too tired to type

. . . but I did want to post reassuring photos of the car. No real damage. Pics of the river tomorrow, maybe--I drove out there today, but the roads were too hazardous for me to want to pull over.

The snow did make everything gorgeous, although it was 4 degrees this morning when I got up.

escape from death!

Really, truly, I nearly fell into the river. Well, car + me. Well, the guard rail prevented it. That's what guard rails are for. Check in tomorrow morning for bloodcurdling shots of the river and the car (separately). The car will only be photographed if there's visible damage; I was going about 10 miles an hour and therefore might not have anything very impressive to present.

It snowed tonight, the majority falling in the half hour between dusk and dark, melting on the pavement and immediately freezing to an attractive thin coat of black ice. I found myself driving 50 miles in rural New Mexico on this shiny new surface, covered in places with up to six inches of fresh-fallen snow. It took me 2 1/2 hours, much cursing, and a flood of adrenaline to get myself home. Not to mention the kind family of burly men who hauled me out of a ditch the first time I slid into one. The next two times, I hauled myself out by a magical force field of profound irritation.

Now that I'm home, I'm enjoying my warm gas heater and my comfy chair. The cat is making herself agreeable. Thoughts of hot chocolate are presenting themselves. I learned my lesson: I'm never again leaving the house when snow is expected.

lucie

If you requested a photo, you know who you are. I've finally invested in a digital camera (invested = frittered away money on), and here she is. I expect there will also be pictures of the apartment, the neighborhood, the neighbor's dogs, the cute guy at work, etc . . . .

awestruck

I don't think I've ever walked into Wal Mart and stood for a moment with my mouth gaping like a fish. This must be why I like Target: recently, I stopped for a pair of pie plates and was astonished by the huge banners hanging from the ceiling, cut like paper snowflakes with designs of reindeer and stars. My first thought was that I needed to finagle one from the Target people, my second was that surely it couldn't be too hard to make one of those. Right? Well, after this article in The Washington Post, I've decided against it. Still, you must check them out. Tell me whether I'm overreacting or whether you, too, are highly impressed. I am relieved to discover that the machinations of advertising I've fallen for are at least high-concept, and Target paid a bundle to a cutting-edge designer for the effect that knocked my socks off.

opinions, anyone?

I recently read this in Slate, and thought that Mr. Kinsley, Internet Pioneer, might potentially be missing the point. No, I don't want to know what Doug is doing, and no, I don't much care to create my own MySpace page and use it to communicate with a million and a half teenagers. (I am Old New Media; I've e-mailed since I was old enough to flirt with boys, but I was three years before the explosion of IMing.) So far, I'm with him. But my blog is a means of communicating with Old Old Media friends (people I met and became friends with in the flesh), much as is my cell phone family plan empire. I have (barely) refrained from posting my LSAT score or my c.v.

In other words, it's not about me, precisely. It's the equivalent of a mass e-mail, with enhanced chatting ability. Not that I object if the occasional stranger reads it, but one of the charms of the Internet is not its anonymity, but its size. Who could find it without being given the URL? Poor Doug, whose questionable grammar is now being criticized by the entire readership of Slate, never intended to inform the world of what Doug is doing. He says himself that, "if you are
reading this you are probably either a Friend or Family."

And the rest of the world is doing the same thing--reaching out to old friends, or potential friends. Making connections. Keeping in touch. This isn't solipsism, it's a way of bringing us back to each other. The profiles and self-descriptions Kinsley condemns are distinguishing marks, intended to catch and keep the reader by invoking the writer's individuality. There's less of that here, as I assume you know who I am and what I look like. But where's the harm? It's no wonder that the huge networking sites are filled with teenagers, all anticipating or in the midst of being shuffled from school to school or from school to college. If they keep their high school friends closer than I kept mine, then bless MySpace and all its imitators. I suppose it's natural that Mr. Kinsley thinks of the internet as a broadcast medium, but for most of us, it acts more like a group of friends in a restaurant, a private conversation in a public arena.

dawn

As much as I complain about this time of day, I can handle dawn under certain specific conditions: it must be warm, there must be Diet Coke, and I must not have to talk to anyone. This morning meets all my requirements.

Outside, I can see the clouds scudding across the morning sky, dark gray against pale gray. In half an hour, the sun will be pouring through my east windows, but for now, the desk lamp is on. I'm on my second can of Diet Coke. I actually intend to start working in about ten minutes, but one of the advantages of early rising is the ability to sit quietly for half an hour.

Another, of course, is that I will be technically at work before 7 am, despite not having showered, dressed, or been forced to confront the part of the world unheated by my lovely heater.

the end of the week

It's been a lovely holiday, if solitary. I didn't ever make the pumpkin chiffon pie--I was struck with a combination of laziness and asthma that made it entirely impractical. Instead, I made a real tart cherry pie, which I fed to Seth. I would also have fed it to Jen, but both are on a no-sugar kick, and, while he made an exception, I didn't push her.

We went to see Deja Vu yesterday night. I had exactly no idea whatsoever what I was going to be watching, as I realized when the title sequence began. No idea of the plot, the actors, the genre--nothing. What I get for ignoring the movie reviews, I guess. But I enjoyed it, nonetheless. The plot centers around an ATF agent trying to discover the responsible party in the terroristic bombing of a ferry in New Orleans on Mardi Gras. Being myself, my first reaction to the post-bombing scene (full of ambulances, police cars, and various helicopters) was to wonder how the devil the New Orleans Police Department would handle a mass casualty event of that magnitude on their busiest day of the year. Really, peeps, I shouldn't be allowed out. It just got worse, though--the main character was invited to become part of a task force analyzing a Technicolor 3-D sound-enabled mapping feed compiled from 4 satellite cameras, an impossibility so ludicrous to one who has seen Dad wrestling with Angelfire that it was a great relief when they revealed, a third of the way in, that it was in fact a one-way wormhole allowing the team to SEE INTO THE PAST. Since this was obviously much more likely, I was able to enjoy the rest of the movie without the howling of my internal critic.

And you all wonder why I don't watch movies much.

holiday prep

I sent my Christmas cards out last week, less because I am a neurotic and organized individual than because I realized I wanted to get cards myself. But no one has my address. This way, there's a chance, right? Besides, it was a good opportunity to get the cousin count right--I have at least two small cousins of whose existance I was entirely unaware.

I also ordered some basic Christmas decoration items, including a tree ornament in the shape of a large stuffed snail wearing a scarf. It is much cuter than it sounds, and will be a great hit with the small chilluns who gather 'round the tree this year. I suspect the adults will consider it butt-ugly and make little murmuring noises of uncertain appreciation when I bring it to their attention. The cat will try to eat it.

Christmas will be full of company; I have decided to take Thanksgiving alone. I hope to complete the revisions on ECHO that weekend and send it to my agent, with my new address, in time to get a Christmas card from her, too. Goodness knows, they can afford them. They've made a fortune off Debbie Macomber this year.

I will make myself a pumpkin chiffon pie in a gingersnap crust, though. It's not Traditional and therefore could not appear on the family table, but I want to make it and so I will.

insane bookseller

Hoo boy. Had a nice long nine-hour shift at Borders today and found myself in maniacal grin mode. I mean, books! People looking for books! Smells of books! Occasional smells of Lindor chocolate! And more books! Unbeatable. I was shocked at how much I enjoyed even the mundane cash register parts, and the hours where my only responsibilities were looking for books or recommending books--well, AND they pay me. What can I say?

The only fly in the ointment is the very uncomfortable legs, as I spent much of my day squatting to look at bottom shelves. Perhaps it will give me good quads, though. Perhaps it will be like going to the gym. It will save me the cost of the gym membership. It will be another great advantage to the job. People will look at me with envy and I will say, "My great legs come from a combination of good genes and bookselling." Then they will smack me, because, really, how obnoxious is that?

sorry for the minor delay

Well, it's been one of those years. 2006 will not live in the memory as the embodiment of halcyon youth. We will skip the last seven months, okay? (It's not as if I remember much more than a blur of exhaustion and general misery.) I am about to present the highlights reel:
- I moved to an apartment with hardwood floors, an actual bedroom, and a garden.
- I adopted a cat named Lucie (real name alert.)
-

There was going to be a third happy positive but it didn't suggest itself. Maybe next time.

I am working for Borders in my spare time. It's a seasonal cashier's job, and it's already saved me more on books than I've earned in salary. Guess what everyone's getting for Christmas? This is my first ever retail job, and I confess, it's interesting. In theory, I learn to work the register tomorrow, and The Job itself starts. If I like it, I can probably keep it as long as I care to. (Apparently I seem to have the right skill set for bookstore work.) If I don't, I can walk.

At this point, there's no saying which way things will turn out. So maybe I should get my employee discount purchases in tomorrow.

The job is not simply an attempt to fill my empty (ha!) days with something entertaining and profitable. It is intended to finance two graduate English classes next January. I suppose it was inevitable that I would gravitate back to school. I find myself trying to provoke fellow lit graduates into arguments about authorial intent or discussions of the development of the novel. For the sake of others, it was time to find a graduate program.

I sent out Christmas cards this week. If you expect one (i.e., I have your current address), you may enter complaints if you don't see anything by the first.

More posting as I feel so inclined, which may put me back on hiatus until next year. The only sure way to provoke posts is to respond to me, since I am constitutionally incapable of walking away from a comment.