shopping expedition

So, me and da girls take a big shopping trip--usually to Chicago or Indy--this time of year. This year, Bridget obviously was out of the picture (sniff, sniff) and Jodi's all "I'm trying to save money" blah-blah-blah, so it was just me and Julie. The big news of the day is ... that's right, I got my ears pierced. Re-pierced, actually, but yeah. Here's how it went down:

Julie: You look so hot in that shirt.

Me: Yeah, thanks. What do you think of this necklace?

Julie: Ooooh, that's awesome! We gotta find earrings to go with it.

Me: (pointing to my ears) Not pierced, remember?

Julie: What? Your ears are too pierced.

Me: Not anymore. I haven't worn earrings in so long they closed up.

Julie: That's it. We're going to Claire's. You're gettin' 'em done today.

Me: (shrugging) All right.

Julie: (surprised) Really?

Me: Sure. Let's do it.

It actually didn't hurt at all. I heard the crunch, but no pain. Huh. I remember when I got my upper ear pierced it hurt like hell, but the lower lobes ... not so much. The only downside is that I'm deferred from donating blood for a year. I could contract hepatitis, ya know.

I also got a bunch of shopping booty such as a purse, belt, necklace, tank top, a flowy asian-inspired top, and a wind-breaker. I'm a sexy bitch. It's okay, you can say it.

Road trip tunes

I read an article written by Sheryl Crow in an old copy of Vanity Fair magazine about road trip music and it inspired me to make my list. My requisite for RT musak is that I must at least tolerate every single song on the disk; no listening to the first three songs or skipping around, just put in the disk and listen straight through. Oh, and the songs can't make me drowsy, either.

Ten--Pearl Jam
Crossroads--Bon Jovi [call me a small-town midwestern hick, I don't care]
Yourself or Someone Like You--Matchbox 20
The Immaculate Collection--Madonna
Nevermind--Nirvana
Shake Your Moneymaker--Black Crowes
American Idiot--Green Day
Songs About Jane--Maroon 5

I'm sure there are others, but that's all I can think of now.

blech

It is cold, wet, windy, and miserable outside. Yesterday it was a beautiful, sunny, crisp 60 degrees. Today it's a rainy, miserable 56. This doesn't sound like much of a difference, but oh, it is. Yesterday, it was fall. Today, it is almost winter. The rain is going to knock all the gorgeous orange leaves out of the trees and leave naked branches behind. It's supposed to rain for the next three days, too. Bridget, eat your heart out.

I got a rejection from Analog today for "Last Man Standing." It's the first time I've gotten a two-page form rejection. It's basically their submission guidelines with nothing written on it, just "Thank you for the opportunity to examine your submission for publication in Analog. We regret that we cannot make use of it at this time" typewritten at the top. Strange. Anyhoo, back to the drawing board.

I got a freebie massage today. One of my co-workers is getting a massage therapy license, and she's giving free massages so she can get her required practice hours. Rock on! She said she only found one knot in my shoulder and one in my calf, so apparently I'm a very relaxed person. It's true, I guess, that I don't usually get headaches or backaches or shoulder aches or anything. Is it that I'm relaxed or apathetic? Relaxed, I think. Whatever, I don't care. (heehee, that's a joke, see.)

Just finished watching "How I Met Your Mother." I love that show. If you don't watch it, do. Neil Patrick Harris alone makes it worth your time, but the whole cast is great.

Haunted is haunting me

So the other day I told Ken how freaked out I was about "Guts." I didn't tell him much about the story, just that I was disturbed. So last night I go to bed early while Ken stayed up to study. He woke me up when he went to bed to show me the cover of "Haunted", which is a freaky ghost-y face, glows in the fucking dark. This book has got to go.

warning: horrific post

I started to read Haunted by Chuck Palahnuik last night. I say "start" because I'm not quite sure I'm woman enough to continue reading. It's basically a story about a group of people that are on an island, "Survivor" style, and the main story is interspersed with short stories and poems written by the characters. It sounded like a literary horror book of sorts, and something I could maybe get into. Last night I read the Afterward first--I tend to do this because I like getting a glimpse of the author's mind--and it intrigued me. It was a discourse on the story "Guts" and how when the author would read it out loud at readings, people would faint. Every night one or two people would hit the floor. Something like 76 people have gone stone-cold unconscious while hearing this story. So of course, I have to read this part first thing. "Guts" tells the story of three people who, when they were thirteen, had a bad experience with masturbation. The first shoved a carrot into his butt, hid it under a pile of dirty clothes when he got called to dinner, and then couldn't find later because his mom had picked up the clothes to do wash. The second shoved a sliver of wax into his penis, lost it inside, and had to be fixed with surgery. The third story happened to the narrator. He used to masturbate in the family's swimming pool. One time he decided to do it over the pool filter. Well, he gets suctioned to it, and when he tries to swim for the surface, he disembowels himself. In order not to drown, he has to bend down and chew through his own intestines.

I can't even describe how much this story disturbed me. I like the horror genre as much as the next person but this story assaulted my sensibilities. It's not that I'm a prude about jacking off or that the disembowelment disgusted me. I can't pinpoint why I'm so freaked out by it. In the afterward, the author relates reading a book to an act of trust; he says investing yourself in a book is as consensual as sex. I agree with that ... and I feel a little violated. I mean, the writing was great, it's not that it was a bad story. I just wasn't expecting someone to explore something so normal--experimenting with sex--in such a visceral and horrible way.

Maybe I'm just jealous.

It's good to be me.

The book is booking, I've lost 2 pounds, and tonight I mowed the yard. Life is good.

I've discovered a new pet peeve of mine. I hate it when someone narrates a movie you're both watching. As in, "Oh, look, wife's going to work. He's not though. Unemployed." It implies I am not smart enough to figure this out on my own. I hate having my intellegence insulted more than anything. I also hate when someone feels the need to talk about nothing just to fill the silence. Can't we all just sit quietly and be together? Is that too much to ask?

The above tirade has nothing at all to do with my mother and her husband's visit this past weekend. Not one bit.

This weekend I'd like to write the "Love and Sacrifice" open-anthology short story. Usually it takes me a week or two to write a short, because I like to mull things over in my head and live with one idea before moving on the the next. This time, though, I think it's going to be pretty emotional and that's not a place I want to dwell for a long period of time. So I'm going to try a marathon writing session on Saturday or Sunday and write a first draft, start to finish. Fingers crossed.