Insomnia, hah!

I used to suffer from early morning insomnia. Not anymore. Now I have a baby skunk who thinks that 6:30 is the proper time to be awake. After all, that’s breakfast time. Even on Saturdays.

Blarg.

But he’s awfully cute. Last night, we had a discussion about who owns the remote:

Tonight Matthew and I have tickets to see “Comedy of Errors” at the Shakespeare Tavern. The idea was to keep Hobkin awake all day so that he’d be konked out tonight. Have you ever tried waking up a skunk who’s determined to be asleep? It’s like handling a rag-plushie.

Sigh. Anyone know a skunk sitter? Heh.

It’s all about the words . . .

Having–although I guess it’s probably more of a “had” by now–a mini-debate over on mouseferatu‘s LJ about whether Atheism constitutes a religion.

Obviously (or perhaps not so obviously), I’m taking con. Being an Atheist, I don’t consider myself to have any religion, and defining my disbelief in things supernatural as faith don’t make no sense to me.

But that’s largely tangential, or rather the catalyst for this entry.

Has anyone else noticed that most real debates end up being comprised almost exclusively about semantics when you finally pare away all the other dross?

Matthew and I have discussed this before. We’re both science-minded folks–his background’s in Physics and mine’s in Psychology. Add on to the equation that he did the graduate school in Philosophy thing, and suffice it say, we’ve gotten existential on some snow-bound lazy Sundays. Anyway, comparing notes, it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that most debates just plain devolve down to semantics. Not talking ’bout the “why can’t you clean up around here a little?” or “I don’t wanna watch ESPN, gimme the damn remote!” sorts of conflicts, but rather the ones about what people believe and why. I’m thinking the numbers might come down to 90% of those debates are about semantics. Maybe even more. By the time all terms are expressly defined by all parties, people often find that there’s nothing left to argue about. Of course, getting to that point is often a battle in and of itself.

And then there’s the small percentage of debates that aren’t about semantics. The only way they can manage it is ’cause all the debaters have spent a goodly amount of time specifying explicitly what their terms mean in the first place.

Strange to think that we’re all ostensibly speaking the same language yet at the same time we can have so much difficulty understanding each other.

Hobkin, on the other hand, communicates just fine. When he paces back and forth in front of the refridgerator, he’s saying “It’s time to eat! Now!” Sometimes we disagree, but he’s always right.

“Eugie is” . . . apparently bored.

Jumping on the Google search wagon, it tells me that:

Eugie is an aspiring writer.
Eugie is the self-proclaimed “tom-boy” of the family.
Eugie is most delightful.
Eugie is one of the most beautiful churchs in the city.
Eugie is a little caterpillar.
Eugie is the most cheerful person at WENN.
Eugie is dead for real.

Hmm.

Well . . .

As it turns out, I didn’t go to belly dance class after all. It was raining as I was coming home from work, and as it always does when the weather is the least bit inclement in these southern climes, it slowed the traffic down to a crawl. I get home with less than fifteen minutes to change into my dance clothes before I have to head out again. So I rush through the door, ready to haul ass big time, and a small bundle of fuzzy cuteness comes bounding off the couch, runs to me, overjoyed that I’m finally home, and proceeds to wiggle and wuffle in my arms with delight when I pick him up. Damn. Can I be heartless enough to abandon something so adorable, that’s so utterly thrilled to see me? Nope. No way in Hell.

So, I guess my hiatus from belly dancing is going to last another month and a half. Classes run in six-week sessions where a full choreography is learned in each session. Missing one class is like missing one sixth of the dance and the teacher doesn’t do make-up sessions.

Oh well. My activity level, aside from chasing or being chased by Hobkin around the great room, has dropped to an all-time low. Oddly enough, though, I continue to lose weight. It’s probably all muscle mass, dammit.

I set a goal for my writing this week. A thousand words (although more is all happiness and joy) a day. Day three and so far, I’m on track. Although I continue to need multiple cups of coffee in order to make my goal. But at this rate, I might actually finish something! *gasp*

Hmm. I’m decreasing my activity levels and I’m taking artificial stimulants regularly. Wonder when this’ll come back to bite me in the ass.

Wonder how Hobkin would look in a coin belt . . .

New belly dance class session starts tonight. Been on a couple week hiatus. Summers are more laid back for everyone, apparently. I must say my enthusiasm is a bit down for it right now. I’d rather stay home and play/bond with Hobkin, but it’ll be good for me to get moving and shimmying again, I suppose.

But it’s awfully hard leaving this for several hours:

Writing and Hobkin pix

Cranked out 1000 words on the “new” story. Ratio of caffeine to words: 3 cups of coffee per 1000 words. At this rate, I’ll be hopelessly addicted by the time I finish anything else. I’m beginning to see why so many artists are drug addicts or drunkards.

AT&T finally fixed their FTP server problems and I was able to update my Hobkin pages. Here’s some new pix of him at ten weeks old:

Matthew and Hobkin napping on the couch:
Matthew and Hobkin asleep

Continue reading

Vets good. AT&T bad.

We took Hobkin to his first vet visit yesterday. He got his booster shot, weighed, his temperature taken, and his teeth looked at.

1. The vet’s good, but then we knew he’d be good with skunks. It’s such a relief finding a really good vet when you’ve got a pet that isn’t a cat or a dog. We went through like a dozen vets before finding Dr. Welle for our ferrets, and then of course, we moved three states away from him.
2. We got to see Debbie, who’s a vet assistant there and the owner of Fantasia, the skunk who introduced us to skunks as pets at Fantasm. She rocks. Even if the vet had come in, looked at Hobkin, and said “Hey folks, that’s the funniest lookin’ cat I’ve ever seen” I’d still go to this vet ’cause of the wealth of knowledge and experience Debbie has.
3. Hobkin weighs 830 grams (approx 1.9 lbs, up from 1.4 lbs from a week ago), he’s teething intensely (which would explain why he just wants to sink his teeth into anything that moves when he plays–ouch), and he didn’t have a reaction from the vaccine (hurray).

He was extremely well behaved. I was very proud of him.

I’ve got some adorable pix of Hobkin as a 10-week old, but I can’t upload them! The AT&T broadband FTP server is down and has been all fucking week. I’ve IMed to complain to them twice and the useless support staff haven’t been able to provide me with so much as an ETA for when it’ll get fixed. “The problem ticket’s open and it says they’re working on it, but that’s all the information I’ve got,” they say. Grrr. I pay AT&T major ducets every month to provide me with a full array of ISP services. Ticks me off to no end when they don’t hold up their end of the bargain yet still expect me to pay full price. Bad AT&T. No biscuit.

This week

Well this week has been chok-full of ups and downs.

Ups:

1. Sold a story. (RAH!)
2. Finished the first draft of a folk taley short story. Not real thrilled with it, but it was fun to write.
4. Got a promotion at work (caCHING!)
5. Started a new story which I think has great potential. Assuming I can pummel my muse into letting me finish it.

Downs:

Matthew went in for an MRI on Monday. His back has not recovered from when he threw it out (from an apparent over-indulgance of fun at Fantasm) and the doctors wanted to scan him to see what the deal was. Results came in. He’s got a herniated disk. Yup. His back’s officially fucked.

We’re looking into treatment options now, expecting a call back from a neurosurgeon-type. And they prescribed a barrage of pain pills and muscle relaxants which I will be heading out to pick up at the pharmacy shortly. He’s under strict doctor’s orders neither to bend nor to lift.

Why can’t it just be all goodness and sugar for a change?

I hope they can fix his back. But backs just don’t fix easily. Wah!

Burning the midnight oil

Actually, it’s early evening, but who ever heard of “burning the early evening oil”?

What is it about working at night that screws up my regular behavior patterns so badly?

Breakfast today: cheesy poofs. Lunch: Samich and a handful of cherries. Dinner tonight: cheesy poofs and coffee. Meals 1 and 3 do not qualify as either healthy or nutritious, dammit.

And to throw battery acid into the abrasion, my muse just poked her head out from whatever hole she’s been lurking in and I’ve got an idea/concept for a story I really want to write. And instead, I’m here, verifying test data and researching errors for the next four hours. Fuck. She’ll probably give me the finger and run off to whatever oubliette she’s been sulking in by the time I get off. Fuckity fuck.

There is much suckitude afoot tonight.

Woo hoo!!

Sale! By God! A Sale!

Got an email this morning from The Leading Edge. They liked the rewrite! They’re buying “Second Daughter”!

Go me!!

Now I get to experience even greater mailbox anxiety as I trot out every day, awaiting the contract. But it’s a happy sort of anxiety, chok-full of anticipatory goodness.

Interesting thing, though. I just checked my logs. My sale to Cicada last year was also in June. One week from today to the day. Huh.