Daily Archives: September 19, 2008

Oh, Bother

I should have just curled up in my reading chair and played Guitar Hero on the DS this afternoon for the amount of work-stuff I’ve actually accomplished.

I don’t have much memory of the day, really. I know I chatted with Ceri about books via e-mail. I know I answered the phone a few times, and both people who know me and complete strangers answered my “Hello?” with “Wow, do you have a cold?” The stranger from the bank cheerfully signed off our brief conversation with “And I hope you get better soon!”

I have made more typing errors today than any other day I have been alive, I am absolutely certain. I have spent as much time fixing errors as typing stuff in the first place.

At least I started dinner. I’m doing a pork tenderloin in the slow cooker, in a homemade barbecue-ish sauce consisting of tomato paste, vinegar, brown sugar, and Worcestershire sauce, plus an onion and a teaspoon-size blob of Montreal steak rub. (And on this topic, I cannot believe how many recipes for slow cooker barbecue pork consisted of “put pork in slow cooker, cover with a bottle of your favourite BBQ sauce.” Come on, people — that should be illegal.) I’d love to have it with brown rice but I think we’re out. It’ll have to be white rice. Grr.

Also? Despite my ears being blocked, the whine of the computer tower is driving me crazy. If only I could have it hidden in the closet or something, or in another room entirely.

Bah. And the boys will be home any minute, too. I think today just needs to be written off.

On the bright side, I tidied up my writing desk, and I’m loving this cool, clear weather. Hello, fall!

The Joys of Being Sick

My ears have just spontaneously (I assume) unblocked, thank the gods. I hate being sick, and my body has arrived at the achy body/chills/headache stage of the Game of Ill. All three of us are sick. The boy seems to be the one who’s operating at the best level of efficiency; HRH and I have been dragging ourselves through the week.

I wrote the boy’s 39 month post early last week, saved it, and evidently forgot to publish it. I’ve just done that; it’s here. Annoying as all heck, because for once I finally did it on time.

I am at the ‘I suck at writing’ stage of the book, too. Why do I do this? No one is ever going to want to buy it. Doesn’t something else have to be happening, something important? What’s the point of telling a story if it doesn’t examine something deep and philosophical and life-changing? And I suspect that it might be better told as a first-person narrative. I’m going to stick to the third person until I’m absolutely convinced it would be better in the first, though. This is just my inner critic trying to stop me from getting anything done.

I have zero energy. Stupid achy cold. This is what I used to feel like all the time. I’m so grateful that the fibro was diagnosed and that I’m taking something for it now. How did I operate like this for weeks at a go?