April 8th, 2009

tiredy

"His oratory filled his foes with fear."

Yikes, I'm sorry. I posted the synopsis I was working on without a filter, when I meant to filter it to people who had volunteered to help me remove suckage from it. If you were one of the people who kindly commented and were not included on the filter (under which I have now stashed the post), and you wish to continue helping me with it, please let me know; it's an opt-in filter, and I'm glad to opt you in. I just didn't want to subject the whole world to it.

Anyway: I stayed up late last night completely rewriting the synop, which you would think would have given my brain less time for nightmares. Now I am pretty tired. Hoping that a nap makes its way into my light cone sometime today, but I'm not betting on it. Stupid light cone anyway.

Tomorrow is the book discussion day for The Kestrel, so please do remember to stop by and revel in Ruritanian revolutionary goodness.

For whatever reason I am plagued with They Might Be Giants songs today. I cannot get rid of one without getting another. As I have been reading The Kestrel and the last of the Simon Schama series, I can't come up with any reason why this should be.

Also I cannot get it through my head that today is Wednesday. In my head today is Thursday, which gives me less time to do some of the things I want to get done, but also makes it time to do the things I'm supposed to do Thursday, so at least they can come off the list. But they can't. I am, as my grandmother would say, more mixed up than Hogan's goat. Who is Hogan? Why is his goat more mixed up than other goats? Does this have something to do with really bad fake German accents? This and other clear indications that I am really tired: next on livejournal.
grandpa

Grandpa's socks

sheyrena misread my previous subject line, and it reminded me of a Grandpa thing. I have told this one before, too, I'm pretty sure. Now I'm telling it again.

He and I and Mom and Grandma had been out to dinner or something when I was a teenager and Dad was out of town. We got back to their place, and Grandma went upstairs to change into her robe and slippers. Grandpa sat down in his recliner. "Oh, Debra," he said to my mom. "I'm beat into my socks."

That is not what my mother and I heard. We both went, "You WHAT?"

Because we both heard, "Oh, Debra, I peed in my socks."

It's become a family thing that we say when we're really tired, but I have to say it's one of the more alarming of our family things (which is actually sort of an accomplishment), because it tends to come up when we've known people long enough that they think they should know what on earth we're on about, and then there we are announcing that our hosiery is urine-soaked. Which would give a body pause, I can understand.