~*~

Cmonkey's verbal centers are a roiling stew of acquisition and alchemy.

She doesn't have a discrete list of words that she adds to, building
day by day until the verbal explosion. She's verbally imploded
instead.

I have no idea how many words she knows because her vocabulary is an
iceberg; for every clear word she polishes like a found stone for days
('shoe' and 'pee' are recent favorites), she has a boxful of prototype
words squirreled away for special occasions. They come out muddy and
far from deft, a little kid pulling quarters from behind your ear, but
they come out in sentences.

"This is my bed."
"You read it to me."
"I give to you."

Diagrammable sentences! With verb phrases! And the inkling of
abstract concepts! [/parental squee]

~*~

In other news, the tilt of the earth has made running impossible
except on weekends. I'm thinking of trying to go out at lunch one day
a week, to tide me over. I miss it and want to do it more, which is
nothing I ever considered.

~*~

Luckily we stopped the truck before we ran over any of the dozens
of kittens sleeping in the road, dots of fur curled up in divots in
the concrete and the grass, one almost tucked under the doom of a fat
front tire. Even with the stitches from my appendectomy and the
neighbor kids' bottle rockets raining down sticks dyed purple and
singed black, I bent carefully and tucked them onto the pockets and
folds of my bathrobe, clawed paws like patches of velcro.

Usually I find and collect tokens and coins. Now kittens. Dreams are
fucking weird.

~*~

Turns out I hadn't fled to my happy magical thinking place this
weekend when trying on running gear under the harsh green glare of
fluorescents and shame in the Target fitting room. There actually
has been change in the rumpled erstwhile fetus-bed I call my
belly.

I've not only buttoned these pants for the first time in two years,
when I went to pee I'd forgotten they were buttoned.

To quote Mal Reynolds, "Huh."

Oddly this opens up shirt options in the wardrobe, as I no longer have
to cover a half-staff zipper.

Concepts I'd like to pin to the clothesline and blast with a shotgun

1. Contraception is the woman's problem. I've got a whole menu of
options, from crappy to brilliant to intimidating to infuriating. Men have
only two. In het scenarios condoms offer contraception and sex safety in
one charming package (if no one's allergic to latex), but hello, since the
only alternative choice is sterilization, there is no good family
planning option for responsible men in a committed relationship. Why
the fuck is that?

2. Moms raise children. Not women, not men, but this sexless third
gender burdened with Responsibility and Anxiety and Obsession with Petty
Details and a million other traditional expectations, limitations and
marketing agendas. Moms wear streamlined khakis and an air of resignedly
bemused hyper-competance. In addition to directing the daily dramedy of
family life, they host the holidays like putting on a golden jubilee for
clueless spouse and oblivious children, and they interface with nearly every
professional and service the family contracts with. Only moms search WebMD,
make appointments, chart the course, keep the calendar, update the records,
forecast the contingencies and nudge everyone else to hit their marks
accordingly. Or so I keep being told.

When I married, I started having to correct false assumptions about my
relationship and homelife based on my ring. (I now respond with , "Oh,
really? Well, I married an adult, so..."). Now I find myself
reluctant to even come 'out' as a parent because it elicits comments
and false assumptions that are bizarre, tiresome and often downright
offensive to both me and Mr. F.

3. MILF as a term for any woman with children. People, I'll only say this
once: MILF refers to someone YOUR MOTHER'S AGE. I.e., Eddie Haskell
righeously digs Wally's mom June as a MILF. It's like your target heart
rate; the formula goes like this:

Age of X's mother +/- 10 years = X's MILF age range

4. People telling me to have a 'blessed day'. It sounds awkward and it's
insinuatingly religious when the standard common phrases still work
perfectly fine. I know how to have a nice day, a great day, a good
afternoon, a lovely evening. I looked up "bless" to see if I was being too
sensitive and found it is definitely religious, coming from a German word
meaning "to sprinkle with blood". I don't even know you and you're wishing
me difficult laundry?


Things I'd like to do, Maslow's Basic Edition

1. Nap.

2. Watch tv. As in actually sitting down and watching the moving
pictures while listening to the sound at a level I can hear it at the
same time.

3. Go running. Lately I've been pinned to the couch for marathon
nursing sessions from when I get home until well after dusk.

4. Respond to comments. Maybe this belongs in the next list.


Things I'd like to do, Maslow's Pipe Dream Edition

1. Get back to the Physical Therapy to-do list. Now that I'm in a
good place and not burned out for the first time in years, it's not the
escape pod it was before. Now it's like I'm planning a metamorphosis
instead.

2. Get our Firefly box set back.

3. Get cell fixed so I don't have to take every call on speakerphone.

4. Nap.

5. Finish SubMyth's first draft by spring. I'm at 20k word count and
progressing steadily for the last month, so this might actually happen.

~*~Amazon.com has no love from me. I bought Labyrinth and a CD to
bring my order of a Bjorn Baby Green Potty up to free shipping level.
Target said they had said pottys, but they lied, and I'm
looking to capitalize on the Cmonkey's recent interest in bathrooms
and peeing and whatnot. They are sending the media but withholding
the potty. Want. Potty. Damn it.

~*~Parenthood is a type of mental illness, I freely admit. Yes, we've
been up 5x a night for the last two nights, as the Cmonkey works on
something in her brain that won't let her sleep, but it doesn't quite
explain why I'm excited about something that looks like a dog dish for
my child to--dare to dream!--poop in. It's not even about moving from
diapers to potty, since it's more of a toy to add to pre- and
post-bath 'nekkid baby time' and encourage her interest. and I
kinda like washing diapers most of the time, but that's another post I
may spam you with later if you don't come across with the Torchwood
pron.

~*~Cmonkey's Cow-blanky is showing the signs of Much Love (worn edges,
smelling like spit) and a back-up or two is called for before we
attempt a washing, but Target failed us yet again even though that's
where thassalia got her the first one. I did find it on
Amazon and alas! Cow-blanky is not actually a cow, but a *giraffe*.
This explains the smell!

~*~I'm becoming ever-so-slightly fannish about Torchwood, which is
like X-files meets Doctor Who meets Seven Seconds in Heaven (except
totally out of the closet, baby). Things I love about Torchwood:
( Spoilers for the first handful of episodes I've caught )

~*~In closing, yesterday I walked one mile and ran a quarter mile.

I have a choice. It seems like I always have this same choice, and
really, I do, every fucking day. I will always be at this crossroads
and I will always have these two options before me. I can live an
easy lifestyle, or I can live a healthy lifestyle. This body is the
end product of evolutionary pressures very different from the current
environment. I can either supplement what is missing, or endure the
fallout of that deficiency.

That deficiency is the necessity of working my ass off to survive.
Really the necessity hasn't gone away, it's just that winter and
starvation won't kill me quickly. My thrifty genes will kill me
slowly and inexorably like a packrat suffocating in a house full of
newspapers and canned goods, until one day a stack of National
Geographics will topple over on me in the form of a plaque of
something lodged in heart or lung or brain.

I cannot make peace with being doughy, because less than two year's
inattention to exercise has made the difference between health and
moving toward metabolic syndrome. My cholesterol and blood sugar are
still good, my blood pressure's high for me but still objectively low,
but my triglycerides are very high and my insulating layer is not as
pear-shaped as it used to be. This is scary, and frustrating, and
unfair. And none of those reactions changes the fact that if I don't
want to be diabetic in five years, or have heart problems in ten, or
start going out piecemeal through dozens of little strokes in fifteen
or twenty, I need to get my shit together right fucking now.

Talk about a kick in the ass to one's brand spanking new running
program. Suddenly it seems less proactive and more like running for
my life. So this is the goal, to produce a downward trend in the
triglycerides when I get it rechecked around my birthday in spring.
I'll be pounding the pavement 3x a week and doing the following:

1. oatmeal+wheat germ for breakfast, more often than not
2. eat more plant proteins, complex carbs and salmon, take fish oil supplements
3. dial down the pop, beer, simple carbs and animal fats

Right, then.

For two weeks in high school, as a favor to a friend, I joined the
track team. This is not to be confused with my ever having been a
runner.
( And yet, and yet... )

How crazy would it be for a person who has done very little sewing
(and has no machine) to tackle the following project: Nightshirts.

Namely plain, small toddler-sized nightshirts in flannel and cotton.
Do they even make patterns for this, or am I going to run into the
same problems I'm finding off the rack (obnoxious frills, puff
sleeves, etc)?

I want Ebenezer Scrooge's PJs, I want Mr. Bennett 'roused out of bed
for the express post' sleepwear. Simple, comfy, and gobsmackingly
adorable on the Cmonkey. I know, she has 2 of them in 12 mos. size
that she's outgrowing as I type (bought used and hence tagless--argh).
More importantly: warm without being sweaty (kid has radiator feet),
and easy to pop the hood to change the diaper in the dark.

You know it's bad when I'm contemplating *sewing*.

So I'm begging for a clue re: finding a pattern, if anyone can point
me to a good source or what company might have what I want?

On the next episode of TechnoLuddite: knitting non-gender-stereotyped
doll clothes for mini Cabbage Patch dolls (or, Abby Normal gets a
sweater!)

~*~That the empty house next door is now virtually unsellable because some jackass ripped out the basement plumbing for scrap copper. We have our suspicions as to whom and that only makes me angrier.

~*~Sandal farts.

~*~People who tell me the Cmonkey is really small for nine months old, complete with descriptions of their own ginormous infantile relatives. Honestly, I'm in the 5th percentile for height myself--is it just that she's so cute they don't think she's genetically mine? She's bigger and taller than I was at her age, and she's not only standing and cruising, she's able to brace one hand and move my 8lb barbell around with the other. Kid's going to be carrying me around soon.

~*~My huge tits. Yesterday I felt like I had T. rex arms.

ETA: Drabbles:
The Worst Day Since Yesterday
Fuck and Run
Dig Your Grave
Conjure
Angel Dressed in Black
Boom Boom Mancini

Full-sized fics:
ETA: Recollect: Remedial Disaffect Redub: Tauvo earns a promotion (remix of Apathy's Recollection)
Amok Time: Grayza/John, NC-17, written for the one and only Shrift.
Legacy: futurefic fairy tale.
Porcelain Skin: cold turkey sucks.
Thaw: AU drabble.
Blue Sun Soya: Firefly drabble.
In the Black: crossover fun with River and John.
Blade Trinity snippet: how it should have gone down for King.

The John Hughes AU:
Umpteen Hassels: the drabble that started it; the boy Thea couldn't help wanting to write with me.
The Break-out Club: co-written with Thea You never forget your first jailbreak.
Pretty in Punk: co-written with Thea Family Planning, plan B.
Fellip Gopher's Payoff: co-written with Thea naked co-ed debating.

Rants:
Singing Canadians
Big Pharmacy comes to the Shire
Real Beer
Balls
I hate DeBeers
How the 3-Act Structure is a lot like Perfect Square Trinomials
The American Veal Lifestyle
The Zen of Human Body Maintenance
Now Leaving Het, population: all those boring squares

Commentary for stories or scenes:
Skull Candy
Little Acorns: angry sex scene
Little Acorns: Aeryn's vision

Bonus Track:
Poppet: The fanfic stylings of Mr. F

kernezelda stumped me yesterday with a line from one of my own drabbles. She requested a drabble that answered this question: what if John had been picked up by Aeryn instead of Elack?


Thaw

He's cold to the touch and that makes her angry.

It's the second time she's hauled him out of freefall in space, a speck among debris, but this time there is no burning moon to offer even the semblance of heat, only a newly dead Leviathan that still retains some warmth.

She had ignored the flash at the edge of her sensor range for arns before turning back. If he'd gone back home, that would be the end. It would be clean. It would be irretrievable. In the end she had to know.

It's the second time she's wrestled his dead weight out of his module, but this time his smell is sweet and cold, not iron sharp with bile and blood. His spark flutters and dies as she pulls supplies from her Prowler, cold blood returning to his heart and shocking it still.

She had decided not to board Moya, choosing to pause just inside transmission range only long enough to ask. All she picked up was a small reflective shadow bouncing back an echo of her signal.

It's the second time she's laced her fingers into a ram and battered at his heart, tipped back his head to breathe into his mouth in a parody of a kiss, but this time her heart stops when his begins to pulse.

She and her ship are the best sources of heat to keep him alive, the only things that aren't cooling down to absolute zero. She pulls him into the cockpit and wraps a thermal tarp around them both, forcing herself to hold onto the bitter flesh of his body until he's warm enough to shiver.