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serynI spent some time writing yesterday. Actual fiction-y writing. I enjoyed it.
I, surprisingly for a whimsical purchase, really like my new coffee mugs and creamer. Even more surprisingly, they coordinate well with my previous pottery purchases from more than two decades ago and at least 2000 miles away from here. I guess I know what I like.
I've been very angry at a lot of things for several days, so I indulged in some retail therapy. It doesn't work for for me, in that I don't feel better because I've bought myself something. Sometimes it makes me feel worse because I don't like to spend money. But there are things in the back of my mind that I know I want to replace and when I can talk to the artisan himself while getting precisely what I want and for a fair price, there isn't any problem there. I made him show me how the cream pitcher poured. :-) No drips!
My current book reading is Ben Bova's Saturn. I got it from the library sale for 50 cents and I liked one of the other planets of his that I read. He's probably one of my favorite hard SF writers.
In conversations with a friend, we've discussed how creepy we think we can be when we think about what we would do if we were nefarious villains. Thinking about it, I'm pretty sure that's why the standard pulp romances irritate me. They're all written from the woman's perspective and tend to treat the man like he's the villain. It's even worse in historicals. But I'm not the shy retiring little woman type in my own mind. The assumptions and mental gymnastics the heroines go through to arrive at the conclusions they do boggle my brain. I'm usually wondering why the male characters want to star as heroes in these books. Sometimes when I'm reading a standard romance, I'm all *raised eyebrow* because the author obviously doesn't understand her villain's motivation. I spend a lot of those books thinking, "I wouldn't do that if I were the villain." Then I start thinking about what I would do if I were the villain.
Exercise-wise, things have been slow this week because my hand is still hurty. The "there is something wrong deep inside my hand" has worked its way to the surface as a sore-bruised spot and things feel better overall. I know I'm just being a wimp. There's nothing seriously wrong with it, but I don't really want to go and lean on it lifting weights at the gym either. I got off the scale and got out the blood pressure measuring thingy and I think, despite the lack of weight-loss, that there are other metrics by which I can count my efforts as successful. I'm pretty sure that being able to shave my legs without making myself dizzy is a valid metric, but not one I would want to share with my doctor!
I have been sleeping better. I need to go to bed earlier, but at least there haven't been any more nights where I lie down, then get up again in 15 minutes, then lie down, then get up and read for an hour, then lie down and have to go to the bathroom, then lie down and stare at the ceiling. One of those was more than sufficient for the year.
Finally, last night someone called me at 10pm. I was annoyed and wondered for a while if that was rude of them to call. I decided it didn't matter if the "officially acceptable" time had been extended from 9pm to 10pm, that I'm old enough to be curmudgeonly about it regardless.
I, surprisingly for a whimsical purchase, really like my new coffee mugs and creamer. Even more surprisingly, they coordinate well with my previous pottery purchases from more than two decades ago and at least 2000 miles away from here. I guess I know what I like.
I've been very angry at a lot of things for several days, so I indulged in some retail therapy. It doesn't work for for me, in that I don't feel better because I've bought myself something. Sometimes it makes me feel worse because I don't like to spend money. But there are things in the back of my mind that I know I want to replace and when I can talk to the artisan himself while getting precisely what I want and for a fair price, there isn't any problem there. I made him show me how the cream pitcher poured. :-) No drips!
My current book reading is Ben Bova's Saturn. I got it from the library sale for 50 cents and I liked one of the other planets of his that I read. He's probably one of my favorite hard SF writers.
In conversations with a friend, we've discussed how creepy we think we can be when we think about what we would do if we were nefarious villains. Thinking about it, I'm pretty sure that's why the standard pulp romances irritate me. They're all written from the woman's perspective and tend to treat the man like he's the villain. It's even worse in historicals. But I'm not the shy retiring little woman type in my own mind. The assumptions and mental gymnastics the heroines go through to arrive at the conclusions they do boggle my brain. I'm usually wondering why the male characters want to star as heroes in these books. Sometimes when I'm reading a standard romance, I'm all *raised eyebrow* because the author obviously doesn't understand her villain's motivation. I spend a lot of those books thinking, "I wouldn't do that if I were the villain." Then I start thinking about what I would do if I were the villain.
Exercise-wise, things have been slow this week because my hand is still hurty. The "there is something wrong deep inside my hand" has worked its way to the surface as a sore-bruised spot and things feel better overall. I know I'm just being a wimp. There's nothing seriously wrong with it, but I don't really want to go and lean on it lifting weights at the gym either. I got off the scale and got out the blood pressure measuring thingy and I think, despite the lack of weight-loss, that there are other metrics by which I can count my efforts as successful. I'm pretty sure that being able to shave my legs without making myself dizzy is a valid metric, but not one I would want to share with my doctor!
I have been sleeping better. I need to go to bed earlier, but at least there haven't been any more nights where I lie down, then get up again in 15 minutes, then lie down, then get up and read for an hour, then lie down and have to go to the bathroom, then lie down and stare at the ceiling. One of those was more than sufficient for the year.
Finally, last night someone called me at 10pm. I was annoyed and wondered for a while if that was rude of them to call. I decided it didn't matter if the "officially acceptable" time had been extended from 9pm to 10pm, that I'm old enough to be curmudgeonly about it regardless.
