

Oh, and I got too busy writing essays and reading and etc. to mail out the little valentines this year, which makes me very sad. But there’s always:

But, for reasons of convenience (and age-ed cars), we’re flying to Wiscon this year. Memorial Day weekend, we’ll be arriving in Madison Thursday afternoonish and leaving Tuesday mid-morningish, purely because that’s how the flights worked out. Although I did have to choose the hated, hated Delta. So fingers crossed.

Now if only we can talk my mother into picking up Emma from the kennel on the Tuesday for us, since we’ll get in too late to quite make it ourselves.

*Weird because we always, always drive. It’s, like, a thing.