9 February 2005

I keep getting spam with subject lines like, "UP in 20 mins!" And I keep thinking, "I wouldn't want to go to the UP right now even if you could get me there in 20 seconds." Silly spammers.

It snowed here this morning, finally. Paul Douglas the Weather Guy had been taunting us with the possibility -- always late in the day, always just out of reach -- for at least a week. New snow is such a relief in the late winter, sparkly and clean.

And my plan to go out for coffee today has been postponed by unfortunately activated food allergies on the other person's part, so I can just admire the snow from inside, from a theoretical perspective. Lovely snow! Warm toes!

I think today may be the day of reservations. I have several to make, for a play and a couple of different restaurant occasions. (Russian lounge singer!!! Umm. I just realized that my dinner plans for several days coming up can be described as follows: tiki lounge, Russian lounge singer, sushi. Does this make me the most pretentious hipster ever? I had not thought of myself as a hipster at all. I had hoped I wasn't. But this is looking like disturbing evidence.) (But it'll all be fun. Really.)

Also I have a couple of reservations. About the section of the book I'm working on, notably. And whether it can ever be brought to a non-sucky state. Etc. I have created two new green notecards and a new red one this morning without even reading a line of the actual book over. I keep telling myself that this is not the wrong direction, that if there's more stuff to be done to the book, it's better to know what it is and have some handle on how to approach it. Still, it feels like I'm supposed to be destroying notecards, not creating them.

I'm reading Peter O'Donnell's Last Day In Limbo. Another of the Modesty Blaise series. They move fast, and since this book (the one I'm writing, I mean) seems to move pretty slow, I think that influence is not a bad thing. Also they're fun. And contrary to what I believed in early grade school, I'm not actually opposed to fun. Rather in favor of it, in fact.

Yesterday, among other things, Stella lent me Nick Hornby's Polysyllabic Spree. This book's subtitle is A Hilarious and True Account of One Man's Struggle with the Monthly Tide of the Books He's Bought and the Books He's Been Meaning To Read. Now, I ask you: is there not irony in adding such a book to someone's massive stack of books she's bought (and borrowed) and has been meaning to read? Or if not irony, a touch of a rather cruel sense of humor? Oh, the sigh. I suffer so.

For some reason, the brain has decided that it's really about time to finish "The Opposite of Pomegranates," which was supposed to be "'Oh, yeah?' said the rock sprite," except that title didn't stick, but there is a belligerent rock sprite that asks that very question at more than one point, so I hope Elise is all right with it. I guess we'll find out.