So this is Thanksgiving Week. (I call it "Week" because even though I'm working up until Wednesday night, I have to spend my days cleaning and preparing for parents and in-laws coming over on Thursday, and so on and oh yays I have to clean the toilets and run the vacuum again.) Until after Thanksgiving, I don't know how much attention I'll be able to pay to writing. I doubt I'll be able to post anything in The Other Journal before then, but I have off work until next Wednesday (yay, deer hunting?) so that should give me a chance to edit some things and make more posts.

Hmm, there was something else I was going to say, but now I've completely forgotten what it was. Blegh.

'New Moon' Breaks Midnight Record

I'm still not sure why Hollywood markets so many of their movies to fanboys, thinking that is their biggest audience. Did the success of 'Titanic' teach them nothing? (I was seventeen when 'Titanic' was released. All of my girlfriends went to see it. More than once. Some of them went twelve or thirteen times. I saw it once. That was enough.) I've read several articles, or heard comments about how the Twilight movies wouldn't make a lot of movie, because it's fanbase is not as demographically widespread as Twilight's is.

Dudes. Teen girls and their mothers? Never doubt their strength.

I'm tired. Freja has an odd sleep routine and it is wearing me down. She sleeps for five or six hours at the beginning of the night, but then she only sleeps for an hour or so the rest of the night, starting at about three in the morning. I'm just not able to get my butt moving until about lunchtime anymore.

And now I know why so many new mothers reacquaint themselves with that wonderful elixir known as coffee.

I posted something in The Other Journal, which makes me feel somewhat accomplished, even though it was something I'd already written, and all I did was wield my copy and paste skillz. But it's there, and there should be another post following it tomorrow. I'm also going to try and add a little word count thingy to each post, so that with each new excerpt posted, the total word count goes up. I hope that might act as a confidence booster and a nice way to keep track for myself.

I'm pretty sure that I've added everyone to The Other Journal so far, so if anyone has any trouble seeing that first post, just ping me over here and I'll get it fixed post-haste.

Oh, and before I forget...

Go here and check out some really cute hats made by my friend Kikil. They are cute and would make great holiday presents for people.

*finishes pimping*

Over the last few months (heck, for almost all of this past year) I feel like I've abandoned writing. Of course, I had a baby to take care of before she was born, and now a baby to take care of now that she's been born, and a wedding, and moving, and trying to squeeze work and just a regular daily life in and around all of those things, and since something always has to give, for me, it was the writing. But now that I'm settling into a routine (sorta, kinda, perhaps, hopefully) I'm going to try to get back into it. And with the holidays fast approaching (and three weeks off work before the end of next month) I think I've got some time to slip a bit of everyday writing - even if it's just five words - into my routine.

And, so? I'm going to start posting excerpts here again, in locked posts (I've also opened another writing journal, where I can just post everything I've written in order so that I can look at all of it gathered together in one place). So if you want to be added to the new writing filter, or if you want to be added to the new journal, just add me, or comment here. (Note: I am very much aware that there is currently nothing in the new journal. It's a work in progress, people.) You know the drill. And remember: This gives you guys leave to kick me in the butt if I'm not updating with new writing and/or word counts at least once a week. (I'd shoot for everyday, but I know that's not going to happen.)

So wish me luck, and there should be some updates here (and here) before the end of the week.

First off, thanks for supporting my decision NOT to attempt NaNo this year. I really wanted to, but there's just not enough free time right now. (Which then could lead into a post about how bad I feel for neglecting my writing for so long, which then leads to the typical thoughts of "But you're a crappy writer anyway!". And then I end up having arguments with myself in my head, and it's a bit too Crazy Lady at that point for it to ever be viewed by the public.)

Anywhoozy, I went back to work this week. My schedule has been condensed down to four days, Monday - Thursday, and only a few hours in the afternoon/evening of each day. It feels strange, being a "working mom"*, but I've got good parents and in-laws who will just about bust down the door for the opportunity to babysit their grandbaby, so it's all good.

Which means that any updating I do here will most likely be limited to Fridays, since it's my day off, and the Boy is at work, so it's just me**, rambling around the house with pockets full of pacifiers and shoulders that smell like sour milk spit-up. But tomorrow is The Weekend, which means getting out of the house for things that don't deal with work or the mundane errands that include stops at the post office, bank, and/or the grocery store. I think I'm going to get a bit of a jump on my Christmas shopping tomorrow, and then I have to avoid all the antique stores and used bookstores, since they eat my money like it's chocolate cake and brownies. I do try to be good when I go to the antique stores, but then I come across things like this, and I just can't help it:



Yes, that is an original poster from David Bowie's run in The Elephant Man on Broadway back in... 1980? Okay, I know I checked that last week, but I've already forgotten. But I do remember that Mark Hamill had the part after him, and they tried to capitalize on the Star Wars thing, putting out posters with that Star Wars font and everything, and supposedly he did really well in the part, but then people kept saying "Hey! It's that guy from Star Wars! The one who won't grow up to be Indiana Jones!" But I couldn't find a copy of that poster anywhere, but there is a playbill on eBay for the David Bowie one, and it's only $9.95 or something, and it would totally make a matching set with my poster!

And...we're rambling. Okay.

But I only paid ten bucks for it (framed and everything), and now it hangs on my bedroom wall, on my side of the bed, so David Bowie can stare at me while I breastfeed my baby at two o'clock in the morning.

Then, the very next day, I went to a used bookstore and came across a version of Pride and Prejudice from 1942 for only three dollars!





It just looks so neat, like it's really a Trixie Belden book, or something Nancy Drew-ish, lurking under the title of something much more classic. And for three dollars, the amount of coins I usually have clanging about in the bottom of my purse... nope, not gonna pass that up.

So say a prayer for me tomorrow that I don't go nuts in the stores, because I've got a wallet full of cash, and all of my bills are paid for the month. Eep.

*Jeez, I almost wrote "quote - unquote" there, instead of just putting quotation marks. This might be a symptom of not enough reading or writing lately.

**And baby, of course. What kind of mother do you think I am!?!??!

Just a nice little resource for any NaNo'ers (or any writer) who wants to take a looksy:

Victorian Sexual Slang

Note: NSFW, due to old-timey photos of nekkid womens (who are all refreshingly curvy and non-silicone breasted).

It took me a while to finally decide, but I'm not going to even take a shot at NaNoWriMo this year. What with new baby, and going back to work next week, any free time I have will be most likely dedicated to bathing, eating, and - if I can squeeze it in - sleeping. So, alas. No NaNo craziness, no word counts, no jotting down anything just to keep the story flowing. Not this year.

Something I've learned since having a baby: Time will fly.

It's been, what? Almost five weeks since Freja was born? Yeesh. And I can't believe that much time has already passed. She's holding her head up on her own, rolling over, and moving up into the next size of diapers. I'm going back to work at the end of the month, and both dreading it and looking forward to it at the same time. Mostly I'm looking forward to it so that I can return to the world of People With Normal-Sized Heads. Because when you sit at home, staring at a nine pound baby all day, people of the full-grown variety start to look oddly proportioned.

I miss writing. Or more accurately, I miss having time to write. Even fitting in a meal is a bit of a stretch nowadays. And a hot meal? Maybe once a week. If I'm lucky. (And only if my boy is the one doing the cooking.)

My reading has been downgraded to a few pages of Pregnesia every day. I'm only on page 80, and I feel like I've been working on it for two weeks. The Count of Monte Cristo might have to sit on the shelf until baby starts sleeping through the night.

The weather has been awful the last few days. In less than a month, we've gone from summery eighty degree days, to winter storm warnings, slush on the roads, and Lord knows what else might hit us overnight tonight holy crap. It's not that I absolutely hate winter weather, but a bit more in the way of a transition would be welcome.

And now I'm off to start throwing a lasagna together. That is, if Freja stays asleep long enough.

Alexander Skarsgard (Eric from True Blood) is the son of Stellan "Bootstrap Bill" Skarsgard? I can't believe I did not know this before today.

First off, I want to thank everyone for the congratulations (be they belated or otherwise) and all the good wishes and such that just make me smile every time I see them. I'd reply to each comment individually, but free time is rare these days, so a general reply like this it have to be.

The Mommy Life is still such a strange, overwhelming world. I think I've gone through every emotion in the last two and a half weeks, running the gamut from outright bawling - tears and snot pouring down my face, handfuls of tissues wiping at every leaking orifice - to a warm, glowing happiness that seems too perfect to be real. And all of that often happening in a span of less than ten minutes.

In some things, I've been extraordinarily lucky. Like how much sleep I've been able to get. I believe the average amount of sleep per night for new moms is something around three hours. I've been getting six to seven hours. How? Because Freja sleeps for about 2 1/2 to 3 hours at a go, about three times through the night. Of course, I try not to mention this to other mothers, because then they just get a crazy look in their eye, like they want to bludgeon me with their can of Red Bull (probably their fifth that day). I also try not to mention my two small patches of stretch marks (I complained about them to my doctor about two weeks before Freja was born, and she about smacked me upside the head) or wear anything that shows off how flat my stomach already is. (Okay, my stomach was pretty much concave before I got pregnant, and... and... I'm sorry, okay? I can't help it that it's already flat! It just... is. Does it help that I had back labor? That I had hemorrhoids from all the pushing? (Yes, I just admitted that. Pushing a baby out of your hoo-ha in front of a half dozen people you don't know too well takes away any modesty you may have ever possessed.) That those hemorrhoids actually made me afraid to poop for two whole days? Afraid to poop! I mean, is there a term for that, something with "phobia" tacked on to the end of it? Defecataphobia? Or... or... Hmm, I really think I shouldn't continue on this precarious path of TMI. Sorry about that.) I've also been lucky that my boy is a fantastic help, and not just one of those guys who sat in the waiting room with a pocketful of cigars while I cursed the entire male race for being responsible for my pain. He changes diapers without a wince, does dishes, trundles downstairs with loads of laundry, makes dinner, and is just all-around totally awesome. Of course, I didn't think so highly of him while I was actually in labor (I remember the phrase "DON'T TOUCH ME!!!" coming out of my mouth fairly often whenever he came within three feet of the bed) but now that the pain is over, I've come to appreciate his general awesomeness.

So all in all, things are going well. Of course, I'm only two and a half weeks into Mommyhood, and this is a neverending thing, but I'll be happy and appreciative of what I've got.

In other news...

No writing. Nada. Zilch. I'm lucky if I can finish a grocery list.

Not much reading. I'm looking forward to picking up Pregnesia by the end of the week, and hopefully can eke out a review. If I'm lucky.

I had to take The Count of Monte Cristo back to the library. But I wrote down the chapter I was on, and hopefully I can pick up that again in the next couple of weeks.

And... that's my life right now. And it's good.

It's been a week and a half now since giving birth, and I only just now feel like I'm beginning to poke my head back into that little bubble called reality. There are so many things that people tell you, so many random pieces of advice that you absorb over nine months of pregnancy, and it's still not enough. The biggest thing that no one really told me about? How flippin' tired I would be.

And it's not just the lack of sleep. I can handle running on little snatches of sleep grabbed from here and there. Everyone told me I wouldn't get much sleep, that I would be tired. But there was one major detail they all conveniently neglected to mention: That giving birth leaves you feeling like you've just been beaten with a sack of rocks. And each one of those rocks was infected with the flu.

So running on not a lot of sleep? No problem. Running on not a lot of sleep, after being pregnant for nine months, after fifteen hours of back labor without drugs, after thirty-six hours of no food and no sleep, after a day and a half of hospital food, and all while taking care of a little person who needs constant, constant care? Yeaaaaaaaah, not so easy, is it?

But before this begins to sound like I've nothing but complaints to make, let me just say this: There is that moment, that beautiful, perfect moment, that can come at any time, no matter how tired I am, no matter how in need of a hot bath or a hot meal, when she looks up at me, her blue eyes wide as can be, and without even taking the time to complete the thought, I know - I absolutely know that it was - and is - completely and totally worth it.

Now... if I could just figure out when to squeeze in that hot bath...

Freja Quenby

Born: September 13, 2009 at 11:56 a.m.

Weight: 8 lbs. 4.6 oz.

Length: 20 3/4 inches

Mom: Very Tired

And now I'm off to nap while she's asleep. Talk to you all later. :)

There are two paperback romances I've been joking about with friends recently, and my interest was piqued in both of them - initially - because of their titles.

The first one is called Pregnesia by Carla Cassidy. (Honestly, I don't think I would've taken quite an interest (i.e. actually purchased the dang thing) if it wasn't for the fact that I've a baby on a way, and the idea of a romance novel about a very, very pregnant woman with amnesia (Get the title, now?) just seemed too giggle-making to pass up.)

And the second one is.... *drumroll*.... really, this one deserves some kind of fanfare, because the name of this will just knock your socks all the way into the laundry hamper.... The Playboy Sheikh's Virgin Stable-Girl. Yes, you read that correctly. No, I do not believe it is intended as a romance parody of any kind. But that title... Oh, it just makes me want to run out and actually spend five whole dollars on the dang thing! I mean, The Playboy Sheikh's Virgin Stable-Girl??!?!? Really??!?!?? REALLY?!??!? It's just... it's too much fun to say, over and over. Try it!

So I guess my point is, when does the mere title of a book act as enough of a draw to make you read it? These two appeal to me because the titles are so unbelievable unreal, that I just have to see what is on the other side of those front covers. If they were titled something generic like Passion's Embrace or... um... Dawn of Ecstacy (Lord help me if those two books actually exist) I wouldn't give them a second look. But Pregnesia (which is now what my husband accuses me of having every time I forget something or do something uncommonly stupid... you know, all the time these days) and The Playboy Shiekh's Virgin Stable-Girl? Slap something like that on the front of a book, and I will give it a looksy, even though I know it will probably be horrendously awful.

I know that there are a lot of great books out there with fantastic titles, too. Something like The Graveyard Book comes to mind. But I was already a Neil Gaiman fan, so it could've been called something like Neil Gaiman's Latest Something-Something... Whatever... Just Read It You Know You'll Like It and I wouldn't have batted an eye before grabbing it off the store shelf.

So, again (because I feel myself rambling here) when has the title - just the title - made you want to read something? My pregnesiac mind would love to know.

Before I even get started (or, maybe we should say this is me getting this post started) I want to explain that title by pointing out that the book I am about to talk about is the Very First Romance Novel I Ever Read. Seriously. I don't just mean the first historical romance novel, or the first one that contained descriptions of sex, rather than the much more chaste kissy-kissy-fade-to-black sex scenes. No, the book I am about to bitch about is THE first one, the one you always remember, the one that all others are compared to.

And it is Counterfeit Lady, by Jude Deveraux*.

Now, I first read this book when I was a wee thing of only nine or ten years of age. I think it had belonged to my great grandmother, who had recently passed, and my mother inherited a huge quantity of her books, most of which turned out to be romance novels of varying sorts. I'm not sure why, out of all the ones piled around the house, I picked up this one. Maybe it was the picture on the cover, maybe it was the one closest to me. I honestly, truly cannot remember. But I picked it up, and here we are.

Oh, and this is the cover that was on my copy:



Pretty snazzy, eh? This book was obviously published during that drippy-ippy time period, when the romance novel heroines all possessed spines of rubber and were able to bend themselves backwards, all the better to be ravished or raped or pillaged by the hero's massive thighs.

Oh, you mean to say that a good deal of romance covers are still like that? Whatevs.

So anyhoodle, while perusing the shelves of my local library the other week, I came across this book and nearly tripped myself in my clumsy attempt to get it off the bottom shelf. (Remember, kids: carrying nine months of baby will completely decimate any agility you might once have had.) I checked it out, waddled gracefully skipped the block or two back to my house, and settled in with a book I hadn't perused in nearly two decades.

( Cut! )

I'm starting to wonder if I should start a little blog or website that features nothing but my complaints about spectacularly bad books I've read recently. I seem to like to torture myself with poorly written literature, so I might as well make a career out of it. You know, in that same way that bitching to my husband about how the grocery store is always out of that one item I so desperately need is a career. (Note: That one item often tends to be Sour Cream and Onion Pringles. I think someone goes into the store and buys them all the moment they're restocked just because they know it will piss me off and make me shake my fist at the heavens. And then pick up the Loaded Baked Potato flavor instead.) I've already gone through a plethora of Cassie Edwards novels (not all of them having "Savage" in the title, funny enough) and a few Sherilyn Kenyon books. And then there was Eragon. And I think I bitched about Twilight a little bit. (And yet, I read them all. And I actually own Breaking Dawn. Because I paid full price for it. THE DAY IT WAS RELEASED.)

And now I'm jumping onto a little story titled Angels & Demons.

(I love the use of the ampersand here. It looks so curly and pretty on the cover of the book. And more mature. Like the author wants us to know that his book is not for those who might mistake an ampersand for a capital S written in cursive. Or a musical note. He's telling us that if you don't know what an ampersand is, you should just stay the hell away from this book, bitch! And even though I know what an ampersand is (and am having way too much fun typing that word over and over...) I wish I'd taken that completely made up advice.)

I must start by saying that I read Dan Brown's more famous book, The Da Vinci Code, several years ago, back when everyone was reading The Da Vinci Code and there were marathons on The History Channel and The Discovery Channel and maybe even The Learning Channel (back when they were more about learning and less about reality shows featuring certain peoples named Jon and/or Kate) about Leonardo Da Vinci, the Louvre, Jesus and Mary Magdalene, and assorted other repetitive series about religion and symbolism and art. By the time I got around to reading it, I was expecting some great work of literature that would open my eyes and astonish me with the controversies that had been bandied about everywhere from CNN to Dora the Explorer. And after all of that build up, I was disappointed to find myself reading a barely mediocre book that had hardly earned its place on the grocery store shelves. (Possibly right next to Cassie Edwards, but my memory is foggy.) Because whatever the story, no matter the amount of controversy nearly crackling off the pages, the poor writing made it all fizzle out by the time it made it past my retinas. And really, that has to be pretty bad, when a theory that could threaten to shatter centuries of religion, is drowned out by inane dialogue and facepalming plot twists.

So, needless to say, I did not crack open Angels & Demons with any kind of high hopes. They were particularly low considering that this book features the same protagonist as Da Vinci.

Now since every book I read leaves me with a different feeling, I've never been good at writing straightforward reviews. Sometimes I dabble with list-making. Sometimes it's simply a collection of random complaints. This will probably follow the latter, but I'm going to try some comparisons between Da Vinci and Demons, which should demonstrate some things that really irritated me about both books.

( Cut! )

Just popping for a second to say that

1. I am still alive.

2. There is no baby. Yet.

3. Cooking is good.

4. As is crochet.

5. My hips hurt.

6. I've not watched any more True Blood since the last time I posted. (This is mostly because I've been watching it on the computer, and the computer chair is - how do I say this? - a squeaky, uncomfortable piece of refuse that needs to be dumped at the curb on garbage day.

7. I made hockey puck brownies.

8. I have links to post.

9. And I did get some writing done.

10. But not much.

11. And Dan Brown is a really terrible writer. There, I said it. (Along with many others, I'm sure.)

I'm writing this as I get ready to watch the second episode of season two of True Blood, and I just finished reading All Together Dead right before falling asleep last night, so the whole Sookie Stackhouse universe is really strong on my mind right now.

I don't know how best to organize all of my thoughts, so I'll take a shot at tackling a quickie episode by episode run, starting with the very first episode, "Strange Love".

( And then there was some music, telling me how to feel )

Oh, goodness gracious! I'll skip the usual "I need to update more often!" chirpy bit that I usually get into, and just do a quick roll call of more major events that have happened recently. You know, before I get to the more mundane, chatty stuff that makes the world go round.

So, I'm married now.

:D

Saturday, August 8th, in a tiny little church about five minutes from my parents' house. My boy and I were ready and willing to just hoof it to a judge's office or some other such let's-just-hurry-up-and-make-it-official location, when my brother caught wind of our plans, aaaand.... he decided to make up his own plans. So after a hasty run of phone calls, my brother (bless him over and over again) got us a minister, a church, a two-tiered chocolate, chocolatey cake, and a small luncheon spread. Again, bless him.

So we were married, and there are pictures out of which this one might be my favorite, mostly because of the "I only have eyes for youuuuu.... OHMYGOSH!!!!1!!!CAKE!!!!" expression on my face. Because I was eight months pregnant, and that is all we think about, even on our wedding day.

Now, a few weeks later, there is still no baby. There are contractions every day, and a midwife who thinks I'm about to pop, but still no baby. Sigh.

Of course, being (now) full-term, means that my activities are limited. I haven't taught class since the end of July, and there's only so much house cleaning you can do before you Just. Can't. Clean. Anymore. So it's been reading and catching up on TV shows I've missed. (Thank you, interwebz.)

I've now worked my way through the first six Sookie Stackhouse novels, and am two-thirds of the way through All Together Dead. I enjoy the books like a enjoy a higher-level romance novel or chick-lit. They are light and fizzy, and the dialogue is snappy, and I love that I hear my mom and my grandma chatting away in their Georgia accents (Yes, I know. Bon Temps is in Louisiana) in my head as I read them. Unfortunately, the local library (Less than three blocks away! Whee!) doesn't not have the next two in the series, so I will have to either order them from another library or just plain ol' order them to own. Boo.

And of course, since I've been reading the books, I've been catching up on the show, as well. I rewatched the first half of season one of True Blood, and then finished off the rest of the season over the weekend. Now I need to get started on the second season, before I fall even further behind.

I should also have some thoughts on the differences between the books and the show, but this is a catch-up post, so I'll leave that for another day.

And now I need to go eat something, because if I don't feed Freja every two hours or so, she starts digging her heels into my ribs. Seriously.

I've been reading up on old news clippings and such from about the turn of the century, because I'm inserting little news articles into my story (this is the Victorian Ghost Story I'm talking about) as breaks between some of my chapters that just need that extra something in-between. They're fun as hell to write, because there was just such a different style in newspaper writing back then.

Case in point.

Also, I've gone through and fixed up about 14,000 words so far. Lord help me, but I really want to get this done before the baby is born.

And on a weather note, a front went through and the humidity is gone. For the moment. Which is fantastic, because I've come to the realization that I can't stand humid heat when I'm carrying around an extra 30+ pounds.

Man, I hope someone asks me what I did last night, just so I can say "Well, I had to drive my man to Hershey at illegal speeds so that we could take an amplifier (that Tim worked overtime to repair) to Stephen Stills (of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young fame), who apparently is a cantankerous old man who shakes his fist and yells at clouds, so people's jobs were on the line because of this. And then we had to deal with the security outside the theater thinking we were drunk (yes, eight months pregnant and drunk) because we were driving around in my old Buick trying to find the stage door and asking for Stephen Stills because we had his favorite amp in the trunk of my car. And the whole time, I really, really had to pee."

I want to tell that story, just so I can see the "WTF?" look on someone's face.