Pleased By Nothing

No snow yet. Not that I’m quite upset over it, mind–I know it’s a massive hassle to most people, it’s dangerous though pretty, and our part of the world is better off without it.

But I am a little selfishly disappointed. Ah well.

Nothing pleases me today. I am resentful of anything pulling me away from The Cold North, even though most of it is the unavoidable business of living–showers, eating, caring for those under my aegis. The rest of it is work that really does need to be done for other books, proofs and revisions and the like, oh my.

I’m happiest with a surfeit of work and should really stop complaining. But like I said… nothing is pleasing, today. The impeachment hearings are going on, and I am sick-saddened that once again the rich old white men will suffer no consequences. Over and over again they do the worst and endure no punishment. It’s enough to make me doubt justice itself.

Normally I’m a great believer in the arc of history bending towards the light, but I am so nauseous at the lack of consequences for murderous rich old white men, even that is denied me. My capacity for hope has taken quite a beating over the last few years.

Even if there’s no snow, we’ve still laid in a stock of hot choco. The Princess brought home marshmallows yesterday too, so at least there’s that. It’s still chilly enough to snuggle on the couch under a blanket I’m knitting, drink hot cocoa, and perhaps get the last bit of proofing done this weekend. There are also plans for potato-leek soup.

The Princess opened our produce order the other day and said, in tones of surpassing wonder, “There’s a leek in the box!” A short pause. “No, two leeks in the box!” And I laughed so hard I had to sit down while wheezing. All I could think of was SNL and Justin Timberlake’s Dick in a Box; she was thinking of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs and honestly didn’t expect my response.

At odd times since, my brain has served up “It’s a leek in a box!” and I’ll start to snort-laugh helplessly.

This is, I suspect, why I’m unfit for any job or career where I have to be physically around people for any length of time. I just can’t stop cackling at entirely imaginary bullshit.

Anyway, it’s time to take my pleased-by-nothing self for a cuppa–always the best cure for whatever ails one, I firmly believe. And there’s the subscription stuff to be sent off today, after I finish the afternoon errands. I am not fit to be around others in public right now, but needs must when the devil drives, as usual.

Maybe this evening I can spend some time with the damn Viking werewolves. They refuse to sit down and be quiet inside my head–yet another sign of my general unfitness, alas. But it’s hilarious, and if I’m laughing, I don’t mind displeasure so much.

At least I’m having fun.

Over and out.

Free (Sock) Elf

Earlier this week a package arrived, bearing this wonderful thing. A single sock.

You read that right. One singular hand-knitted sock.

It’s part of a pair knitted by a dear friend, but she thought it would be hysterical to send me one at a time. I promptly, of course, took to Twitter to shout “MISTRESS HAS GIVEN LILI A SOCK; LILI IS NOW A FREE ELF!” Which is exactly what she wanted.

I am a free fuckin’ elf, mofos.

I also finished the zero draft of HOOD‘s final season yesterday. Which means this morning I am cross-eyed, absorbing coffee, and wearing a pair of beautifully hand-knitted slipper socks. They aren’t really socks, of course; they’re a friend saying “I love you.” Like little hugs for my feet.

The feeling is more than reciprocated, and very welcome. I hope you have a little (or a lot) of it in your life as well, my beloveds.

Have a good weekend.

Magical Siblinghood of Those Who

I took the weekend off-off. Completely off. I did a little revising, but mostly… I made cakes.

Yes, cakes. Plural.

We started Saturday with a nice white cake, avec whipped cream and sliced fruit. Then Sunday morning dawned, and I was ready. Next came a yellow cake with chocolate frosting (always a classic) and a red velvet cake, also undressed because really, we had whipping cream and strawberries left.

I’m getting to consider most frostings extraneous. Can’t tell whether it’s old age or just a natural evolution of my aesthetics.

In any case, we ate a lot of cake. I realized between one bite and the next I had reached that wonderful stage of I’ve had enough cake, so I got to feel what that’s like. it was almost as sudden as burnout. One moment I was fine, wanting cake like a normal regular person. Then, all of a sudden, I became one of the ones who have had enough cake. It was magical. I don’t expect it to happen again–if it takes three cakes to get there, it’s a bit labor-intensive–but I’m glad I had the experience once.

So to speak.

The kids were all in on this experiment. I’m pretty sure they hit peak cake, too, by the way nothing except slivers of the red velvet survived the night.

So, for breakfast, despite being part of a magical siblinghood of Those Who Have Had Enough Cake, I had red velvet cake with my coffee.

I mean, I wouldn’t want it to go to waste, you know?

And I’ve found out something important. Even after that magical moment when you have Had Enough Cake, your enjoyment of cake is a renewable resource. I don’t know what I would have done should that have turned out to be not so.

Kind of sends a cold shiver up the back, doesn’t it.

But we’ve dodged that bullet on a Monday, and the dogs–who could not have much cake, since there was chocolate in a majority of it–need walking. Just as soon as I finish my coffee.

And maybe just the tiniest remaining sliver.

Of… yes.

Of cake.

Happy Monday.

Forgetting Shoes

There was something in my shoe. I could feel it digging into my right heel like a pea through several princess-stacked mattresses. But I needed coffee before I could sort that out, so I put together the Moka pot and was standing there waiting, thinking about nothing very much in particular–

Huh? Oh, yes, I mean, I’m always thinking about something, the brain never stops while I’m even faintly conscious. (This, I suspect, is part of the foundation of my insomnia.) So I suppose, if I were to be absolutely honest, I was thinking about Richard Armitage as Thornton in a very well-laundered cravat.

Look, one takes one’s pleasures where one finds them, and that man has a lovely nose.

Anyway, I stood there waiting for coffee before it occurred to me, quite naturally, that the thing in my shoe was a problem I could conceivably solve without the assistance of caffeine.

And, as I sometimes do when a thought strikes me, I took immediate action and almost fell over. I banged my hip a good one on the oven door and my temple narrowly missed a counter-corner.

That isn’t even the funny part, although my aggrieved, uncaffeinated swearing was probably hilarious if anyone’d been in range to see the whole thing. The real joke was, there was absolutely nothing in my damn shoe.

A little while later, retreated to my office to drink the finally arrived sweet sweet java, I had the bright idea of tying said shoes in order to avoid further high-speed applications of gravity ending in deceleration trauma to my poor body. Again, I embarked suddenly upon the course that seemed best to me, forgetting one crucial factor.

That factor was Boxnoggin, who no doubt heard my office chair squeak in the particular way that means tying shoes, and of course tying shoes is a chore he feels requires his supervision, close coordination, and most ardent attempts to aid me in. Which meant he scurried into the office at high speed, nose-punched me in the eye, tried to eat my tied shoe, and sat on my untied one–with my foot still in it, naturally–in order to “help” me to the utmost of his ability.

So that is why I’m sitting here with my coffee, my hip aching and my eye watering, one shoe tied properly and the other left to its own devices while I blink at a glowing screen and every once in a while mutter, “Don’t forget your shoes, Lili.”

Of course I will forget. I will, I am certain, be halfway down the hall with both dogs dancing around me and eager for walkies (because after the coffee and the tooth-brushing, it is WALKIES TIME, and may the gods help those who interfere with the habits of dogs) and it will be a miracle if someone does not step upon untied laces and topple me like a certain clay-footed statue.

I’d blame 2020 but I’m certain this is just Tuesday being Tuesday. I never got the hang of Tuesdays, or indeed any day of the week, and there are three scenes to write in The Black God’s Heart before I can count the zero of Book One done.

I might even get there today, if I can just tie my bloody shoes.

Wish me luck.

Commended, My Running Corpse

What with video chats and stuff, lockdown has meant me being more social than at any other time in my life.1 Normally I don’t speak to anyone I didn’t give birth to for days at a time–except for on social media, of course, but text-based asynchronous communication isn’t nearly as draining as video chat or in person. The latter two are such a flood of information; there’s tone of voice, eye contact, microexpressions, body language, the whole enchilada.

Pretty sure the hypervigilance trained into me at a very young age doesn’t help.

Not that I’m complaining! I’m super grateful to be able to talk to My People. I just have to set strict time limits and give myself recovery days.

Lots and lots of recovery days.2

I spent some time reading Unfinished Tales last night, and I do really want to yell about The Children of Hurin. Mostly because all the V.C. Andrews jokes are just laying there, ready to be used; I know Tolkien probably had something more like Sophocles3 in mind but I am not a Very Big Brain Oxford Intellectual.

I’m more a Hilariously Niche Areas of Pop Culture Screaming Maniac.

Plus, Glaurung the First Dragon holds a special place in my heart. Smaug was cool, yeah, but he was a teensy fellow by comparison. Glaurung was Morgoth’s first attempt at dragonmaking and succeeded better than even that very powerful Ainur had a right to expect even though he didn’t have wings.4 BUT ANYWAY.

Today in HOOD the “fine, get snitty with me over being a girl writing sci-fi and I’ll do a whole chapter of Star Trek references” chapter goes out to subscribers, and I am unreasonably excited about this. I also get to take Boxnoggin on his first run since the whole Bus, Bolt, Drag Mum Over Pavement Incident, which is going to be a real barrel of laughs for all concerned, I’m sure.

Last night a part of Black God’s Heart I didn’t plan for fell out of my head almost whole, too, and I have giant plans for a Viking werewolf fantasy gothic heavily influenced by du Maurier and The 13th Warrior. It’s been a while since my head was full of neat things I’m excited to share; what with 2020 it’s been mostly stuffed with “the deep scrambling desire to find a hole deep enough to hide in because I see what’s coming down the pike.”

Anyway, it’s time to get out the door. I got up this morning and staggered around determined to find the source of a particular sound that was Not Quite Usual; you can imagine my chagrin when, after searching the entire house, I found out it was (are you ready?) the dishwasher, and my head was so stuffed it just sounded funny. But there was a pan of brownies waiting to be plundered for breakfast and if 2020 has taught us anything it’s eat dessert first, so that was fine. The coffee is almost absorbed, the dogs are circling restlessly, and there’s a long involved joke about Turin Turambar and Tuor son of Huor meeting on the road I want to get just right, though nobody but me will ever find it funny.

…that happens a lot.

Anyway, it’s Thursday, and I don’t have a single video conference today. I get to rest, renew, and shed my human form for a wee bit. After, of course, I run it into the ground with Boxnoggin’s “help.”

The urge to cross myself and commend my poor corpse to whatever god looks out for running fools is well-nigh irresistible. Put in a good word for me, if you’re the praying sort, I don’t think I should commit any more head trauma upon myself for a while, so I need all the help I can get.

Over and out.

Procrastinatin’ With the Ol’ JRRT

I slid into a deep hole of procrastination last night, ending up livetweeting bits of The Silmarillion. Well, more like shitposting, because oh dear gods there is some funny shit in there. Plus, I have the three-volume box set History of Middle-Earth because why the hell not, and there was even a Saruman-Sons of Feanor-Galadriel-Prince song joke included!1 Not to mention Gandalf and Galadriel’s Discord chat logs (“Saruman’s still talking” “Well wtf do you expect he’s SARUMAN”), Idril Celebrindal’s dick jokes (nothing the Eldar love more than a good dick joke, and in Gondolin they had to make do), Elrond’s constipation (did he have to poop one last time before deciding to join the Eldar, or did it just… fossilize in there?), Feanor’s sons pirating a T-shirt design… look, what I’m saying is there was a lot.

The Reply Guys and Mansplainers found the threads last night, which I knew would happen eventually. What’s even funnier is some of the ManFans have found them, and consequently when I checked my email this morn–lying in bed, for great is my power, I have an iPad–some of the ManFans had, with a great deal of effort and labor, taken themselves to my website, to the very contact form itself, and proceeded to correct some typos and also inform me I have, in my monstrous might, ruined Tolkien forever.

I think they mean I got my ovaries too near the material. How dare a girl make Tolkien dick jokes?

You know who would have loved a good dick joke? Strider. Also, Turgon, and I’ll bet Feanor had a filthy mouth. Glorfindel and Ecthelion both slew Balrogs with the power of trash-talking2, and even Finrod Felagund dropped bars on Sauron and you can’t tell me some of it wasn’t volleys of diss.

But among the Eldar, the greatest teller of dick jokes was Galadriel, who could crack Luthien up across a crowded elven hall just by looking at her and thinking them.

…you get the idea.

You can’t hear it, but you can imagine me laughing in bed, both dogs cuddled up close and blinking, as I scan the missives of furious men who don’t want girl cooties on their Tolkien. Sucks to be you, boys–ol’ JRRT, even though he was a massive misogynist who betrayed every female character he ever set his pen to, was very explicit in his letters that he wanted other people to play in his legendarium. It was what the whole effort was for–I mean, primarily there was his joy in making the thing, but he also wanted others to play in the sandbox. Like Morgoth’s rage-boner for Luthien, it’s canon, baby.3

The thing with opening your sandbox is sometimes the cats visit it.4

Anyway, I am drunk with power this morning, having apparently achieved with little effort and a great deal of mirth the total destruction of a whole and veritable fantasy literature cottage industry. Clearly I do not know my own strength, nor the power of my laughter. Lo, I am a veritable Tulkas, motherfuckers.5

It’s all very well but I have space opera to write, and the John Wick meets American Gods book. Then maybe I can turn my attention to Team MonsterFucker Goes to Gondolin, full of highfalutin’ deeds and dick jokes so subtle they are like elfsheen upon the hair of Morwen of the house of Beor.

My coffee has cooled and the dogs are very sure my laughter means we’re about to go rambling, so I’d best not disappoint them. It’s good to laugh again, since the slow-motion disaster of pandemic and coup is giving a little breathing space. Maybe that’s why I’m rereading Tolkien, hoping that some good comes out of this despair.

And maybe I just think dick jokes are hilarious, and like Galadriel says, “you gotta take your humor where you find it because who knows when a Balrog will come along, RIGHT GLORFINDEL?”6

*fades into distance, laughing*

Driven Me To

Yes, my darlings, this is what lockdown and fascist coup have driven me to: sobbing into Keep Calm and Carry On tissues while drinking my emergency can of wine. (This was last Friday, if I’m being strictly honest.)

This week, we do have a D&D game. I have a murder himbo to hire, a date between our ranger and a dwarf named Gracie to cheer on, and a party to attend. My cleric has a new dress, the rogue’s gnoll toddler has a babysitter, our half-orc barbarian has a new zoot suit, and our paladin has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.

So instead of sobbing I’ll be laughing maniacally, chewing on a burrito, and maybe downing an edible or two while being the in-game equivalent of a chaos generator. I’m looking forward to it, and I hope you have a nice Friday evening planned too, my beloveds. But first I’ve got to get through the work day. Dogs need walking, there’s a run in the pouring rain to get done, and if I work myself to the bone today I will feel absolutely no guilt about knocking off early to play with my friends.

Take what joy you can. We’ve survived another week. I think we all deserve a pat on the back and something fun.