New month, new... well, considerations. I can't call them goals.

It's time to work on Ideo stuffs. A lot. That's probably tomorrow.

Today is all about rewriting/finishing something and submitting.

That's the only warning you'll get.

There's also the bit about finishing that little satin jacket for Alix. Yes, the thing whipped together like sugar and eggs, until... yes, the sleeve finishing. Not that it has much in terms of sleeves, more like dropped shoulders... but man, whoever wrote the pattern directions either never sewed before or lacks a basic understanding of geometric plausibility. No, you can't tell me to sew the side seams and the shoulder seams and the lining to the garment in question, pull the sleeves ends out stitch them together, and successfully pull the garment right-side out and completed. No, fools! You get an infinite loop of satin turning. What the hell were you thinking?! (I even read the Spanish directions to see if the writer was similarly deficient in skills. Yes. He/she/it was.)

So yeah, there's a hell of a lot more handwork, since I don't want to have the jacket ruined by top-stitching.

(Did I mention I was cranky? Oh, yes. Please sir, may I have more caffeine?)

In other news, we celebrated quite well last night with our own kids and the two adoptees for the night. Enough that I was hacking because of laughing so hard, we diverted one table behind us enough that they thanked us for the entertainment on the way out (I don't think they were being sarcastic...) and our waitress quizzed Drew on the seven deadly sins. (He only got four. So much for classicism.)

But there was no writing upon our return, because by then it was 10:30P, and my wine had killed whatever brain cells I'd had in reserve. The rest were obviously there for basic necessities like, oh, say... breathing. So we came home and watched Chicken Little.

So today? Mucho trabajo. With another cup of coffee, I might just make it.

I would appear so much more productive if I could only count the words I deleted yesterday.

But nooooooooo.

So the one hundred words is a rough estimate: there might have been more; there might have been less, but the entire process took hours.

And I didn't get the immediate rejection I was rather hoping for.

Maybe I should just stick with writing my cover letters in rhyme. That took no time at all.

Today is back to analysis for a bit. I'm decided on two stories, and going to whip those out soon. Then there's got to be some of my own writing, and the usual cleaning around here. I'm back to school tomorrow, and I had enough of a rest that I don't mind.

Well, I don't mind as long as I don't think about the zoo trip on Friday. When I think of that, um... oh, yeah. I mind.

But my partner returns tomorrow, and that's going to be a relief in a way.

Plus there's a jacket to finish. And the slug is buying fabric for a dress that she will make. Come hell or high water. I refuse. ("So how hard is this pattern, Alix?" "Not too bad." "Does it have darts?" "Yes." "Zipper?" "Yes." "Gathered waist?" "Yes." Oh, no, it won't be hard at all for her first garment.)

But hey, that's going to be her problem. I can tell her how to do it, but I'm not putting in the zipper for her.

Yes, I'm mean like that. Because otherwise the slug would suck up ALL my available time. As it is, I'm going to have questions every other minute or so. (Trust me. You haven't baked/cooked with this kid like I have.)

But it's time to snap to work. Because otherwise it won't get done.

None of it.

A loooooooooong week, filled with IEPs, painting, lots of animal books, a trip to the zoo, (where nothing, thankfully, died, procreated, or shat before our eyes) and a prom, involving a head of hair.

Of course, the hair was immediately following the zoo.

Warning: If one is the proud possessor of a two feet of straight, thick hair, and one has mom do up the said freshly-washed, moussed, damp hair in sponge curlers and leave them there for twenty-four hours, one ends up with half the length of original hair. In spiral curls. That frizz when combed by anything other than fingers.

Still, all was not quite lost. Pulling back the tendrils, pinning them ruthlessly into place with buckets of bobby pins, and tossing a few fake rose buds (adhered to bobby pins) helped to control the general mass of curls.

I have no idea what Medusa did. Surely, mousse would only annoy the snakes, and bobby pins would have to have been more along the lines of tongs.

And what did she do when a couple of snakes had altercations? Smack them? Threaten them with knots? A trim?

(You know, someone should have been asking these questions a long time ago.)

So today is all about recovery.

I slept until 9A. I'm still drinking coffee and doing Very Little of Consequence. And I am grateful. I may need until tomorrow before I'm back up to snuff.

Climbing child, the one with the death wish (well, the death wish is mostly directed at me) was, of course, climbing. At Seneca. Naturally.

But he's now on the way to the ER at the closest hospital (No, I don't know which hospital, the spousling didn't ask. No, I don't know who's driving him or if he's driving himself, the spousling didn't ask.) with either a broken or sprained wrist. What are the chances it's the latter, hrm? Although it might prevent him climbing for a bit. So that means it's probably only sprained.

*spins in speculative circles for a bit*

Oh! And remember the kid who got hit by the microwave-sized chunk of rock last year and had reconstructive surgery on his leg? Yeah, that one? He's climbing Seneca again.

Update:

Yes, it's broken.

No, it won't be casted until after he sees the orthopedic guy tomorrow, because the bone is compacted. So arm-lengthening and casting tomorrow.

And this was all about being careless while rapelling down, so the good news is that he was being stupid only 4-6 feet off the ground, rather than a couple hundred.

Little gifts.

In other news, my keyboard is not working and I am reduced to using the old one. Which is very noisy. Bleh.

One day it's the child, the next it's the alternate child, aka, The Dog.

1A: The Dog begins barking in his kennel.

1:05A: I decide he's serious.

1:06A: I decide that no one will wake up and save me. I drag my weary butt out of bed and sling on my robe.

1:07A: Having made it downstairs in one piece, I wake up enough from my fog to remember that The Dog has learned that very evening how to jump onto the hill, crawl through the fence into the neighbor's yard, and escape into the neighborhood via their lack of fence. I open closet and fumble for leash. Dog barks.

1:08A: I switch on lights and scan rooms for leash. Dog barks, apparently in agony.

1:08:30A: I cave and open back door, allowing Dog out sans leash. I follow, determined that Dog will not escape.

1:09A: Dog finishes doing business and just as I reach for his collar, he leaps into compost bin, onto stone retaining wall, and onto muddy hill. The Dog locates all those special rabbity scents and holes, then disappears into brush at hilltop.

1:09-1:15A: I call in quiet voice so as not to disturb neighbors. Dog is deafened by rabbity scents.

1:15A: I re-enter house and exit via front door with purse and car keys, certain dog is now wandering the streets. I start car.

1:15:10A: Dog appears at fence line, ready to go for midnight drive. Unfortunately he can not squeeze through fence, nor can I climb over.

1:16A: I return to backyard.

1:16:30A: No sign of dog.

1:17-1:24A: Repeat running through house, starting car, running back, no dog process twice more.

1:25A: Acquire dog food and dog dish, certain that dog will hear rattle of food in dish over rabbity scents.

1:26A: I am wrong.

1:27A: I resort to throwing kibble at Dog. Dog finally notices the kibble bouncing off his side and realizes there is Food, and the Mommy is throwing him Free Food, and wonders if there is More Free Food, but not quite enough to overpower the Lure of Rabbity Scents.

1:27:30A: It begins to rain.

1:28A: Dog decides that if it's going to spit on him, maybe the Free Food is a better deal. He follows the Mommy inside.

1:29A While the Great Hunter kills the kibble in his dish, I wipe all mud off his paws.

1:30A: Sadly, there is no more kibble. Dog races to back door, looking over his shoulder to say, "Let's play This Game again."

1:30:01A: The Mommy shoves him back into kennel and turns out all lights.

1:30:05A: The Mommy returns to bed next to snoozing Spousling and reflects bitterly on the sleeping habits of her family.

5A: The Dog barks.

5:02A: The Spousling, unbeknownst to the Mommy, who is now dead in the Sleep of the Just, gets up to deal with Dog.

5:03A: Dog leaps into compost bin, onto stone retaining wall, and onto muddy hill.

Under the misapprehension I would not be awakened by barking dog at 1A, I convinced the spousling to leave The Dog out, rather than putting him to sleep in his kennel.

True, The Dog did not bark downstairs last night.

No, he had to prove his ferocious barking skills and protective instincts by barking outside. At the hill. Where something sinister, perhaps a rabbit, perhaps a squirrel, perhaps a bobcat or coyote lurked.

I dragged him back inside and upstairs.

Second mistake: I did not close our door with the beast inside.

The next threat appeared in the false cherries that line our backyard fence.

That nixed the bobcat or coyotes. It had to be bird or squirrel attackers.

I dragged him inside. Again. And upstairs. Again. This time closing the door firmly.

But The Dog was now awake. Settling back into sleep? Why?

At any moment, something could threaten our sleep outside.

WRONG.

The threat was in our bedroom, taking up the bottom half of the bed, when not actively grooming my left hand, because you know, ew... I smelled like myself.

I am open to suggestions for tonight, but a muzzle sounds good.

Another five minutes and I harass everyone else out of bed. (Who woke me up? The dog. D'oh. But it wasn't until 7:15A, so yay!)

I opened my patchwork girl story, again, being caught between several, and an hour of focus netted me a measly hundred words and a lot of thinking.

Mostly about how to incorporate what my critique from K.D. Wentworth gave me, all the while staying true to my own vision.

Her comments made me realize that, at least for her, the ending did not work, because she felt that Tess isn't sympathetic enough with that final choice.

Okay. So that means that whatever I did to set up that ending wasn't enough.

Tess has to choose that downward tumble onto the spikes, knowing that for her, it's not a death sentence. She'll be revived by the company and repaired. And she knows, even though she has to admit it to herself, that given the period of time she's sold herself, she's going to come out of this made of nothing but metal.

So, her journey to that future person takes place with this choice. She's got to let go of the emotions that plague her in order to get her child back, and yes, the seat of emotion is in the brain, not the heart, but it's meant to be symbolic.

The big question is how to achieve this so it works for the bulk of readers. (Oh, and an editor or two, also. Just because.)

I'm noting all my thoughts here, because tomorrow, when we get back, chances are good I won't be able to formulate them into words without another hour of thinking about it.

Color me frustrated.

I really thought I could accomplish this in an hour.

Riiiiiiiiiiiight.