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Saturday at the Cat Farm
Sunday, January 16th, 2011 10:18 amYesterday was about freeing the little green Subaru from its circle of snow, cleaning cat boxes, taking on groceries, sorting the snailmail, scoping out the New World Order, research in re the NWO, and catching up on such bidness-related email as had accumulated.
The snail brought us the on-pub for The Agent Gambit, which I foresee will shortly be streaming out of the checkbook in the direction of EMMC, and almost all of the Outside Paperwork necessary to close out 2010. If the day-job would get its act in gear, I could do the income tax. Since I'm distracted anyway. Am feeling extremely guilty that no writing has gone forth for so many days. Truly, I am a slacker*.
The cats have been extremely cuddly, and showing a tendency to mother Steve, which is good. Mozart has been especially attentive, and Scrabble has changed her usual napping places in order to be with Steve as much as possible. Hexapuma is a believer in Benevolent Neglect, with random doses of purrs.
I. . .miss the steam tunnel route from The Riverside Inn into the Guts of the Hospital. The late adventure was like a con in that respect -- just when I figured out where everything was and the most efficient routes Here, There, and There, it was time to go home.
Today -- there's laundry. Oh, my, yes is there laundry. And possibly a run into town. And a big block of time with Skyblaze. Hopefully.
Tomorrow -- there's Phoning the Universe. Doctors, the DMV, or whatever we call it in Maine**, Mr. dea'Gauss to get an advance on the quartershare so we can go forth with buying a one-floor house in (a) town. The Usual.
So! That's with me. How's with you?
________
*Yes, yes. But the fact of the matter is that, if you're a writer, you could have hand-dug a well and canned every last blueberry in the patch of a Saturday, and if you hadn't written your day's bit, you didn't do any work. Also, deadlines. These stories aren't going to write themselves, yanno.
**People who have had an ICD installed need to contact their state's Department of Motor Vehicles, so That August Body can either suspend or limit that driver's license For A Period of Time. It Would Have Been Nice, she said aggrievedly, if someone had thought to mention that beforehand.
The snail brought us the on-pub for The Agent Gambit, which I foresee will shortly be streaming out of the checkbook in the direction of EMMC, and almost all of the Outside Paperwork necessary to close out 2010. If the day-job would get its act in gear, I could do the income tax. Since I'm distracted anyway. Am feeling extremely guilty that no writing has gone forth for so many days. Truly, I am a slacker*.
The cats have been extremely cuddly, and showing a tendency to mother Steve, which is good. Mozart has been especially attentive, and Scrabble has changed her usual napping places in order to be with Steve as much as possible. Hexapuma is a believer in Benevolent Neglect, with random doses of purrs.
I. . .miss the steam tunnel route from The Riverside Inn into the Guts of the Hospital. The late adventure was like a con in that respect -- just when I figured out where everything was and the most efficient routes Here, There, and There, it was time to go home.
Today -- there's laundry. Oh, my, yes is there laundry. And possibly a run into town. And a big block of time with Skyblaze. Hopefully.
Tomorrow -- there's Phoning the Universe. Doctors, the DMV, or whatever we call it in Maine**, Mr. dea'Gauss to get an advance on the quartershare so we can go forth with buying a one-floor house in (a) town. The Usual.
So! That's with me. How's with you?
________
*Yes, yes. But the fact of the matter is that, if you're a writer, you could have hand-dug a well and canned every last blueberry in the patch of a Saturday, and if you hadn't written your day's bit, you didn't do any work. Also, deadlines. These stories aren't going to write themselves, yanno.
**People who have had an ICD installed need to contact their state's Department of Motor Vehicles, so That August Body can either suspend or limit that driver's license For A Period of Time. It Would Have Been Nice, she said aggrievedly, if someone had thought to mention that beforehand.
