|Two causes for rejoicing.
||[Jan. 16th, 2009|02:24 pm]
First, I have sold my first short story of the year: Futurismic wants to buy "Erasing the Map." I like getting the first sale in January, not even too far into the middle of January. I like enthusiastic acceptance letters. I like finishing stories that percolate and percolate and finally go, and then other people like them too. In fact, I really have a hard time thinking of anything I don't like about this.
(Note to self: write more stories.)
And second, the jeans I ordered arrived, and they fit, so in the wash they go. And there was much relief. The booty dancing required to determine that jeans realio trulio fit and are not going to become SuperSpy jeans (creeping up silently behind their enemy) or suddenly gape at the waist enough to store your reading material for the next week* is not really all that much fun in fitting rooms with vertigo, particularly when the vertigo has caused me to go from having strong legs to having warrior princess thighs!!!, so a lot of the jeans available there are not fitting the different bits of me equally well. (How does vertigo do that, ask the latecomers and the people who didn't write it on their scorecards? Well, vertigo brings nausea. Nausea brings not eating. This is a problem. People need to eat--this is a long-held and deeply-felt philosophical position of mine. And so far just about the only thing that cuts through the nausea consistently enough to let me eat, like ya do, is going from 45 minutes of biking on the big sturdy recumbent bike 4-5 days a week--plus PT and yoga and Pilates--to doing about 90 minutes of biking on the said recumbent bike 7 days a week--still plus PT and yoga and Pilates. Fear the might of my vertigo-powered legs. Srsly. F34r. If I wasn't so tired, I could totally crush Tokyo, or any other monster-movie-hosting city. If they'd give me something to hang onto while I did it.) So being able to do the requisite booty dancing while holding onto my very own dresser--as a barre, as it were--was very useful, go internet, go jeans, go elaborate dance of denim-verification.
It's been a rough week around here, for an assortment of reasons, some of which you will be able to come up with yourselves if you think hard. But here we are Friday, and there's a story sale, and there are jeans, and markgritter is coming home, and while I only managed lunch by telling myself I didn't have to think about lunch, I just had to eat lunch, I did eat lunch, and it was nice. In fact, I commend it here to you: red quinoa cooked in broth (mushroom broth is favored; other broths will do) with pecans and dried sour cherries. It has a wide variety of nutrients and is warm and savory and tastes interesting without being difficult if you're not very sure of this food thing at the moment.
So yah. Story. Quinoa. Jeans. Stuff.
*I have said, haven't I? that my mother's first exposure to Neal Stephenson was as a measure of clothes that don't fit me. I have said, "I could stick the complete works of Neal Stephenson in this waistband with me--in hardcover!" more times than she or I could count, when we were clothes shopping together.