Sink Your Teeth Right Through My Bones, Baby

I seem to have a severe problem with bobbleheads.

You may think I'm kidding, Best-Beloveds, but it's true. Read on and weep with me.

My sad saga of sadness (and bobbles) starts but a few months ago, inspired by my dear friend brumeier's request for Captain America and Winter Soldier bobbleheads for her birthday.

Bru has a picture of the two star-crossed lovers long-lost friends here, along with Thor and Deadpool. Aren't they adorable with their little soulless black button eyes? Of course they are. So I decided to get my own.

They didn't have Steve and Bucky at my local Target, so I got a couple of mini-bobbles in 'blind boxes', which means you don't know who you're getting until you open the box. Like Schrodinger's Cat, only six bucks and plastic.

The first one I got was Thor, who'd been out of his blind box for about two seconds when my darling son grabbed him and twisted his head. To see what would happen, I think.

Well, mommy got pretty fucking peeved, that's what happened. Jav tried to fix Thor, but all the twisting in the world couldn't make him stop looking right.



Only somewhat daunted, I got Vision. He's very fuchsia, and was looking right straight out of the box. At least he's more subtle about it.



Of course, what I really wanted was Steve and Bucky, so I ordered them from Amazon. Steve came this evening. And came out of the box looking left. I tried to fix it, and this is what happened.



And this is all three of them together:



I love how Vision's more subtle about his gawking, whereas Thor doesn't care who knows what he's looking at. And Steve of course is just looking for Bucky.

I'm a little worried about getting the Bucky bobblehead at this point. On the other hand, he'll probably actually be looking straight ahead; he's always been the contrary one.

I tell ya, O, best-beloveds, sometimes I think that Americans have a hell of a lot of trouble with the metric system.

Now, I readily admit that the basis for my hypothesis is pretty thin (compelling argument though it is, the loss of NASA's Mars Orbiter due to engineers using imperial units instead of metric happened way back in 1999). But when I come across conversion errors, they tend to be kind of mind-boggling.

Like the sci-fi book I read some years ago, where the narrator was describing that 18 degrees Celsius was cold enough for his breath to mist. That's around 64 Fahrenheit, which is definitely too warm for ice crystals. Unless the author actually meant 18 degrees kelvin, which is -255 C or -427 F, in which case, yes. Definitely breath misting. And a much shorter novel due to the protagonist instantly freezing to death.

Admittedly, that novel was also published in the 90s, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and you couldn't just type '18 degrees C in F' and get an instant answer. But in 2012, there was no excuse for messing up the metric versus imperial thing. And yet, the sci-fi novel I'm currently reading was first published in 2012, and messed it up within the first few pages.

Overall, I've been enjoying Gravitational Attraction by Angel Martinez immensely. Unlike loads of other M/M novels, there are very cool female characters in it, and the main character isn't white. And so far the plot's compelling with H/C in spades (which, you may remember, I love like kittens).

Pictured with his girlfriend Nicole Alexander, who is 5' 2" (1.57 m). She can literally climb him like a tree.

But--and you knew there was one--the love interest is described at being "well over" two meters tall. Well over two meters, people. And yet, somehow, the crew of the space courier that rescues the guy can find pants long enough for him. Though really, as a reader that was the least of my concerns.

Here's the thing: Two meters is 6 feet, 7 inches. "Well over" that is getting into Shaquille O'Neal territory (He's 7' 1", which is 2.16 meters).

Unfortunately, so far the novel hasn't said how tall the protagonist is, but he's clearly of Japanese descent and described as slender and obviously smaller than his giant boyfriend. So I'm going to guess not much over 5' 10" or 1.78 m (As of 2004, the average height in Japan was 5' 6" or 1.59 meters, so I'm being generous).

This is close to what it would look like, as demonstrated by Peter Meyhew, who is 7' 2" (2.19 m) and Harrison Ford, who is a mere 6' 1" (1.85 m):

You gotta admit though, it is kind of adorable.

I'm not sure if that discrepancy is what the author intended, especially if his or her slender, small protagonist is shorter than Harrison Ford. Which he probably is. Especially as I'm fairly certain the size difference wouldn't end at height, so to speak.

Because, if the apparently seven-foot tall love interest is, shall we say, proportionate everywhere (and there was specific mention made of him being lucky to find a pair of boots that fit. And you know what they say about men's foot sizes), then, well. I just hope he goes for a lot of preparation, that's all I'm saying. I mean, sure, Shaq is obviously not pulling a Vlad the Impaler on Nicole every time they knock boots (which they can't, because he's too tall). But, you know, babies come out of there; there's a certain amount of leeway.

Not quite so much with the menfolk, I'm thinking. And ass-babies only exist in fanfic.

So, either the author is going with the reverse meaning of 'size doesn't matter' (that's a myth, for all my SGA homies), or 'two meters' doesn't mean what he or she thinks it means. Either way, like a hapless NASA orbiter in the hands of Lockheed Martin engineers, there's going to be a lot of crashing and burning. Or at least burning.

Definitely a lot of burning.

Growing up, I met one person in my entire life who had the same first name I do. I found my name all of one time on a personalized gift tchatchke. People still have trouble pronouncing it. My last name is fairly common, but the two names together? Not really.

And then I moved to the US and started getting other people's email.

Aside from the occasional hilarity and general annoyance, it was mildly interesting to see what the other women with my name were getting into. I didn't realize until today that it was, most likely, just one other person, whose email differs from mine because she uses a letter where I have a period. Which means that instead of random emails from a group, I've had a front-row seat to certain parts of a complete stranger's life.

A perfect visual metaphor. Especially since the model looks like a Cylon.

I know she lives in New York City and where she went to college (an arts school, interestingly enough). I know about at least one scholarship attempt (I hope I told the emailer that they had the wrong address for that one). I know about clubs she's joined and some of her jobs and/or internships. I know that her mom sent her some expensive sweaters from Macy's and that she worked at the Chirpy Ski Resort of God. And now I know she's graduated and is moving into her first apartment.

My name-doppelganger baby! Growing up on my computer screen right before my eyes! It's magical.

I wonder if she'll take her husband's last name when she gets married (or her wife's; whatever) and I'll finally stop getting her email, which would be pleasant. I wonder if she's ever noticed that sometimes she doesn't get quite as many newsletters as she should.

She is so lucky that I'm not a stalker. Or into stealing sweaters from Macy's. Just saying.

I wonder if I'll ever meet her, though if I do at least we'll have something to talk about.

And now I'm wondering how the hell she can afford an apartment in NYC, even if she's sharing it. Of course, at this rate I'll eventually find out.

(Photo credit is to Bodog.com via Free Stock Photos.biz. I try to use photos legitimately these days, because Stealing Costs Everybody.)

For some reason, back around 2006 I decided to write everything in present tense. Why, brain? Why? This is the second WIP I've had to put into past tense before I could continue it. My present tense sounds so pretentious sophomoric silly strange now. I just can't get into it. Weird.

So. My first-ever finished novel: the one I started back in 1997 or '98; the one I kind of abandoned for five years and then finished in June (July?) of the year my son was born because I didn't want to have to tell him I'd never managed it; the one that got me an agent and then never got a publisher; the one I spent nearly two years waiting for Edge and Tesseract Books to finally reject and the one I recently decided I would edit--again--so I could self-publish it and maybe, actually, possibly, make some money with and hopefully get my name out there. Yeah, Dauntless. That one.

Well, I did indeed start editing it (again) this week, and it turns out it actually sucks.

Yep. There is suckage. It's slow (I knew it was slow; didn't think it was this slow), kind of histrionic in places, has too many characters, too much plot, too many dead ends and internal logic that's only logical if by 'logical' you mean, 'ridiculous'. I feel like I should apologize to everyone I've ever sent it to. (wpadmirer, you are a better friend than I knew.) Obviously when my agent said a big part of the reason he took me on was my willingness to accept suggestions, he really wasn't kidding. It sure as hell wasn't the book.

Naturally this is kind of disappointing, though sadly not as much of a surprise as I would've hoped. I spent a long time--too long; way, way too long--on this fucking thing and put a lot of effort into it (though not in the right places, apparently), and I like the characters and at least some of the ideas. So to have it come to nothing is pretty sad. I suppose it shows how much I've improved as a writer since my late 20s, but I was hoping the difference wouldn't be quite this dramatic, you know?

I could salvage it by losing at least eight characters and basically rewriting everything else, but maybe it's just time to give it up as a bad job and set it aside once and for all. I have plenty of other ideas, and now I even know how to write an outline.

I haven't erased the novel, though. I'm not quite ready to do that. Maybe one day I'll be known enough as an author that it'll be publishable. Or maybe years from now I'll open the file again and have a good laugh, or cry, or just smile and finally put it in the recycle folder. Or maybe I'll print it out; we could always use more scrap.

As many of you may remember, such is the social whirlwind that is my life that I'm occasionally plagued with messages from people I've never heard of. This hasn't happened via my phone for awhile (the email doppelganger in New York is having quite the academic career however, considering how many university mailing lists she seems to have signed me up for), but I was reminded of how particularly dumb some of the local young men can be with this morning's thankfully brief conversation:

::Phone rings; I pick up::

Me: Hello? ::Silence:: Hello?

Random guy who thinks he knows me: You motherfucker! (He sounded pretty happy, so maybe that's just how he greets his really good friends.)

Me: You have the wrong number, dude!

Random guy who thinks he knows me: ::Hangs up::

I can only hope that he hung up so quickly out of deep embarrassment that he was so rude to a total stranger, but an apology would have been nice. At least my son didn't pick up the phone, especially as he was expecting a call about a play date.

What is it with College Station guys? This is the second time that a male with my city's area code has made an ass of himself by calling me by accident (the previous young man refused to believe that I wasn't his girlfriend), then not even being nice enough to apologize before they hung up.

I suppose I could always call this guy back and demand an apology; I do have his number. Heh.

Since vegetarian curry was the clear winner of the What's For Dinner poll, I did indeed make it for dinner. I'm happy to report that it was delicious. :D Though a bit too spicy for the kid.

If you're interested, here's how I made it:

1) I finely chopped an onion in my food processor so I could hide it from Jav, who won't eat onion if he notices it.

2) I fried the onions in some olive oil in my nifty enameled pot. (I LOVE THAT POT! I can bake bread in it, too!)

3) I added two cups of hot water with one of the Patak's curry paste. Then I added other seasoning (I forget which exactly, but it wasn't salty or spicy enough. I know I used a Knorr garlic cube and table salt, though I might have overdone it a little). Basically, season to taste!

4) I threw in a can of chickpeas (garbanzo beans), a can of peas (it was a toss-up between the peas or green beans, but I like peas better), and the last tomato in the fridge, diced. Then I let it simmer for a few minutes. Dom threw in the leftover rice when he got home, and ta-dah! Super-easy veggie curry!

It did not look beautiful, but it tasted great. And even Jav liked it, though it was too hot for his little tongue. If you want to try it, I hope you enjoy it too. But you might want to use less hot spices. :)

As some of you may remember, birthday parties around here are kind of a big deal. And with birthday season hitting twice a year (didn't anyone pop a kid between February and May? Seriously?), Javier's already been invited to two parties and it's not even the end of January, and he's got two more this Saturday.

Now, College Station is a pretty small city. Bryan, the city right next door (there's a rather hilarious statue of a--white, naturally--boy and girl smiling joyously and holding hands at the 'border' between both cities, each looking boldly towards the future and their respective towns. I'm not kidding) is even smaller, so as you might imagine there aren't that many places where an ambitious parent can throw the kind of birthday party to which her child and all his or her classmates have become accustomed. This more than occasionally results in two children in Javier's class having conflicting parties at different places on the same day (we always go to the party with the parents who sent the invitation first), or two different parties on the same day at the same venue. This has happened twice since the summer. Most recently the parties even overlapped, though the parents were clever enough to just combine them. Phew!

The lesson here, parents and prospective parents, is to send out your birthday invitations as early as humanly possible. So far the record is two months in advance. You can't be too careful.

Both invitations were professionally printed, by the way. Just sayin'.

(Psst! Don't forget to tell me a strange story and win a book!)

To say that the small city I live in is home to a majority of practicing Christians would be kind of like saying if you visit Israel you might find some Jews. This is a city where it's common to see businesses promoting themselves with the fish symbol for Christians , or a big sign saying, 'I ♥ Jesus' on the wall in my son's preschool. I've been asked repeatedly if I believe in God during casual conversations. Once I had to explain to a teacher that the Torah doesn't normally include the New Testament.

With this as his daily environment, it's not terribly surprising that Javier has come home from school to solemnly announce that "Jesus is rainbow-coloured," and to make sure I know that Jesus can fly. He drew a picture of a church as a gift for his teacher (the one with the 'I ♥ Jesus' sign), and she gave him a hug and asked him if he went to church too.

Last Wednesday, a very large but completely harmless wolf spider came crawling across the kitchen floor right where Javier was removing his shoes. He did his usual 'I-think-I'm-culturally-required-to-react-like-this' cringe and scream thing then watched until it disappeared under the shoe shelf, doubtless to end up as a snack for one of the cats.

Then Javier said, "Spiders belong to Jesus."

Dom and I looked at each other.

"You mean, Jesus made spiders?" I tried, thinking that either Jav or one of his friends at school had misremembered the creation story from the Bible, and wondering how I could steer the conversation (again) to Mommy and Daddy's atheism while still encouraging Jav's belief in magic and Santa Claus. (Early childhood is all about cognitive dissonance. Don't look at me like that.)

"No," Javier said. "Jesus didn't make spiders. They belong to him. And ants."

"Who told you this?" I asked, now confused as hell.

It turned out it was his teacher, and after several more minutes of circular questions and answers and a very frustrated five-year old, the flummoxed parents were finally told this:

One of my kid's classmates at school had purposely stepped on some ants. The teacher had told him not to, because ants belong to Jesus. I'm afraid I don't remember how Jesus ended up being the patron saint of Arachnids as well; it's possible Jav's teacher said so, or Jav decided it himself since spiders are also freaky and creepy-crawly. It's horrible! It must belong to Jesus!

His teacher didn't say why Jesus has this particular relationship with arthropods however, which is where my brain exploded. I ended up fumbling around a simplified version of why some people might think that Jesus owns the world by proxy until Javier's eyes glazed over and he asked if he could watch TV.

I'm sure that at this point Javier thinks that Jesus was a real man who was killed because he was rainbow-coloured and who lives in the sky but not really and who can't grant wishes because you need rainbows to make a wish, except Jesus is rainbow-coloured so maybe he can, and he doesn't own the world but does own ants and spiders and lived a Long Time Ago but not when the world was a baby world and there were dinosaurs.

I'll just be over here contemplating the psychiatrist bills. And mopping up my brain.

This is, to the best of my memory, a reenactment of a game Javier wanted to play with me Sunday afternoon:

Jav (to Mommy, who is in the kitchen): I'm your baby dinosaur, okay? But you didn't know I hatched 'cause you were in the shower. You found the egg in the forest where the dinosaurs were. So pretend that you're in the shower there, 'kay? (He goes to the love seat, arranges the cushions around himself like a nest, then sits with his knees pulled up to be in an egg. Then he pretends to hatch and starts making generic baby noises.)

Me (gamely): That was a wonderful shower! I wonder if my baby dinosaur has hatched yet? OH MY GOODNESS! IT'S MY BABY DINOSAUR! (Cuddles kid in pretend alarm.) I'm so sorry! I didn't know you were hatching! Here--have some cow.

Jav: (makes vaguely dino-like screeching noises; pretends to eat meat then spits it out): I can't eat it because it's too big. Hey! Pretend you went on a 'venture, and you left me with Daddy dinosaur, but he died.

Me: You mean, I left you here alone? I'd never leave my baby dinosaur alone!

Jav: No! Daddy was here, but he died! In the shower.

Me: He died in the shower? How did he die?

Jav: Dinosaur hunters came and killded him.

Me: Did they eat him?

Jav: No. They came in the shower and they killded him and opened him up like this... (demonstrates by pretending to pull out his rib cage.) And took his bones out.

Me: Wait--you mean, for a museum?

Jav: Yes!

Me: Why didn't they take you?

Jav: 'Cause I was here like this (squishes up), and they went that way and behind like this.

Me: Oh! So they didn't see you! Did you find Daddy's body? (NOTE TO SELF: STOP ENCOURAGING THE MORBIDITY)

Jav (giggling): I ate it. Go on the 'venture, Mommy!

***

I'd love to say he doesn't get this from me, but you just read how I was the one asking him about finding the body. I'M A WRITER! I CAN'T HELP MYSELF! I NEED TO KNOW THESE THINGS!

At least he's stopped wanting to play the game where my children died before I found the baby whatever and took him home, and then making me pretend to tell the baby whatever about my dead children. I never knew whether to laugh or burst into tears with that one.

Sometimes I miss the endless My Little Pony games. Then again, Sherbert the Koala ended up massacring all the ponies in Ponyville with her 'mote-controlled robots more often than not. I would try to flee with the survivors only to watch them be mercilessly hunted down by Tonka trucks across the living room.

The world is a strange and dangerous place, when you're five.