Owls' Court

On Food

Over the weekend I picked up my mother's copy of Nigella Lawson's Feast and got thoroughly lost in it. I know next to nothing of Nigella other than she's one of those cooking show people whom viewers love to hate. Whatever her provenance, her books are clear, her text interesting, her style practical yet humorous, and the recipes are much easier than they look and use ingredients I recognise. By a quarter of the way through, I had already planned four or five dinner parties' worth of meals. Because, you know, I don't have enough to do with my time.

Feast in particular appealed to me because of her examination of the role that food plays in our spiritual and seasonal celebrations. She said a few rather interesting things about the preparation and consumption of food being a natural celebration of life's blessings that really made me go "hmm". Too often I think of food as being a have-to -- have to buy, have to prepare, have to eat, have to remember to do all of the above. While I was in Oakville Mum and I went into the new Whole Foods store, and let me tell you, if I lived in the neighbourhood I'd certainly remember to shop and eat. They've taken the basic supermarket concept and applied it to organic and specialty foods. The displays are phenomenal; the decor creates a calm atmosphere. And sure, you're paying a bit more for your food, but you know what's in it -- or not in it, as the case may be. Food ought to be a celebration, not a have-to.

And now I guiltily want my own Nigella Lawson books, like Feast, How To Eat, and Domestic Goddess, because they're pretty, and fun to read, and they make me actually want to want to cook and eat food.

Settling In

We now own a fridge. Well, we own it, but we do not yet possess it. That happens Friday, which is the earliest it can be delivered.

There was tea and there was toast this morning once we'd found the toaster, the tea, and the kettle. The sugar and coffee filters were located as well, but as we had no milk, HRH chose to pass on the coffee. We even have plates, glasses, and cutlery. And cooking utensils, should the whim to scramble those eggs take me.

There are now groceries for a day or so, in the form of a quiche, fresh bread, cold cuts, cheese, juice, and milk. There are also more cleaning supplies. Hard on the heels of buying my very first major appliance (and paying for it in full -- how terribly grown-up I feel) I bought my first box of dishwasher detergent. We plan on doing a load of laundry tonight, and running as much as we can pack into the dishwasher tomorrow to remove the lingering newsprint and dust. The windows all need a good wipe-down, and the floor deserves a mopping as well.

But for now I've plunged myself fully into editorial mode as I review a manuscript. A sandwich awaits while I read.

Home!

Huzzah! I now have an operational computer! Which means, of course, that I can start working once the right moment strikes. The sun is streaming into my office, which pleases me because it means I don't have to turn on a light if I want to work in the morning. It also means that I have access to music again, thanks to all the mp3s on the hard drive. There are currently only six CDs up here to listen to on the stereo, and only because I took them to Oakville with me. The others are all in a stack of boxes somewhere in the garage, rather low on the list of boxes-we-must-bring-up.

I do not, however, have a full night's sleep, nor anything even remotely resembling one. Nor do I have food. Well, I have a bit of food, but no means of preparing it. Dinner last night after rehearsal consisted of baby carrots and bottled water. Incidentally, this is the same thing that I am having for breakfast (or I was until Maggie lay down on the bag). I was so wired once I got home from rehearsal last night that I didn't fall asleep until around one AM, and then I only slept lightly so I woke up a lot to new noises, and to aches and pains from the drive every time I tried to shift my position. I gave up on the trying to sleep thing at four-thirty and came to set up what I could of the office instead. HRH is still dead to the world, and with reason; his stamina over the past week has been nothing short of heroic. I think he's looking forward to going to work today so that he can just sit and draw, and not worry about lifting anything or driving anywhere.

We got home from Toronto with the stove in the back of the car around sixish yesterday afternoon, and it took Tal and HRH no time at all to get it out and up the back stairs into the kitchen. In fact, it took us longer to replace the knobs and racks and lights and elements and turn them all on to make sure everything works. So yes, hurrah: we now have a fully functional stove. And there are eggs in the cooler. Alas for the fact that all the pots and pans are currently AWOL in a box somewhere in the depths of the garage; my stomach is irked. It occurs to me that even if I had a frying pan in which to scramble those lovely eggs, the cutlery too is AWOL, so I'd be eating with my fingers, which then raises the question of what I could have used to scramble them in the first place. I cannot and will not grumble; HRH was good enough to pack the kitchen. I'm not the only one who's suffering, either: the coffeemaker is here, as is the coffee... but the filters are in the uncharted depths of the garage, as are the kettle and all my tea. While I was at rehearsal last night HRH brought up all the office boxes that he could find, for which I am terribly thankful, but he didn't have the time or energy to bring up the kitchen boxes. That's to be done before we leave to buy the fridge this morning. I thought my priority was setting up the office completely, but now that the computer is operational and I can at least open a document to work on the book MS as well as catching up on the first read-through of an editing job, suddenly getting the kitchen at least operational has moved to the top of the list of priorities.

Speaking of priorities, as soon as I got home I went to lie down on the bedroom floor and talk to poor Nixie, who hadn't been out for more than a total of about fifteen minutes to snatch a bite of kibble and a lick of water since the move was completed. It took only three minutes of coaxing before she emerged from her nest in the box spring to sniffed my hand, then purred like mad and rubbed her little cheeks all over my fingers. I then coaxed her up onto the bed for more of a proper pet, surrounded by all the other cats who were mad to see me home again, and then even managed to reassure her enough into following me out into the kitchen. And after that, everything was fine. It was as if she only needed my presence to define the whole "home" concept. This was precisely the sort of thing that gave me mild anxiety about leaving for five days around the move; I knew someone among the feline crew would freak out and I wouldn't be there. Anywhats, all's well now, and the difference between how strained she was when she first emerged from under the bed and when we went to bed last night has been remarkable. She's been following me about, and even chats with me (which is odd for Nix). She's currently curled up on a shelf next to my desk, the picture of contentment.

Rehearsal was marvellous, tough but marvellous. The improvement in two hours of playing one song over and over was marked. I have nothing but the utmost admiration for my bandmates. With only two months of rehearsal, with one person picking up an instrument she'd never played before and most playing in an ensemble for the very first time, we've grown into a cohesive group with the ability to work around obstacles together and emerge triumphant on the other side. We think we're phenomenal. (Please note that that's not necessarily a value judgement regarding the quality of our musical ability, but rather a comment on what we've accomplished. But the music's not bad, either.) It would be nice if the audience enjoys our mini-set, but frankly we're the five who have to be pleased, and at the rate we're going we've already got a lot to celebrate.

I think I'll go make a filter from some paper towel, and surprise HRH with a pot of good strong coffee. Or maybe not; I don't think there's milk or sugar.

Sigh. It's going to be a long morning. I foresee a quick stop at a supermarket on the way home from the fridge quest.

Saturday

I am remarkably lethargic this morning.

Into the Woods was, of course, excellent. They included the new song written for the second production, a duet between Rapunzel and the witch, and it was interesting. The production design was all done in black and white with minimalist highlights of red as blood, yellow as corn, and pure as gold (of course), with a fashion theme of late 1920s/early 30s. I can never decide if seeing a new musical is more emotionally overwhelming, or seeing one to which you know all the words. The former hits you with unexpected force because it's all discovery, while the latter draws on your knowledge and familiarity to wring out new emotion at the expression of it all. (Yeah, I cried through the last half of the second act, just as I expected to.) On the way home Mum and I talked about the themes of forming and sticking to your own moral code, responsibility, and consequence, and how no one sends you to parent school. No one sends you to child school either, of course, and life is basically about slogging your way through situations any way you can and acquiring experience. Trying to keep people from hurt and harm, whether it be by well-meant advice or swaddling them in cotton wool, means that you're telling them you don't trust them to make their way through those situations, or to gather their own exerience. Sometimes you just have to allow someone you've trained or raised to go ahead on their own and trust that you raised them in such a fashion that they'll muddle through on their own, using the skills you've taught them. It's not about trusting them so much as trusting yourself and your own past choices.

Lunch was lovely: steamed mussels with saffron and fennel, then a warm smoked salmon en croustade with a beet confit and arugula (rocket to my UK friends). Dinner was chicken pot pie and cider down at the pub. Mmm.

I am told the move was successful both in that it got done, and in that it has pretty much wiped away the lingering horrors of the previous move from HRH's mind. Hail to the hand-picked gang of friends who were sturdy, calm, and followed the plan laid out for them. You're all heroes. I hear you were finished and having lunch at 2.30. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Now if Nixie would just get past the whole "oh my gods you're TEARING APART MY LIFE" issue, I'd be perfectly content. First on my list is setting up my office on Tuesday morning, because I'm now two weeks behind where I wanted to be on the green witch MS. I can paint some other time; right now I need that office.

Today, Mum and I grocery shop while Dad's at work at the museum. And then HRH arrives for dinner!

Betwixt and Between

Yesterday Mum and I did a lot of messing about in various shops looking for curtains and other stuff, and it tired me out a lot. Unfortunately it didn't tire me out enough to actually sleep well: I ended up awake for three hours and reading in the middle of the night.

We did pick up a ton of stuff, though, now that I have a place to store it all. Someone whom we haven't even met yet got thoroughly spoiled, even if the major purchase was secondhand. (Hell, we saved about $150 dollars on that one item alone, which pleases me mightily. It assuaged the shock of spending the equivalent amount we'd saved on the assorted new things.)

Today was a quiet day at home with a book, other than lunch out. Thunderstorm cells passed through here this afternoon, and from watching the weather channel it looks like there will be showers in YUL all tomorrow, which means HRH is probably muttering darkly.

Rufus has taken to sleeping on the bed when I lie down to rest in the afternoons. I feel honoured. But when I woke up last night I missed my Maggie-cat curled up next to my chest dreadfully.

As there's not much to do other than sit and think or sit and read (doing nothing is, after all, the point of me being here), I've finished reading The Forest by Edward Rutherfurd, and The Sunday Philosophy Club by Alexander McCall Smith, and now I'm back reading Elizabeth Peters because Mum has one of the ones I've missed in the Amelia Peabody series. Tomorrow morning we head out to Stratford for lunch and the matinee performance of Into the Woods. Then it will be Sunday and I will see HRH again, whom I am also missing.

I find that when I think of "going home" I'm thinking of arriving at the new place in Lasalle. This is a very good thing. I'm also looking forward to it, which relieves me somewhat. It wasn't even a defined anxiety, but somehow, recognising that I'm looking forward to the new place soothes me.

Newt's Big Shopping Day

Item:

One secondhand Avalon stroller, with reversible handle (one of the features I really, really wanted), double rubber wheels, and relatively easy collapse. Dark blue upholstery with a moon/star print that doesn't make me want to vomit like most others do. Comparatively light to carry. $20.

I kid you not. Twenty bucks. That's it. And it's in terrific shape. If the infant carrier we're borrowing from Jeff and Paze settles into the stroller seat securely, then yay; if not, then, oh well, really no big deal. Most of the time the carrier will go from car to wherever we're going as is, without the stroller involved anyhow.

Item:

One secondhand snuggle carrier, adaptable for infant facing in and out. Washable denim fabric. $18.

It amuses me that the infant snuggly was almost as much as the stroller.

Item:

One pad for the changing table, slightly curved to cradle the baby and to reduce rolling mishaps. Designed with straps down the back which can be screwed into a regular dresser, eliminating the need for a different piece of furniture. $24.

Various items:

Two terry covers for the changing pad
Two waterproof changing pads for travel
Three fitted sheets for the Moses basket
Washcloths
Diaper covers
Diaper liners, flushable and biodegradable
Diaper liners, washable
Nightgown
Three 0-3 mos rompers
Three 3-6 mos rompers
Washable nurshing pads
Flannel bib
One pair of socks

I'm sure I'm forgetting something, but that's the bulk of today's purchases. It was fun to actually go out and look at baby stuff, and fun to buy it and bring it home. We looked at cribs, too, but while I'm fine with buying a $20 secondhand stroller without HRH's input, an investment like the crib requires both of us to okay it.

There's a nice plain Shaker-style crib we saw, and I'm still really fond of the one we like at Ikea. It's lower then most cribs, which makes my life a lot easier. (And no, that's not the sides being adjusted; the crib itself seems to be about six inches shorter than most.) The crib's not a huge concern at the moment, as we have the basket for Newt to sleep in over the first three or four months.

As I have a huge issue with the non-environmentally-friendly disposable diaper, we're going to be using a combination of cloth and disposables from day one, just as we'll be using a combination of nursing forms such as breast, cup, bottle and so forth. Hence the investment in liners and covers and such.

It was fun. I finally feel like I can settle down and enjoy this. Now if Newt would stop kicking all the time and waving his arms and jumping around and making me ache, I'd be even happier.

Here and There

After months of living with HRH at home and becoming frustrated by having someone else in my living and work space 24/7, he gets a job, and then all I want to do is call him to say hi because he's not there. Likewise, I had forgetten how hard it is to walk away from him at the airport, too. We had an overpriced breakfast together at one of the aiport cafes after I checked in, and then I made up little excuses to delay going through security so that we could be together just a bit longer. Once I walked through security and waved goodbye one last time, I went down the escalator and felt completely wretched for a few minutes, thinking that after work he'll be going home to an apartment full of boxes, last minute packing and disassembly in an environment bereft of character and comfort. I felt guilty for wanting to be elsewhere, and for leaving him to handle the last couple of days alone.

And then once I was here in Oakville after a wonderful flight and I called him to touch base, I heard how calm and cheerful he sounded, and I thought, well, if I'm happy, and he's calmer without worrying about me killing myself while packing, and confident that all the last-minute things will be done with time to spare, then everything's all right. And for the first time in weeks and weeks, I allowed myself to relax.

The weather here is beautiful. I actually sat outside in the sun yesterday afternoon and had to take off the cardigan of the twin set I was wearing, leaving my arms completely bare in the sleeveless camisole. I saw the cherry tree in the backyard in blossom for the first time ever (I usually miss it), and can smell the crabapple and the lilacs bending over the neighbours' fence. The goldfinches have been making daring swoops at the little fountain about six feet away fromt he deck. I saw an oriole, the cardinal, and both the mourning doves and the robins taking a bath. I saw the terribly serious baby robins crammed into their nest in the front climbing hydrangea, and they all looked back at me. Last night one fell out, and Mum and I cheered him on as he flew four feet, hopped a bit, then flew up into the front maple. This morning the grackles found the remaining three in the nest, and tried to get at them so hard that they pulled the vine away from the garage wall. Everyone's gone now; we found two of the babies up in the front maple, but we don't know where the other two have hidden, or if they survived the grackle attack.

The cats are all beautiful and well, and everyone's just a bit silly this morning. Seamus demonstrated how he can leap and twist when I hold the sparkly rod-like cat toy high in the air. Cordelia is her usual standoffish self, content to be admired from a distance and to watch you play with the cat toys (what, play with them herself and muss her fur?). Rufus gave me a nose to nose hello when I walked up to his perch on the six-foot carpeted cat tree, but he still isn't much for pats. I miss my own cats, of course, and while I'm at peace with allowing HRH to handle the move, the only thing that still upsets me is that I won't be there to hold their paws and reassure them on Saturday.

I slept wonderfully last night, and that after a two-hour nap to make up for the lousy sleep I had Tuesday night. I'm so relieved to be here, to be surrounded by green and calm and to have nothing to do but sit and listen to the birds, to look at my parents' garden, to close my eyes and tilt my face up to the sun. There was homemade macaroni and cheese for dinner, and a batch of spice cookies in the tin, and my dad's homemade sauvignon blanc to sip in the sun before we ate. And there was a little care package of bath gels and bath beads waiting for me in my room, along with other little gifts. Ironically, last night was the first night in a long time that I didn't need to take a bath to relax and soothe abused muscles and mind.

One becomes so accustomed to dealing with stress that it becomes normal, and one forgets what relaxing is like. It is so very good to get away.

Signing Off

Well, I've done almost everything I can do here in the time left to me; now I just need to make a couple of copies of important files to carry with me, set all my e-lists to web only to reduce e-mail volume over the next week, and pack my suitcase for the trip to Toronto.

The computer is being disconnected within the hour, so we'll be off e-mail until May 31 or June 1. Thus, if you send us anything via that particular mode of communication we're not going to get it for about a week, so please don't unless you absolutely have to (and if you do you're not going to get an answer for while anyway). HRH will still be available by phone, of course (which is always the best way to reach him). I'll likely post to this journal a couple of times from my parents' place over the weekend, but apart from that, you're on your own.

While I'm gone on my short but much-needed vacation, be good to HRH and to one another, and enjoy life.

Ye Gods --

The total number of people who have now clicked through to the Power Spellcraft book listing at Witchvox has now increased to 31,312. That's over two thousand page views in just three and a half hours.

This is such wonderful, wonderful exposure.

The general Owldaughter site is also seeing more traffic as a result, so I've been polishing and updating things here and there. (Packing? Post office? What? I can't hear you, la la la.)

Toronto Minus One Day

Okay, I've now recovered from the shock. Now I'm excited and happy and past the state of stun into which seeing the book spotlighted on the main Witchvox page placed me.

Visiting various folks yesterday was lovely, despite the rain. You know, it occurs to me that we've thanked our friends, but we've neglected to thank both sets of parents, who are also being marvellously supportive and caring regarding this move. They feed us, they give us a place to be other than betwixt and between, and while we count them among our friends they deserve a special thank you of their own. My own mother is making the personal sacrifice of taking me to Stratford to see Into the Woods this Saturday to take my mind off the move. You see the lengths to which they will go? Is this not inspiring?

The doctor is, as always, thrilled with how well I'm doing. She even wrote a note ordering the airline to let me fly if they give me problems about my condition when I try to board tomorrow (which they shouldn't, but you never know). She says I'm doing so well I could fly right up to the end of July if I wanted to.

Packing proceeds apace. Both HRH and I are in a better headspace regarding the move. It was that particular two or three days where things were half in boxes and half out that got to us. Now that about eighty percent of things are packed away, it's remarkably easier to be here, probably because it really doesn't look or feel like our place any longer. Tal helped us immensely yesterday by packing the last third of the books for us while I packed my office away (even if he did pack the small set of books I'd put aside to take with me to Toronto! -- s'okay, means I get to buy more). Today, all I have to do is pack the last half of the bathroom, my hanging clothes, and finish the altar and the statuary. The only other must-do thing on my list is to get to the post office. Anything else is gravy for HRH.

Tonight we disassemble the computer, and take it and the cello over to the new place. The paintings went over this morning after the doctor's appointment, as we were in the neighbourhood. HRH has already taken three or four loads of boxes over in the car, which has helped the crush of boxes here quite a bit.

And now... I pack.

EEE!

Good thing I didn't unplug and pack up the computer last night, because then I never would have seen

Gah! Ack! Wow!

This page is updated every Sunday around midnight, so as of May 30 this edition (#433) will vanish to be replaced by another. For those of you who don't know, Witchvox (more correctly known as The Witches' Voice) is *the* place online to network and to go to for resources if you're into the Pagan thing. It's pretty darned famous.

Holy cats. Previous to Witchvox spotlighting this as this week's featured book, my book listing with them had something like 179 hits. It currently has 29,239.

Can someone get a screencap for me, please? I'm still in pleasant shock and I have to leave for a doctor's appointment.

Best-Laid Plans...

The kitchen in the new place has now officially been painted. We ran into a bad moment when I applied the first bits of green edging and discovered that it looked awful with the countertops, which quite frankly baffles me because we laid the paint chips on the counters to make sure the colour combination would harmonize before we made our final decision. We'll try to take the paint back and trade it in for something else.

Then I wrenched my hip getting up from where I was sitting to do that edging, and was completely useless for the rest of the afternoon. So I sat and watched HRH paint. Since the kitchen took twice as long to do as we expected, the living room can be done after we move in and before we unpack.

The kitchen looks lovely, though, even all cream-coloured instead of the cream on top, green on the bottom, and the stained chair rail that was supposed to come next.

I slept wonderfully, thank goodness, and the pain in my hip is bearable. I'm anti-social though, which is a bit of a problem because we're scheduled to be with people all day for various things. Knowing who we're going to be with, though, every one of them will understand and let me be quiet while we pack/shop/barbecue/drink various beverages.

Status Report

Boxes of china and crystal: at the new place.

Swords: at the new place.

Original art, other paintings, and framed pictures: to go over Monday between packing and BBQ.

My office equipment and cello: to go over Tuesday night. The cello is to be put in the closet of the second bedroom, mainly because the closet in my new office has a shelf system in it and the cello won't fit.

To pack: the second half of the bathroom; the pantry and most pots; my office; the second half of the living room; the last bits of the altar area; the second half of the bedroom. This morning I woke up and the first thing I remembered was that I'd forgotten to file my change of address with the post office when I submitted the info to the phone and electric companies in early May, so I'm currently beating myself about the head and will have to do it Tuesday after my appointment with the doctor and the buying of the new fridge. Oh, and I have to pack a suitcase for my trip.

Then on Wednesday morning, I leave for Toronto. And I never return to this apartment. Ever.

I so desperately want to be away from here. And at the same time I really don't want to leave HRH alone. No wonder I'm suddenly stressed. Everything was fine up until it became Toronto minus three days.

"Also, in the future nobody gets prenatal care."

I told HRH that if he wanted to see the new Star Wars movie while I was in Toronto next week, he could go. The reviews coming in have expressed surprise that finally, there's been a new film that almost gets it right. Too little too late, of course, but still. When one's expectations are low, one can be pleasantly surprised by mediocrity.

He declined. He'd wait till I got back, he said, and we were living in the new place, and could go together. Because, you know, sharing the experience of watching the gruesome death and reconstruction of a whiny so-called anti-hero and the subsequent purge of the Jedi is the sort of thing that brings a couple closer together. Particularly a couple who are partial to the Jedi code.

And seriously, people -- they can heal dreadful injuries with bacta, and replace lost limbs with cybernetics, and even artificially extend someone's life with technology, but if someone is pregnant the prenatal care doesn't extend to scanning the fetus? I'm sure it's reassuring to today's pregnant women to know that the prenatal care they receive is better than the prenatal care that the Republic offers.

Insight

Friday night, HRH and I put our collective finger on why we're so cranky.

We like our environment to be ordered. Everything has a place, and works together with all the other stuff to create a certain atmosphere, a precise sort of energy, if you will. Most people remark on it when they come over. "Wow," they say, "your place feels so good." Even if we've decorated in a style they themselves wouldn't have chosen (and face it, not everyone is big on thusands of books, Pre-Raphaelite prints, original art, religious statuary, and really big sharp swords), people are comfortable.

We are very sensitive to energy. Maintaining a calm and well-balanced energy flow through the house is important to us.

And when one packs, one tears apart that careful construct of energy and it goes mega-chaotic. No matter how well-trained we are to handle it, to shield and ground and any number of other methods of dealing with energy both interior and exterior, when you tear apart your life at ground zero, even in an effort to improve it, you mess with your own energy flow as well.

Thus, we are tearing apart our own psyches. This explains why (a) I can't focus on writing at all, (b) why I don't want to eat, and (c) why both our moods improve immensely three minutes after we leave the apartment. It also likely plays a major role in why both our sleep patterns are now officially off-track. And the re-emergence of my anxiety attacks, which I haven't experienced in over two years. (Part of my stress comes from being concerned about HRH during this move. The last one did some major psychological damage to him. And also from stressing about not being able to do more for this move, even though HRH tells me every day that he's stunned to see how much I've packed and that I've already done more than he expected me to accomplish. That's pretty much over now, though, since I really hurt myself yesterday somehow. Damn it.)

And people wonder how we're capable of re-establishing our home in a new location within a week to ten days. It's elementary: we need that safe base from which to operate, that psychological and spiritual base camp. It's not the place that's important, but the spiritual shelter we create within it that is essential to our well-being.

It helps to know this, a bit. A very little bit. It doesn't ease the pain, or the frustration, or the stress at all.

But it does help to have good friends who have offered to help us pack, or who have offered their own homes in which to seek refuge from the chaos for a while. Our thanks to everyone who's offered sympathy, relief, and escape. We have wonderful friends, and we truly appreciate your support.

Never Rains

What with juggling several major things at once, also on schedule is the feeling that everything I used to do well is slowly starting to slip away from me. These past few days, it's writing: I open the document and stare at it, move a few things around, but nothing really engages.

Also, the cello feels alien in my hands, I fumble with the bow, and my intonation has now gone completely out the window. It doesn't help that there's a rattle developing somewhere that only comes out when I play on the G string.

I can't seem to make tea properly any more. It's either tasteless, or much too strong. My stomach tells me that I'm hungry, but I don't feel like eating.

Reading is still mechanical. (ai731, do you mind if I take The Bone People to Toronto with me?)

I think it's a very good thing that I'm going away next week, even if it's only for a few days.

The State of Things

We're half packed, which is right on schedule. Unfortunately, it also means neither HRH nor I are comfortable in our own living space. The only place I can go where I'm not reminded that we're moving is the bedroom, where I lie on the bed to read and thus inevitably fall asleep. This is now playing havoc with my overall sleep patterns.

I finished packing the china and office books yesterday. There is nothing more frustrating than packing a box and then realising that you can't move it. It means you have to put the box where you want it to end up, and carry the stuff over to it. Or pack it and leave it where it is, thereby creating an obstacle course for yourself in the process. Sometime this morning, HRH condensed my scatter of boxes, and moved the existing pile away from the window and into the corner against the empty bookcases. Now I don't feel as if they're going to lunge at me and eat me while I'm working at the computer. And did you know that when there's nothing blocking it, a small amount of light actually comes through the dining room window? Miraculous.

HRH will paint the new kitchen Saturday, and the living room on Sunday. He's also promised to take over fragile stuff like the china, and I'm going to push for taking the pictures over too, since during the last move one smashed. It's not that I don't trust the people moving us, it's just that, well, stuff is irreplaceable, you know? And with my luck, this time what I lose will be the irreplaceable signed limited edition Charles Vess print and the $400 frame, instead of the collectable movie poster and the $35 IKEA glass frame.

To get us both out of Box Hell last night HRH took me out on a walk and some ice cream. Then we took the new paint over to the duplex where we discovered that the city has torn up all the sidewalks in front of our driveway in order to replace the drains. Yay for new drains and city improvement and all, but we're really, really hoping it will be fixed within the week, because right now the only way across the three-foot-deep gorge of gravel and concrete dust is a board about sixteen inches wide and six feet long. The tenants upstairs, who are going on vacation just before we move, have now officially been told that they have to move their SUV out of our driveway while they're gone so that we can actually use the space for the moving truck. (Not that they can move it right now, because of the three-foot-gap between driveway and road. But they have been informed. "Can't they go around it?" our landlord was asked when he told them. No. We can't. It's a moving truck, you idiots.) The reason this is such an issue is because they actually have to arrange another place to store it; they can't just park it on the street because it has no plates. That's right -- it's a completely unregistered vehicle, and it's just been sitting there in our driveway for about three months. I have absolutely no sympathy for them. Our driveway; our move. Get your stuff out of our way. And if they don't... things will be very, very unpleasant for them. Not the way we want to start relations in the new place.

Thank You, Chuck Cadman...

... for heading off an irritating and unnecessary election that would have simply assembled a second minority government and accomplished exactly nothing.

Now, can you all get back to what you're supposed to be doing, namely governing the country? You know, your job? The one for which you draw a paycheque?

The Farewells Begin

I'm a writer, which means I'm also a researcher. I also read insatiably. Ergo, I get a lot of books in the mail, secondhand and new, from a variety of places. I usually see our parcel postman every couple of weeks.

When he showed up today, I took my box and said, "I want to thank you for your past couple of years of service. We're moving next week, so this will be the last time I see you."

"You're moving?" he said. "Oh." And he looked disappointed. He's a really nice guy, and we often chat a bit, or at least smile. I like to cultivate polite and cheerful service people; you never know when you'll need them to do you a favour. "Where are you moving to?"

"Lasalle," I said. "A duplex. Backyard, garage -- all sorts of wonderful things."

"Really? What area? I live in Lasalle," he added. So I gave him an approximate location. "I know the general area," he said, "but I'm further east."

He wished me well, and it was sincere. And I'll miss him.

I hope our regular and parcel postpeople are just as nice in the new neighbourhood.

GRW Update

Yesterday's five hours of box-filling and -shoving really put a dent in my word count. I did a lot of cutting and pasting and rearranging of the first two chapters to create a much better flow, for which I'm grateful, but there's only eight hundred new words or so.

"Only." Oh, for heaven's sake.

I tend to forget that at this stage the work I put in is reflected in me being happier with the quality of the MS and not how many words I produce. That means I have to wean myself away from thinking of daily word quotas as a measure of success. The last 15K will appear over the next six weeks as I refine and rewrite; I'm not concerned about that. I do, however, have to come up with a complete fourth chapter and a short but well-rounded final chapter. Everything else has some measure of content in it.

Once I stop looking at numbers, I'll be happier.

Moving Thoughts

HRH deposits his very first paycheque today. He was so proud of it that he showed it to me last night. This division of the company is so new that they still don't have pre-printed cheques, and everything was hand-written in. He's picking up paint for the new place tonight on his way home.

All the local crabapple trees are in bloom today, so I will go for a walk in the park when I need a time out to appreciate both the artistry of nature and the delicious smell. I should also take advantage of the new Tim Horton's nearby to have an iced cappuccino on my break, as there is no Tim's within walking distance in my new neighbourhood. There are other things I'll miss about this area other than the park: the secondhand bookshops; the pharmacy; the little restaurants; the quick trip downtown. It's going to take a while to figure out the new area. But instead of the park, there's the fleuve two blocks south, and that lovely long bike path along which to meander, and a handful of deps. No doubt I'll find more shops.

I can finish packing the china and crystal today. HRH has promised to take it over to the new place this weekend so I don't have to stress about thousands of dollars' worth of irreplaceable Doulton china being damaged during the regular move. (They retired the pattern the season after our wedding, so if something gets broken it can't be easily replaced.) And I'll finish packing the office bookshelves so they're done and out of the way.

Post-Orchestra Murmurings

I will never, never have to drive to this apartment after orchestra again. I will never have to jockey with the headlight-flashing idiots who sit on my back bumper because they think the exit lane to Decarie on Autoroute 20 eastbound is the Turcot fast lane. I will never have to make that stupid merge across the Autoroute 15 North from the Autoroute 20 Decarie on-ramp to reach the Sherbrooke Street exit. And I will never, never, ever again have to circle the block looking for parking on the correct side of the street at ten-thirty on a Wednesday night.

And I have only one more band practice that calls for wrestling the cello through that very irritating illegal front door which is not only narrower than code dictates it has to be, but the spring-closed action is weighted badly and there's no landing on the outside: it descends directly into steps, so once you struggle through the door it literally pushes you down the stairs into the foyer. Hard to handle when you're carrying a cello, or bags, or on any day when you're feeling even vaguely klutzy. Getting in's a pain too, because you have to unlock and shove open a heavy door from where you're standing below it on the stairs. With bags, etceteras. Which I'm sure is fine if you're at least six inches taller than I am. But I'm not.

The only way to play the serenade we're doing for the Canada Day concert will be to listen to the recording I borrowed over and over and over, and hope it settles into my subconscious so that my fingers produce the right sounds at the appropriate times. Five flats. Odd rhythm and unfinished musical phrases that start over again and go a little further, only to stop dead once more and do something different. The orchestra can play it alone, but add the soloist and we lose it, because he plays something very different and dramatic. Terribly frustrating. He does it so well, and as soon as we hear him we fall apart.

We played the fourth and final movement of the symphony last night too, and it's going to sound incredible in the church. Very noisy. I really like how the fourth movement is the first movement rewritten. We did the fourth, then the first, so it was really easy to see how they're connected. But argh, the opening movement is just all over the place and technically irritating. Playing it is a pain in the neck. I foresee a lot of me not keeping up and playing only every couple of notes in the very fast up and down bits. "We will have to practice this a lot at home," said my stand partner as we packed up. "Yes, it will be character-building," I replied.

But the polacca's coming along nicely. There are only the usual two or three bars where I'll have to work the fingerings and just play them over and over until my hands have them. And because I've played the Brahms dances a couple of years ago I'm fine with those, thank goodness, because I remember fighting with the rhythmic and tempo changes and I don't know if I could handle it along with all the Tchaikovsky this time round.

So yes: next Wednesday I will be in Toronto, and not at orchestra (which means I'll be missing the Brahms and the middle two movements of the symphony, and I quite like them, so boo; but because I like them I have to practice them less, so it's better that I miss them and not the other pieces). And the Wednesday after that, I will be driving home to a different address, with my very own driveway in which to park, and a front door that I don't have to fight to open and walk through.

Packing Proceeds Apace

The first office bookcase is done. The china cabinet is mostly done except for the stuff HRH wedged into the back corner of the top shelf that I can't reach. Or rather, I can reach it with my fingertips, but when I say "wedged" I mean wedged, so I can't even pull the the boxes of wineglasses and the boxed good crystal vases towards me to get them down. He can deal with it when he gets home.

I'm now wiped, but not from the packing part. I pushed boxes around so I could try to get a chair in front of the china cabinet to reach the top shelf (it didn't work, of course). Pushing heavy boxes is just as bad as lifting them, I have discovered. And I'm not supposed to be lifting things over 20 lbs. Ha. That's what, maybe six or eight hardcover books at once? Two cats? Good gods.

So after all the exertion, we are unpleased. We must now lie down, damn it. And do something about lunch. Not in that order, of course. If things don't untense, I may have mucked up working on the green witch book this afternoon, which would be bad, as I took yesterday off to give my brain a break.

28 Weeks

Sitting has become much easier. Newt no longer jams himself up under my ribs. Rolling over in bed has also become easier. Things are less liquid and more solid, if that makes any sense, and there's less of a secondary reaction. He's also bigger, and has discovered his elbows and fists.

Yesterday I went out and picked up my very first piece of baby-associated stuff. Sure, we've acquired some newborn clothes passed on to us by other moms, and the odd thing given to us by a friend who can't wait until we've moved. We deliberately haven't purchased any baby equipment ourselves because we don't have the room for it. But last weekend I'd been listening to the weather, and although it was a coolish overcast day, the UV index was still rated at high. I realised that it's rare we have a low UV index these days; the lowest it seems to go is medium. Now, I'm having a baby at the beginning of August, which, along with July, is one of the worst months for sun and heat. Infants have incredibly thin skin, and have zero protection from the sun's rays. You can't put sunblock on them for a couple of months, either. Sure, strollers and prams have hoods and shades, but you need more than that.

Thus I got it into my head that I wanted to have a sunhat for him. Now remember, I've not bought anything baby-related yet for a variety of reasons, including the fact that I hate most of the boys' clothes I see, and the fact that we'd just have to move it anyway. This seemed important to me, though. It was starting small. I could pack a tiny sunhat into the corner of a box; it wouldn't take up room. So yesterday when I went out, I went looking for one.

I had all my previous opinions of boy's clothes reconfirmed. Everything was a "Lil' Slugger" baseball-style hat, or an engineer's cap, or something horrible like that. I finally found a single bucket-style sage green sunhat with a tiny, tiny image of three dinosaur silhouettes embroidered in beige on the front, walking in a line between two palm trees. Not only was it not awful, I actively liked it. And it was the only thing that I did like.

I bought it and brought it home, and held it for a while. This is the first thing that I've bought for my baby. A sunhat. A stupid, four-dollar sunhat. And it meant so much to me. It meant so much that I sat and cried for about twenty minutes, unable to stop, unable to put my finger on exactly why I was crying at all. I wasn't upset, or scared, or happy; this little sunhat just moved me emotionally in some very deep way.

Maybe it's because it's more real, now. He moves all the time, and moves in patterns that I recognise and predict. He responds to both his father and I when we talk to him and touch him. And in two and a half months, he will be even more real, and his very own person, all on his own.

And I bought a sunhat for that person.

I think that's what came crashing down on me. As time goes on, he becomes more of his own person, and less a part of me. Intellectually and logically, I've known all along that there will be a third unique party added to our human family unit. But finally sensing it in the emotional gut was staggering. And I think this is something I've been putting off on purpose, because I feel as if I don't have the time or energy to deal with it yet -- I have a move to accomplish and a book to finish first. Like all transitional stages of a rite of passage one must go through it in order to prepare for the actual experience, and I want to explore these feelings, and experience them deeply. But right now I need to keep a firm grip on the other stuff, and I'm starting to feel like I'm being stretched tight between this and everything else.

Have I Mentioned That I've Worked In The Book Industry For Fourteen Years?

We packed some more yesterday. HRH decided he wanted to start packing the hardcover books. I saw how he was putting them in the box and heroically bit my tongue. The only time I made a suggestion was when he was about to close the box while leaving a huge gap between two stacks. I showed him that as soon as the box was picked up the books would slide around and the graphic novel corners and page edges would get damaged, and demonstrated how to tuck a few paperbacks into the smaller space in order to brace them.

Then he made boxes and watched me sort through and pack the hardcovers on the other side of the fireplace. "You're really good at that," he said honestly, watching me use every square centimetre of available space efficiently.

"I've been packing books for shipping since 1991," I said. And I still remember the stern talking-to I received the first time I packed a box, because I made the same mistake HRH did and didn't use enough packing material to secure the books. Books are fragile. They damage easily, much more so than people think. It's important to handle and pack them in such a way that they arrive at the other end in exactly the same condition. It's a professional pride thing. (Like alphabetising authors correctly in other bookstores when I see things in the wrong place on the shelf. Wait, no -- that's obsessive-compulsive behaviour, not professional pride.)

This is why I pack the books. I know how to do it. They're also mine, and it's only fair. Besides, I can cull as I go. (HRH packed the shelves behind the couch a couple of weeks ago and ended up packing a bunch of books I wanted to get rid of. I have no idea where they are. Oh well; a second cull will happen at the other end anyway, as it always does.)

The stack of boxes in the hallway has reached dangerous proportions, and can grow no further without creating a hazard. The stack of boxes in the dining room is threatening to block the window, the china cabinet, and my office bookshelves, so I told HRH to stop so I could pack that area today. I've already pulled all the books I think I'll need for the green witch project out of those bookcases, so I think I'm safe in packing the rest. And if I discover that I need to reference something that's not at hand, I'll just make a note in bright green text in the MS and do it at the other end. This will be the first move where the office gets unpacked first, before anything else.

Hmm. It has just occured to me that if I empty the office bookshelves, then I can disassemble them and move the boxes against the wall, thus clearing the window and getting the looming mountain out of my peripheral vision. This will allow me to relax a bit more while I work. They can loom behind me, I don't care. As long as I can't see them, I'm not as distracted by something that's not supposed to be there.

Excuse me. Now I must pack immediately so that I can work in more comfort this afternoon.

Creativity In The Oddest Places

Today's software spam to one of my email addresses was from some wit called "Cordially Exhumed".

And In Other Important News

I figure everyone could do with some good news.

Nunavut officials are working to give baby Chance a second chance – with a new mom in the Yukon.

The two-week-old abandoned baby muskox, found on the tundra near Cambridge Bay last week, could be heading for a surrogate mother at the Yukon Wildlife Preserve on Tuesday.

The $5,000 inter-provincial fee that's charged for the transfer of wildlife is being waived in order for this to happen. The baby muskox has to travel almost 2,000 kilomeres in order to join the tiny Yukon herd.

I never knew baby muskoxen were so adorable-looking. The article does make a point of stating that "Although small and cute today, Chance may grow to weigh 315 kilograms, and stand as high as an adult human's chest" though.

Egad

I don't usually talk politics here -- I hear enough of what's going on in the world thanks to the radio and TV news, and why bother to detail my beliefs that none of the major parties can adequately lead the country? -- but this is unusual enough to make me blink twice:

Conservative Stronach joins Liberals

And it's less than an hour old.

"After difficult reflection, I reached a conclusion," Stronach told reporters in Ottawa. "I cannot exaggerate how hard this was for me, but the political crisis affecting Canada is too risky and dangerous for blind partisanship."

She also said Conservative Leader Stephen Harper is not sensitive to the needs of all parts of the country, and is jeopardizing national unity by allying himself with the Bloc Québécois.

"The country must come first," she said.

Stronach said that someday, the Conservatives will grow and strengthen to become a worthy challenger to the Liberals. In the meantime, she thinks her place is with a party that is more responsive to the needs of cities, women and young people.

And again, I say: Egad.

More Than My Little Heart Could Hope For

At around 11.30 AM, I thought, "Wow, I feel like talking to t!." Alas, I do not have his work number (being that he has no personal phone there), and besides, I know how busy he is; distracting someone simply because I feel like touching base is ungood. There's a reason I usually ignore the phone when it rings during the day: I'm working, I'm in a groove, and to drop everything to grab the phone really ruins the flow. I won't do that to other people unless I absolutely have to. I can call people at night, after all.

I decided to call HRH at noon for a short chat, as I have been told that he can sketch and talk at the same time. (If only this were true of writing.) His phone died.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. And most curiously, I picked it up instead of allowing the answering machine to take it.

Lo and behold, it was t! on his lunch break, with whom I spoke for a good long time. And it was good.

And now, after a quick lunch, I am off to do groceries, pick up a little USB hub, and do various other little errands.

The day feels less meh.

Music And Drama

Gosh, but it would be nice to wake up in a good mood instead of a "meh" kind of mood. It's been "meh" for about a week now.

Rehearsal last night was good. There was companionship and tea and really amazing raisin oatmeal cookies (and I'm not a raisin fan). We ran into a problem right away, though, when the intro to a song we've played before just didn't work. I've been driving myself crazy trying to figure out why. It's not timing, it's actual musical lines being played by each instrument suddenly not fitting into each other for some reason. We're fine for the second song of the set (thank goodness -- it's our "let's play this, we do it well and it will cheer us up and remind us that we're actually good" song in rehearsal). Our opening song is going to be fantastic too, and drums and bass began conspiring last night to make it more musically complex during the verses, because at the moment they're rather sparse. If we hand the current bassline to the bass drum, and the lead guitar bit no one's currently playing to the bass... suddenly things get more interesting. I'll have to work it out this week and we'll see what happens this Saturday. But the intro to that closing song is going to gnaw at me. It's worked every other time we've played it. There's no reason why it suddenly shouldn't. It will probably work perfectly well again this Saturday, just to spite us.

Overall, we have to work on openings (we tightened up every single pre-vocal intro last night, and they'll sound much better this way instead of going on for four repetitions) and definitely endings, which also have to be tighter and less draggy. And bridges, damn the things, simply for timing. And to our amusement, without a vocalist for the evening, we discovered that we all rely on verbal cues to alert us to an upcoming shift, which is no big surprise since it's the vocals that hold everything together. I'm glad the evening went as it did, even with the mystery of the suddenly botched intro of the last song in the set. We learned cool stuff about what we each play against the others. Quite productive.

I seem to remember recently saying that I'd had enough of people's dramas about imagined personal slights. Here's another one to add to the list: this morning I heard that someone who is perfectly aware of everything that I'm juggling in life at the moment was harassing another friend of mine, pressing her for my motivations for dropping all my teaching this spring, summer, and fall. Instead of being paranoid, maybe that person should remember that my life is a wall-to-wall schedule what with full-time work on a deadline (then three sets of edits and two galleys from two different books to handle in the next eight weeks), a move, two musical groups, that family thing, and all the other stuff that crops up in day to day living. I simply don't have the time or energy to devote to teaching workshops or regular classes right now. It's all about me, not anyone else. I'm not making a political statement about anyone or anything by not offering workshops. It's a personal necessity. Thanks to overscheduling, I've been walking that burn-out line since mid-March, and I don't need to court further disaster by trying to add stuff I've already cut out back in. If someone thinks I'm making a statement about them by taking care of myself, that's their problem.

So very tired of people trying to drag me into their drama. So very, very tired.

I wonder if people understand that more they push, the more I pull away.

GRW Update

Total word count, green witch book: 45,216
Total words today: 1,706

45,216 / 60,000 (75.4%)

It's not just my reading that's mechanical, it's my writing, too. I know why it's happening here, though; I'm expanding and clarifying notes and linking previously random paragraphs, which isn't creative so much as connecting the dots. My writing now consists of providing a greater context for statements that currently exist only in point form. That's more of a cleaning-up thing than a creative thing. At least I'm not actively disliking what I'm writing, like the last book; it's the process that's frustrating me.

I passed 75%, though. I am grimly pleased. Slog, slog.

I'm pleased to discover that I'm really looking forward to band practice tonight. Making noise may be just what I need.

Rewind

Can it be yesterday again, please? I don't like this day at all.

Further To The Art Of Reading

Just out of curiousity, I checked my Past Reading List to see what I'd been reading and how much of it. According to it, I have read at least 160 books in eleven months. And that's not counting the one or two I forget to note down each month because I read them too fast. And if I read an entire YA series, I note down the series title instead of all the separate books. So single entries like the Chronicles of Narnia actually equals seven units, the Song of the Lioness equals four, and the Spiderwick Chronicles equals five. That would increase the total somewhat.

I do read a lot. Goodness. And I find it interesting that the more I have to write, the more I read to balance it out.

Musings On The Art Of Writing And How It Impacts The Art Of Reading

For the past little while, it feels like all I've been doing is writing, packing mechanically while thinking about music, and reading simply to take a break from the previous two tasks. I've totally devoured three of Iain Pears' Jonathan Argyll books in the past four days (a fascinating series about art theft, art history, and law in Rome that I just discovered thanks to someone leaving their entire Argyll collection in practically unread condition at the secondhand bookshop) after finally overdosing on Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody series (I read seven of them in eight weeks, which beats my earlier streak of five in a row -- and my current obsession with stories about art, history, and theft makes me wonder what's going on in my brain). I reread Little Women and stalled on Good Wives. I read Diana Wynne Jones' first Dalemark Quartet book and then didn't feel like plunging into the second. Read a handful of other YA titles, a couple of Pratchett books, two lit'rature books (Alice Thomas Ellis' Fairy Tale thanks to Anne's recommendation, and Sarah Waters' Affinity, both excellent), a research-related book for work, another subject-related book that Educated Me by someone whom I personally respect.

And I feel like I'm just reading to pass the time and to be away from the computer and the boxes, as opposed to reading for pleasure. I get like this every once in a while; I forget why I like to read. Well, not precisely. I remember that I read for fun and to enjoy myself, so I do it, and it doesn't quite work for some reason. It has nothing to do with the quality of the books themselves: in fact, I love Peters and Pears, and the worlds and characters they've created, which would be why I devour their novels. I just don't feel satisfied with my reading experience in general these days.

I think it may have something to do with the fact that I've forgotten to appreciate the art of writing, and how to enjoy the way words are strung together to create something shiny. Non-fiction is about conveying information and instructing and educating, and it involves writing clearly along with a certain amount of Being Inspiring To Your Reader. It really isn't about creating a thing of beauty. When you try to include beauty, it often gets edited to be plain and clear, and the poetry of the words or thought is lost. It's just not the point of NF. And I've been so focused on producing NF that I'm looking at fiction and reading mechanically for what-happens-next, as opposed to relishing how it's being done.

It's slightly disconcerting to realise that for me, a good writing day is defined by producing a certain amount of words, as opposed to a day where I'm proud of what I've actually written. Being deadline- and quota-driven on an NF book is unlike being deadline- and quota-driven for a fiction project. The craft is completely different.

I'm really, really glad I'm taking a year off from writing NF and just sticking to editing and tech reading. I think it will help my writing and reading immensely.

See The Jargon Develop Before Your Very Eyes

Treeware: a book that is physically printed on dead trees, rather than being digitally represented as phosphors on a screen.

It's from Scalzi's recent entry on piracy at Whatever, via BoingBoing.

And How Are The Fur Children Taking The Chaos?

Every cat has staked out a favourite spot somewhere among the boxes. For Gulliver, it's lying atop the ends of the large unmade boxes leaning against the back window. Cricket lies on the next level down, along the ends of the shorter unmade boxes between Gully's boxes and the windowsill. Nixie either plays stealth vulture by sitting atop the tallest stack of boxes in the front hallway (which puts her at about eight feet up, and as she's tiny and black you can lose her there for hours at a time), or curls up in the unclosed box of blankets and quilts left open to wrap around things like pictures.

Maggie sits in whatever box is open and empty at the time. She's not fussy: you only have to notice her and give her a quick pet and tell her how cute she is. Maggie is our manager; she watches us pack things to make sure we do it right.

Roman hasn't noticed we're moving yet.

Ever Better

The truck is reserved, signed for, and we have it for the whole day. "That's two rental periods," the guy taking the reservation said dubiously. "You'll pay twice the rate, you know."

Duh.

We have the truck for a full twelve hours on May 28, so there will be absolutely no rush. We also picked up forty-five more boxes -- good solid boxes, too, which will be carefully unmade once unpacked, and stored for the next time we move.

Good thing I double-checked the paint chips in the new place today, because we ended up choosing a slightly different shade for every room except the kitchen. We now have complete vertical and horizontal measurements for all the windows as well, instead of just horizontal. (I love my husband, but he's evidently never had to do window treatments before.)

Apropos of nothing at all, allow me to boast that this new place has seven closety things, not including kitchen cupboards (of which there are several, oh joy, oh bliss -- along with six kitchen drawers!). And that's not counting the huge storage closet under the stairs, or the storage units and cupboards in the garage. Or the tool shed under the deck.

We know what fridge we'll be getting next week, too -- an 18 cubic-foot GE for remarkably decent price, even though taxes will add a full hundred dollars. But delivery's included in the price, which is excellent.

And we had a lovely, leisurely lunch out that took about an hour and a half, during which we talked about everything and nothing. All this plus the sun breaking through the clouds has done much to clear away the cobwebs and shadows left over from yesterday's migraine. Wearing a pretty skirt and sweater out helped too; I keep forgetting how much clothes can affect one's mood. Everyone we met was smiling, cheerful, and in a good headspace. It's been a wonderful day.

And now, more packing.

Meh

I'm less bad than yesterday, but my head feels bruised and my body aches in general. And spring allergies have finally amubushed me; I've been expecting them ever since Firewillow pointed out the local birch pollen index.

Packing proceeds apace. It truly is remarkable to see how much room there is under the kitchen sink when Tupperware and large pots have been packed away. Everything on the top two shelves of the kitchen cupboards (all the stuff I can't get down without a chair and/or climbing up on the counter) has also been packed, as they're things I won't miss over the next two weeks. (Also, it's stuff that we had nowhere else to put. If you include the three over-counter cupboards, this apartment has a grand total of five closety things. I will so not miss that.)

We have a set of back door keys to the new place. Paint chips colours have been approved. Today, we look at more fridges and finalise the truck rental.

GRW Update

Total word count, green witch book: 43,510
Total words today: 2,034

43,510 / 60,000 (72.5%)

A good day of work. But oh, ye gods, I have such a dreadful headache. Tylenol seems to have done nothing to calm it, despite repeated attempts all morning. I have a bad feeling that the drums and sax of band practice are going to be the worst possible thing for it this afternoon. We'll see how I feel in another half-hour.

For Roo

I'm a couple of days behind, but still:

China Mieville won the 2005 Arthur C. Clarke award for Iron Council. (Go on, Roo - squeal. You know you want to.)

Cramp!

It would be awfully nice to not wake up to the blinding agony that is a calf cramp in my left leg, as I have for the past four days.

Of course, this is dependent on various cats (whoever's turn it happens to be on whatever day of the week it is) allowing me to sleep in, instead of vaguely dragging me out of deep sleep with whatever irritating or somewhat endearing act they're engaging in, and me deciding to stretch in bed as I wake up. Not fully awake = bad stretching. Bang. Muscle cramp.

Argh.

Yes, I'm getting enough calcium. The cramp is the direct result of pointing my toes as I stretch. It's a habit I deliberately broke several years ago when I started developing these cramps in the first place. Now I have to re-train myself, because while I'm not pointing my toes as I stretch, I'm not flexing them, either. It seems I now have to deliberately flex them before I stretch my legs to prevent a cramp. Which means, of course, that I have to remember to be more awake before I stretch. What a lovely catch-22.

And it's so not a good way to begin the day.

Yesterday's GRW Update

Total words, green witch book:41,476
Total words today: 1,394

41,476 / 60,000 (69.1%)

Slow, slow slog yesterday. I would have liked to have stuck with it until I hit 2K, but HRH wanted to drive downtown ASAP in order to find a parking space, so I left off at about 17:45. An impromptu but enjoyable evening spent in the company of good friends at the pub to celebrate Blade's chosen birthday made up for not making a writing quota of any sort. (Yes, his chosen birthday: it's as unfortunate to be Pagan and be born at Midwinter just as it is to be Christian and born at Christmas -- your birthday gets lost in the larger celebration.) It's been about four years since I was at Hurley's on a Friday night, as we usually prefer the quieter early weeknights for our various celebrations there, so we thoroughly enjoyed the weekly special of fish and chips. And I treated myself to a half-pint of beer, which was absolutely delicious.

Now that I'm up, I'm going to reimmerse myself in the entering of herbal data. It's slow work, but necessary.

Rediscovery

I just pulled out a proposal that I wrote for a spellbook that had been rejected a year ago, thinking that I could recycle some of the sample material in it for the green witch book, as it revolved around the four seasons.

I like it. I like it a lot. I'm not going to use the meditation or recipes in this particular proposal as green witch material, because I want to re-submit this proposal next summer. Although it was originally conceived as a follow-up to the spellcraft book, I think it will make an even better follow-up to the green witch book. After a year's worth of break from writing books, I think I'll be ready for it again by that point.

It's really good. The fact that I still like it -- possibly more than I liked it originally -- means a lot to me.

In the meantime, the green witch work going slowly. Sigh.

Rings Forth Its Jolliest Tune

CBC Radio Two is playing requests, as they do during between 9 and 12.

It's such a pleasure to realise that along with the actual body of the song itself, I remember the entire litany of insults from the intro to the Ruddygore second-act song "When The Night Wind Howls", and can sing along, even though I did the operetta seven years ago, in '98. Of course, it takes a lot to knock a song out of my head, particularly if I've heard it a few times a week for five months. Still. It amuses me.

Friday Potpourri

I could so go for a trip to Friendly's -- just pack the usual Pennsylvania-bound camping gang and head over the border for pretty much anything on the menu, plus at least one ice cream sundae. I'm rather disappointed that I'm not going to get my Friendly's fix this year. You'll all have to share at least one sundae extra at each stop for me. We really need a decent sundae shop here in Montreal. I miss Swensen's.

One finds all sorts of things when one packs for a move. A couple of days ago it was a handful of white turkey feathers in with my altar supplies, rescued from the helmet of HRH's Thor costume a couple of years ago and squirreled away, because you never know what kind of magical use you may have for them. Of course, the fact that I proceeded to put two Tupperware containers full of candles on top of them ensured that they were out of sight and thus out of mind, so they've never been used. When I pulled them out I put them in the garbage bag along with other things like out of date herbs and such, but then I saw little Nixie sitting on top of a pile of boxes, eyeing me wistfully.

So I gave her one.

Now she chases it and tosses it around and in general dances ecstatically with it; it's a bit out of character for her. It's almost as long as she is. One is tempted to dub her Dances With Thor Feathers, but she's a cat, and long would be the coolness and unforgiveness in one's general direction if one did.

Paze and I had a lovely lunch yesterday while we planned a party. It's awkward to put together a guest list for something specific and know that no matter how you do it, some people will be annoyed because they weren't invited. You can't just invite everyone you know. There's a time and a place for parties like that, but if you're planning something particular, there will be people who feel slighted no matter what. At this point, I'm just throwing my hands up in the air and not caring. There are five or six things in the next two months for which I have to develop guest lists. If someone left off any of those lists chooses to take offense at imagined slights, they can go ahead: the drama is obviously what they're looking for, and they can dwell in it if they so choose. I don't have the time or energy for it.

When I opened the green witch manuscript this morning, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I'd left it at 40K. I had forgotten that I'd managed to pass it last session. Today: more fleshing out, and more herbal info. Perhaps a series of attunement rituals. And more packing of breakable objects.

Yet More Amp Talk

So today, after bringing les kittens to Ceri's place (I was pleasantly surprised at how I was not consumed by kitten envy), Ceri and I dropped into Italmelodie to look at the acoustic amps.

They had the largest selection of the four shops I'd visited. For a moment I thought this was a good thing. Then I looked closer, and discovered that half were 50 or 60 watt amps, and the rest were over $600. Not a good sign.

They did have the Yorkville AM50, priced at $399, so I tried it out. It couldn't have been more different from the AM100 I tried last Saturday: it sounded awful. The Crate 60 watt I tested before it sounded worse, though. Seems that the basic rule of thumb is true: an acoustic amp under 100 watts just doesn't cut it when connected to an instrument like a cello. I'm sure they're fine for acoustic guitars, but they don't seem to have enough of a balanced range for the cello, or the appropriate strength to carry the bowed sound without sounding hollow. And with less options on an amp of lower wattage, I can't balance the sound reproduction enough to get it sounding right. From my experiences, a higher wattage creates a better sound. (No, boys, not just a louder sound. And can you believe that's the first question the salesguy asked? "How loud do you want it to be?" "I'm not concerned with volume," I said. "I want good sound reproduction." Does everyone associate higher amperage with volume, or is it a guy thing?)

After I tested those two, this not-as-helpful-as-the-others-were salesguy said, "I want you to try something else," and plugged my pick-up into the $1,400 Genz Benz Shenandoah tube amp. Sure, it sounded miraculous. If I were a professional I might put it on my short list. But if I had a spare $1,400 lying around, though, I'd be trading in the instrument and using the cash to upgrade it. Heck, $1,400 is more than I paid for it (yeah, yeah, secondhand and ten years ago, but still).

It looks like I'll end up with the Yorkville AM100. I'm kind of pleased about that. Jimi has definitely been the most helpful and friendly salesguy so far, and it feels good to know that I'll go back to his independent shop to buy it from him. So this will be my gift to myself, partially for the stress of the Wicca book, and partially a birthday gift. I like to treat myself to one out-of-the-ordinary purchase each book, and I haven't gifted myself for this one yet. HRH's new income also makes this decision a wee bit easier.

So. Voila. Hopefully, the next thing I say about amplifiers within two weeks will be that I have one. I'm sure you're pleased about that. I have rather been going on about it, I know; it's helped me work out my thoughts and opinions on the models I've tested.

Speaking Of Peripeteia...

Isn't "somnambulation" a wonderful word?

Pack Me! Pack Me!

I would be packing more, except Maggie has appropriated the box into which I was preparing to put pictures and wall things and has declared it hers. So I'm taking a break.

Odd to realise that "taking a break" means "perhaps typing more green witch stuff."

It's a Molson's box, by the way. She is Canadian.

No One Promised Us Easy

The Tchaikovsky symphony is fiendishly difficult technically -- lots of accidentals in a non-intuitive key to begin with, and everyone comes in an a odd place, masses of syncopation in thirty-second and sixteenth notes that doesn't stay on a regular syncopated beat, and short phrases that don't feel like phrases at all unless you can hear the overall product and understand that you're tossing a word or two into someone else's sentence. Something that doesn't sound musical when you practice is very hard to wrap your mind around. It's one of those pieces that's almost impossible to practice on your own, because you have no context at all for what you're doing. So basically, in rehearsal I have to make a mark in the margin next to a system that I know I have to practice for next time because I'm not getting it while playing with everyone else, and I work on those little bits even though they sound wrong on their own. Everything else is timing, and I really need to be in the group to do that properly.

Being at rehearsal and having each section play at half-speed (or slower in some cases) means that I can actually hear what's going on, and how what I'm doing fits into the greater scheme of things. Sure, this is true in general of any musical group practice, but in the Tchaikovsky it's particularly important because of all those technical issues. Last night was immensely better than the week before for my self-confidence (last week's migraine notwithstanding). It also helped that my stand partner was different yet again, and only asked for my attention during breaks as opposed to when I was trying to concentrate.

The Tchaikovsky symphony isn't really our style; it's unlike anything else we've been accustomed to playing. Apparently there are a few members of the orchestra who are decidedly unhappy with it. I think that if we work at it, it will be remarkably impressive and quite an achievement. Yes, it's messy, and technically challenging, and not overly pleasant to rehearse or listen to unless it's top-notch; and yes, it wasn't written for chamber orchestra, and stylistically it's unlike our usual fare; but I've never played Tchaikovsky before and damn it, I'm going to give it my all, because it's a new experience and because I want to know that I did it. Rather like the Elgar I played with Cantabile, and Beethoven's ninth: technically, they were way beyond me, but I stuck with it, and I'm glad I did.

Day Out

Kittens today! Ceri and I get to drive out and pick up her kittens! I must steel myself against the cuteness.

Then I'm going to stop by Italmelodie to look at their acoustic amps. This should wrap up my amp research and leave me to wibble about cost and budget some more.

And then it's a meeting with Paze over a late lunch to work things out for a get-together in early July.

Hurrah for a day of enjoyable errands!

GRW Update

Total word count, green witch book: 40,082
Total words today: 2,261

40,082 / 60,000 (66.8%)

Egad -- I wrote 3.8% of a book today. No wonder I'm tired, and my back hurts. I'm switching the phone and the computer off, and curling up with those cats for a bit.

(I actually looked at the HTML code for the wordmeter thingy, and I realised that I can adjust my decimal point manually. So I did, and I will from now on. I still don't understand why it's there if it doesn't calculate it automatically.)

"We'll Start Monday."

Anyone else as amused by the new M&M ad campaign as I am? It makes fun of the M&M characters and George Lucas at the same time. (You can see the TV spot by clicking one of the lower links on the right sidebar while you're in the Light Side section.)

The R2-D2 M&M is perfect. I'm not so sure about the Chewbacca one, though.

This Tchaikovsky Goes To Eleven

Holy cats -- evidently I wasn't listening fully last time I tossed the recording of the Tchaikovsky 2nd symphony in. Now that it's blaring right in front of me through the computer speakers with all three volume controls set at max, it's kind of in my face and hard to ignore.

This symphony is going to kick ass, if I can pull my act together enough to play it accurately. Playing it will be a remarkably heady experience.

For my percussionist friends, you'll be thrilled to know that it has cymbals. Lots and lots of cymbal action in the final movement. And wow, what a final movement, in a serious "this goes to eleven" sort of way. It's all amazing, but the fourth movement really takes the first movement and pushes it beyond what you'd expect.

Blood Test #2

Another blood test done. This time I didn't even lie down for it, like I usually have to: the technician said they'd only need three vials this time, so I took a chance based on how good I'd felt last time and sat in the regular chair. She was chipper and deft and just as good as the last technician. After she taped the cotton to my arm, I got up right away and walked out. So this is how people with normal blood pressure handle a pris de sang. I could get used to it.

The glucose preparation was in fact a remarkable approximation of Orange Crush, carbonation and all, and not sickly sweet in the least. I haven't had orange soda in ages, so I rather enjoyed it. Of course, I would have enjoyed it more if I could have had ice in it and sipped it leisurely outdoors on a back deck or something, as opposed to gulping a full 250 ml of it down in twenty seconds and setting my pendant watch to the clock in the clinic in order to be back at exactly 9:12 for the pris de sang itself. Instead of sitting there and twiddling my thumbs, we went grocery shopping. We'd arrived just past 7:30, and waited until 8:10 for the first part of the test; I wasn't about to sit for another hour on top of that when I could be out and about accomplishing things.

They'll call me back if the test has to be redone, or needs to be extended to the three-hour version. I'm not worried at all.

Of course, now after the sugar rush of the past two hours, I'm slowly crashing. The piles of cats draped all over the chesterfield look like they've got a decent idea. Maybe I'll type herbal info into the GRW manuscript until noon, then nap. And oh gods, orchestra tonight; I'll have to look at all of the Tchaikovsky at some point, because it's so not intuitive to play.

GRW Update

Bah. Enough, already.

Total word count, green witch book: 37,821
Total words today: 2,087

37,821 / 60,000 (63.0%)

Serving Sizes

We all eat, and most of us at least try to maintain some sort of awareness about what it is we're eating. But what exactly constitutes a serving of something, anyhow?

- Make sure you are eating the right amount of food. Follow these guidelines to help you gauge what a proper serving size looks like:

Cooked pasta equals the size of your fist
Muffin equals the size of a standard light bulb
Cheese equals the size of a pink eraser
Potato equals the size of a bar of soap
Red meat or chicken equals the size of a computer mouse
Fish equals the size of an eyeglass case
Frozen yogurt equals the size of a baseball
Mayonnaise equals the size of a quarter
Bagel equals the size of a small can of tuna
Nuts equals the size of 2 egg cups
Chocolate equal the size of a package of dental floss

It's so much easier to envision a pink eraser than however many ounces of cheese constitutes a serving. And I'll bet you're stunned to realise that a whole bagel of average size constitutes two servings of grains.

(From the May 5 2005 press release for "a new product that combines Canada's Food Guide and Canada's Guide to Healthy Active Living into one easy-to-use guide". Except it doesn't; it only combines points of each of them, according to the official web site for the new guide, called Canada's Guide to Healthy Eating and Physical Activity.)

Oblique

When I saw this shot in the Narnia trailer yesterday, all I could think of was my school picture from grade one. If I ever track down a copy of, I'll post it for comparison. Suffice to say I was a bit taken aback at how much seeing Lucy peer around the door into the wardrobe room reminded me of it. My hair was never, ever that smooth, or curled under in a proper bob (in fact, that particular school photo has my hair very definitely sticking out in various directions at the ends), so I think it's the grin and the cheeks that evoked the memory.

Odd, the things that come back to us as a result of seeing a split-second image in motion.

Irony

Over the past half year or so, my natural sweet tooth seems to have gone into remission. I simply haven't been craving sweet stuff.

Tomorrow morning I have a series of blood tests again, plus a test that measures the amount of glucose in my blood after a controlled period of time. Medium to high levels of glucose in the blood are bad, because they'll make me stay in the clinic for three hours while they administer a more complicated glucose test. Low levels are good, because I'll be able to leave after only an hour.

So naturally, today is the day my sweet tooth is making a grand reappearance in spades. For the first time in ages, I'm craving sweet drinks and chocolate. And I know that if I indulge, my sugar levels are going to be higher than usual at seven AM tomorrow, and the tests will be skewed.

Grr. I know that this has everything to do with reverse psychology. As soon as I leave the hospital blood clinic, my craving for sweets will vanish. (Actually, it may vanish once I taste the appallingly sweet cocktail of blick I'll have to drink in order for the test to be given. Gah.)

On the bright side, the GRW manuscript is now over 36K, which means it's officially 60% finished. Let's see how much more we can get done today, while drinking copious amounts of water and not thinking about Aero bars. Passing 37K would be nice.

The Lost Launch

It occurs to me, on the heels of the heady experience of seeing my second book appear listed as available for pre-order with major online retailers, that the local metaphysical bookstore never called me back to work out the launch for the spellcraft book. We agreed that they'd call me back after their renovations were complete in mid-April to work out dates and times and what to do and such. It's now a month later, and I still haven't heard from them.

Evidently it's not important. Which is just as well, really, because now I'm up to my ears in boxes and packing for the move, and hacking away at the green witch book, and the trip to Toronto at the end of the month. And there are many, many things going on in early to mid-June. I can't shoehorn in an event with only four weeks' notice.

No launch is fine with me because at this point I'd rather just relax and be quietly proud of this first book, what with the insanity of the second still a vivid memory in the not-so-distant past, and being currently deep into the third. Perhaps I'll have an informal evening out with close friends to celebrate when I get my copy delivered to me by the publisher, or have a simultaneous private launch/housewarming thing in late June once the house is unpacked. Maybe I'll propose doing something event-wise with the shop for the Wicca book this fall; tying events into the back-to-school thing is always a good idea for sales and attracting new readers. And by then I'll be finished writing as well, and taking a well-deserved break from it, focusing only on editing.

I have to keep reminding myself that as an author in this genre, people come to me to request appearances and events; I don't chase them. It might be a different story if I was on a royalty system, because then I'd naturally engage in more aggressive publicity to promote myself and my sales.

Anyway, the upshot of it is: I received no call back; I'm not devastated that they've decided to drop it, whether it was by conscious decision (in which case I still should have been notified) or because it got lost in the shuffle (which is the more likely of the two possibilities, knowing how publicity-associated projects tend fall between the cracks there because they aren't day-to-day responsibilities). I'm remarkably pleased at how not upset I am about the issue.

It's Up! It's Up!

Solitary Wicca for Life is up at Amazon.ca!

And at Amazon.com!

Except the publication info is slightly inaccurate in that it's a trade paperback, not a hardcover. And there's no cover photo posted yet, or a description (which is hardly surprising, as I only just vetted the back cover copy before it got sent off to production). But it's finally up!

And you know what? Two books listed means I have a page with my books on it, instead of just the single book listing that reloads when you click on my name to see everything I've written.

Pardon me while I geek out quietly in the corner for a bit.

Deja Lu

I have just this moment realised that yet again, for the third time in as many books, that I will have to include basic information on how to sense and interact with energy.

For the third time, I will have to come up with an original way to say the same thing.

I've already written two versions of this, because heaven forbid I re-use what was perfectly good the first time around. And I can't simply say, "See my exercises and discussion on this subject in Books Blah and Blah"; I cannot assume someone is interested in or owns the other two, because they're on different subjects. Nor will I make someone buy another one of my books just to get this basic info.

I should be thankful that it's word count. Instead, I'm grumbling about the recycling.

Fnyeh.

Mutter Grumble Grr

It's one of those "What do you mean I've been working for this long, and only have two hundred words to show for it?" kind of days. True, I did delete a bunch of stuff along the way, but still.

Gah.

I did get out for a walk, though, and I accomplished moving-associated stuff like alerting phone and electricity providers about the date of the move. And I finally finished the first round of edits on the second half of Tal's book earlier today. I'd really forgotten how long it takes to do a first edit on someone else's stuff, particularly for fiction.

And I refuse to have a headache, however mild. The threat may derive from trying to figure out if Random Colour could cover Patience by Guns'n'Roses.

My flowers still smell wonderful.

As The Second Trimester Ends...

The baby's currently freaking out for some reason. Think about how much newborns squirm, and then think about that being contained within a soccer-ball sized environment. Yeah. It's an experience. It doesn't hurt; it's more uncomfortable than anything else. Particularly when you're trying to concentrate on something.

We're a couple of days shy of beginning the third trimester. My osteopath is so happy with how my body's adapting that she's given me a whole month off without a maintenance appointment, so I won't see her until after we've moved. My OB is thrilled with how things are going too, and I'm perfectly smack-dab in the middle of where I'm supposed to be for everything in the gestational schedule thing. My appointments are now every four weeks instead of every six.

He still loves the cello.

He's turned himself around so that his head's low and his feet are tucked under my right ribs, where his head was a while back. When he makes a major move I can really feel it now, because he's about two pounds and 15 inches long; for him to roll over is a major production. He's developed a real schedule now: he has four really active periods. The first is between six and eight AM; the second, between noon and two PM; the third between six and seven-thirty PM; and finally, between nine and eleven PM. It's a bit distracting, particularly when I'm really into what I'm trying to write, because having someone punch or kick you one-two-three in rapid succession, can really knock you out of your groove.

I still find pregnancy intellectually fascinating.

Working at the computer is odd, because I can only sit for about three hours before I have to go lie down. In order to sit up, you tense back muscles and stomach muscles to keep your trunk upright. Well, when I do that, my abdomen slowly becomes more and more tense until it's rock-hard and rather uncomfortable to sit. So I lie down on my side and read for a bit; after about half an hour, it's relaxed enough for me to sit upright again.

Every once in a while I wonder what will happen if Newt turns out to be girl after all. Even seemingly uncontrovertible visual proof via echogram is only 85% accurate, they say. I will laugh and laugh and laugh if it's so.

Origins of Mother's Day

In an article written for WorkingForChange.com, Gev Parish notes:

Julia Ward Howe called for the establishment of Mother's Day in 1870. Her gesture was intended not as a sentimental tribute to those who bear children, but as a call for women to wage a general strike to end war.

So it was originally an opportunity for mothers to protest against war. It never ceases to amaze me how watered-down, sugar-coated, and otherwise Bowlderised holidays become over time.

November!

"Soon we must all face the choice between what is right... and what is easy."

Eeeeee!

Pretties

I got a lovely big bouquet of spring flowers yesterday -- freesias and iris and three kinds of lilies and roses and masses of other stuff that's pretty and I don't know the name of. They smell divine! I've been dying for fresh flowers lately, but I haven't been able to justify the purchase. As I was arranging them in a vase, the smell brought back memories of helping my mother out with Flower Guild duties at church when I was in high school. There's something incredibly blissful about being surrounded by masses of fresh flowers, particularly in May.

I was even more pleased to see them still whole and upright when we returned from dinner at my in-laws' house last night. No cats had climbed the mantel to disturb them. (Although I wonder how much energy I'd have had to be upset if I'd found them ruined, because I was so satiated by the plateful of tender and rare steak that my father-in-law had barbequed for supper.)

Edited to add: On the way out to dinner last night I thanked HRH again for my flowers, and he said, "Well, what I really wanted to get you was an amp, but it was a bit out of my current budget." An amp as a Mother's Day present! How cool is that?

Random Colour Debut Minus Five Weeks

Band was lovely, although we missed our drummer, who was at a wedding. It was an interesting exercise to work without a drumbeat; we discovered that we can keep pretty good time, and it also gave us an opportunity to focus on tuning and arrangement. The sax and the vocalist did some really nifty playing with the intro of the opening song that I'm looking forward to hearing more of, too. Overall, yesterday's work pointed out how good we were in most places, and how there were certain bits each of us really had to take home and work on. At the end ai731 observed that after six weeks of working on music by ourselves and four rehearsals with instruments, we were all secure enough in what we were playing to actually start having fun and listening to what other people were doing. She's right. That security makes a huge difference.

This was the first rehearsal where I'd remembered my pick-up, so I plugged into t!'s very large tube amp for rehearsal purposes, and I'm told it made a difference. I tried amps at Jimi's for an hour yesterday morning, and it looks like the Yorkville AM100 100 watt acoustic amp is tied with the Crate for first place. I brought HRH with me, although the original plan was for him to drop me off and go do groceries while I tested equipment. I tried four amps in all: the Yorkville 100-watt acoustic, a Roland 150-watt keyboard amp (pointless, really icky sound), the Yorkville AM150 (better than the keyboard amp, but not a smooth as the 100-watt), and finally a straightforward electric bass amp, the Yorkville BassMaster XM50 50-watt amp. Of everything, it really narrowed down to the Yorkville AM100 acoustic amp (accurate sound reproduction, mellow, and warm) and, oddly enough, the BassMaster XM50 (which amplified my cello, period, and was really bare-bones).

It was a really enjoyable experience. Afterwards, I asked HRH's opinion of each amp, and he tried to duck out of it by saying that he had no musical training so he couldn't help me. I pointed out that what I wanted was a genuine gut response from someone who wasn't analysing the sound, not a trained evaluation. So he thought about it, and said that the electric bass amp amplified the cello adequately so that it could be heard, but that it gave it a slightly hollow tone: you could tell it was being run through electronic equipment. The acoustic amp made the cello sound like a really big cello, and not amped at all: rich and full.

The observations pretty much reflected my own suspicions, but it was good to get them from someone who was standing back, and who didn't throw technical terms at me. Plus HRH has that hearing problem, and he told me that with the acoustic amp he heard sounds he'd never heard before while I was playing, which indicates to me that the amp is capable of reproducing sound even more fully than I'd thought or been able to hear myself, since I take the cello's sound for granted.

I wish I could have both the Crate and the Yorkville acoustic together in the same room to test them one right after the other. I still have to stop by Italmelodie to see if they have anything different, but if it comes down to these two then I'm not sure what I'll get. The Yorkville is $499 (although the price tag officially says $525); the Crate is $670 on sale for $550, so the price isn't really a major deciding factor. Jimi's an independent retailer, so my preference for supporting that kind of shop may end up being the real deciding factor. The other reason I'm leaning towards the Yorkville is because to test it I sat in the tiny space in front of the cash desk, next to the door propped open to Sherbrooke Street, surrounded by equipment and people wandering in and out. I tried the Crate in a plush little carpeted room, shut away from the crowds. Any atmosphere in which I'll be using the amp will more likely resemble the reality of Jimi's store than the artifice of a private rehearsal room. The Crate is prettier to look at, but that's really not a huge issue. I could lift the Yorkville; I didn't try to lift the Crate, so I'm not sure how heavy it is. (Checking the specs, I see that the Crate is 42 lbs, whereas the Yorkville is 27.5 lbs. I think I just found another point in the Yorkville's favour.) Like the Crate, the Yorkville has an instrument input and a microphone input, as well as a decent effects selection which may be fun to play with at some point.

I fussed a bit about the cost issue again in the car, and then I realised that an amplifier doesn't really depreciate much so long as it's in excellent shape electronically and physically. If I don't use it after a couple of years, then I can sell it and recoup a goodly amount of the original capital I invested in it. It made me feel better.

One more research and testing trip to Ital, then I'll have a final slate from which to choose.

WIth Gratitude And Appreciation To Mothers Everywhere

Happy Mother's Day to everyone who has children, the human kind, the fur kind, and the scale and feather kinds! Mother's Day seems rather sudden to me; it feels really early, just as Easter did. It's just the way the calendar's falling this year.

Today: editing (I want to get that first chunk of book edits off to a very patient Tal out in California); coven; and then dinner with my in-laws. And it's another beautiful sunny day outside -- glorious. It does wonders for the soul.

GRW Update and More

35,084 / 60,000 (58.0%)

which is actually 58.5%. I woke up and decided I wanted to write something before I went out, so I wrote two pages on garden sachets. It bumped me over 35K too, which pleases me.

We had a wonderful, wonderful evening relaxing with friends last night; so nice to not be stressed or rushed or worried about anything. And there's something particularly pleasing about having a three-year-old arch backwards over your lap to reach up and touch your curls with her fingers, and say with absolutely no guile, "You have beautiful hair." One's heart swells, and one considers that she must be right. What reason would she have to lie? (I like my hair, I do, but it's such a pleasant thing when a child seconds it. I remember the night when the youngest professional actress I knew stopped by our dressing room after her turn onstage at the Place Des Arts singing young Cosette in the touring show of Les Miserables to watch us clean up after a performance of Charley's Aunt. All of eight or nine, she watched me take all the flowers and pins from my hair, and as the loops and twists came down the curls slowly unwound she said, "You have hair just like Stephanie." Stephanie was the professional Quebecois actress singing the adult Eponine at the time, who had glorious long curly blonde hair that I envied when I'd seen it on stage. It gave me the same sort of feeling.)

I feel fulfilled, and now I'm off. There's a grocery trip in my future, and a stop in at Jimi's to test those amps, and I'm told the cats are getting two new litter boxes today to replace the ones they have now as well. And band practice this afternoon!

More Amp Stuff

I called Jimi's Music around the corner to see what acoustic amps they had in stock. He doesn't carry anything below a 100 watt acoustic, because, in his opinion, it's not worth it for decent sound. Which is as I suspected, and appears to be the general opinion amongst those who amplify their cellos. Friendly guy, and he thinks amping a cello is cool. I appear to be on a lucky streak with salesmen.

I'll meander over tomorrow morning to try them out. He's got a 100 watt Yorkville (yay, Canadian product!) at $499, and he also suggested a Roland keyboard amp for a decent full-range reproduction (aha, another option I already knew about -- I'm so impressed with my research). So I'll try that too, just to hear the difference, although it's even more expensive.

(Someday I should just collate all my random amp trivia and put it up somewhere for reference.)

I took a break from writing to try t!'s little practice amp, and it was an exercise in futility. It doesn't amplify so much as add that odd tinny sound to the natural projection. I get a decent amplified sound when I play the D string or the A string, which is nice, but getting no amplification on the C or G strings eliminates the entire lower half of the register. As Scott said in an earlier comment, it's only a 10 watt and the tiny box probably limits the sound instead of enchancing it. There's another reason acoustic amps tend to be more expensive; the speakers and boxes are bigger, allowing for richer sound.

Who Says Classical Music Isn't Sexy?

Ivan Hewitt of arts.telegraph.co.uk wonders why marketing is trying to sell classical music by showcasing sexy women and smoldering men, when there's plenty of arousal to be found in the music itself.

So, one way or another, the idea has taken root that classical music in itself is completely sexless, and needs an urgent transfusion of this life-giving elixir from the marketing department.

Which is really a travesty of the truth, because classical music is mostly full of sex, or to put it better, eroticism - it's just that it's hidden, buried in music's grammar.

Every time you hear a dissonance (a tense-sounding interval or chord) melt into a consonant one, you're hearing the basic erotic pattern of arousal and relief. That's true even in the chaste polyphony of Renaissance church music (which is why some of it doesn't sound half as chaste as it ought to).

But where that pattern is spiced up with really grinding dissonances, or where it's repeated in ascending sequences, each repetition more intense that the last, then the sexual connotation becomes blindingly clear.

Italian madrigals of the early 17th century are full of these sequences, often leading to a particularly scrunchy dissonance at the phrase "I die upon your breast" - a favourite euphemism for orgasm.

"Scrunchy dissonance" -- what a wonderful phrase. I included this paragraph simply to share it with you.

But it's true -- music is designed to stick its hands into the guts of your emotions in order to twist them all up, creating a physical tension followed by a release of that tension and a subsequent relaxation. Sex appeal doesn't lie only in looks; it has to do with emotional and chemical reaction. Music affects that, too.

The entire article makes for interesting reading, particularly if you're interested in music of any kind.

(Found via Arts & Letters Daily.)

HRH: Day Two

It's miraculous. HRH is at work again today.

I think I will marvel at this every morning for a week or so.

He gets a computer next week, too, on top of all those wonderful art supplies and reference books they went out and picked up yesterday.

He has a window seat. And the window opens.

He left this morning, with his soft briefcase over his shoulder and his metallic briefcase of art supplies he got for Yule in one hand. I watched him get into the car, and waved as he drove away. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy waving to him as he leaves for work, particularly when he's looking forward to where's he's going.

Amp Shopping

I am now the proud owner of...

... a recording of the Tchaikovsky second symphony.

I know. You wanted to see the words "an amp." So did I, but I appear to have expensive tastes.

Ceri asked for a full report, so get yourself a cup of tea and some biscuits, because this one's long.

I cheerfully eat any sweeping words I have said about Steve's overall service. While my general opinion of their staff has not changed, I have finally dealt with a single salesperson of knowledge, intellect, personality, and respect for his clients. Of course, I was in the acoustic section, which may attract a certain kind of personality. I certainly wasn't condescended to or brushed aside. (Yes, I got his name, his sales number, and a phone number. If I buy anything there, even just a patch cord, I want the sale credited to him whether he's there or not.)

When t! and I walked into the main amp room I cringed at the lack of space available, lack of privacy, the noise, and the seemingly haphazard arragement of amplifiers. This was precisely the environment I dreaded. Would I have to sift through these piles of black and silver things to find an acoustic amp, and try it out in a place with no elbow room, among the guitar show-offs? We stepped through a door into the next room in hopes of finding the acoustic amps segregated with the acoustic instruments, and glory be, they were.

The selection of acoustic amps was nowhere near the selection of electric amps in the previous room, which is to be expected. What I didn't expect -- or at least, not to this extent -- was how much more expensive the acoustic amps would be. The price range I was planning to give to any salesperson was around $250. My secret price ceiling was $350. These started at $450. Eep.

They had a lovely little carpeted room for me to go into and close the door, just like in most luthiers, which was a blessed relief. I took out my new pick-up for the first time and set it up, fastening it to the inside of the bridge on the bass side. The cord is about four feet long, which is a nice length for me; it's not like a cellist moves around a lot. (I may need an extender patch cord eventually, depending on where the future cello amp has to be placed for best sound balance in performance, but that's not a problem; it's always good to have an extra patch cord in the gig kit anyway.) There were about eight or nine amps in the little room, and I ruled half of them out right away because of price or size. So the salesguy plugged me into the smaller Fender amp (an Acoustasonic 30 watt, I think) -- and left.

He left. Yet one more reason why I like this salesman. He didn't hang around and criticize or try to sell me on something.

Anyway, the Fender amps sucked. The point of an acoustic instrument, in my not so humble opinion, is that it sounds acoustic. The Fender amp -- both the first one, and the larger second one, which I think was a 50 watt Acoustic Junior or a Junior DSP -- made it sound... well... electric. An amp is supposed to boost your sound, not change it, unless you engage the effects.

Even with the dead Fender sound, the first couple of strokes I played were really, really odd for me. I'm used to hearing my cello produce a deep sound range-wise, and a low sound hearing-wise -- and by low, I mean a sound that I feel is close to the ground. This lifted the sound up, so that I was hearing it somewhere around my head instead of between my knees and solar plexus. It was slightly disconcerting. Also disconcerting was the fact that the pick-up picks up everything -- fingers touching strings, bow changes, position shifts, and so on. These are all major no-nos in classical orchestral playing. If you hear it, your technique sucks. So to hear it, and hear it so obviously thanks to the amp, made me cringe.

Overall, I didn't like the sound of the Fender amps one bit. I found it thin, lacking in depth, and cold.

So I plugged into the 125 watt Crate CA125D, which may have been a mistake, because I am totally in love with it. The cello sounds warm, balanced, clear, and mellow. There are two inputs, one for the instrument, one for a microphone (which will be useful in future gigs). There are a reasonable number of knobs that control things I understand (balance, fade, bass-mid-treble, and so forth), and only one or two others I'd have to learn to use. The knobs have a nice action on them, too. There's also an equaliser. And it's pretty (it's actually a lighter colour than the one in this picture; in real life it's the colour of my oak bookcases).

And it's $550, after the $120 sale discount.

I have expensive tastes. Which, now that I think about it, isn't surprising. More expensive amp, to match the more expensive instrument. If I played an electric bass which cost a quarter of what my cello did secondhand, then I'd be able to pick up an an equally inexpensive amp at a quarter of the cost of the decent acoustic amps.

I cannot justify buying an amp that is is half a thousand dollars. I absolutely cannot. (Although let me tell you, when I spoke to HRH later on the phone, and he told me about the new salary he was being paid -- which is a few thousand more per year than had originally been negotiated -- suddenly it didn't seem as unattainable, which is a bad, bad thing.) I keep repeating the words simply a hobby, and RRSP, and RESP, and fridge, and other such important things. Although part of me is still stunned at the prices, another part of me is pointing out that many professional musicians require amps that are more expensive than their instruments. If I did that, my amp would be a minimum of two thousand dollars, which boggles the mind even more. But good gods -- the amount of stuff I could buy for $550. Like one and a half low-end professional carbon fiber cello bows. Or two full sets of gold strings. Or new brakes for the car, plus a full set of new tires. Or two-thirds of the fridge we need. (Or that icky-sounding 50 watt Fender amp. But I digress.)

t! missed hearing the lovely Crate amp, because he was enthralled with a Beaver Creek acoustic bass. He brought it in while I was packing up -- there was nothing else in the practice room worth trying -- and plugged it in after a tech fixed an input jack problem, and noodled about with it for a while. The sound was lovely, absolutely divine. He's been looking for an acoustic bass, and it's within his price range. "Talk me out of it," he said. I don't think I did a good enough job, because he had a rebuttal for every reasonable point I made, but he walked away sans bass nonetheless. Although he has the definite intention to return at some point if the offer of a freelance contract within his corp is confirmed today.

We then walked to Archambault, which wasn't really a useful trip at all (apart from picking up that Tchaikovsky CD, that is). Although the general atmosphere is more relaxing than the grating energy of Steve's, the amps are squirreled away under their guitars, and there's no place for a cello to set up in the narrow aisles. Nor are the acoustic amps in an obvious place; they must be thrown in any which way among everything else, because I couldn't find any. There wasn't anything there that I really wanted to try badly enough, either, or an electric amp of any sort that I couldn't try at Italmelodie next Monday morning (like the Traynors, and the Behrengers), so we left and walked back tot he car, which was parked close to Steve's.

We did a lot of walking last night, which is my own fault -- I had a terrific parking spot on St Laurent just below Viger, and I didn't want to try to find new parking for the sake of a five-minute drive. When we left Steve's, I said, "Hey, Archambault's only a couple of major streets east and two blocks north; let's walk there." Well, the fifteen minute walk there wasn't bad, but it took about twenty minutes to get back to the car, and I was rather tired by the time we arrived. I'd forgotten that I was carrying more than usual (a cello and extra passenger make it difficult enough to get to and from the door at orchestra!), that my lung capacity is different, and that I'd had my lower back osteo in the morning, which usually means I'm sore around the lumbar and pelvic region the same evening. I was in a great shape with lots of energy when we started; not so great by the time we'd made the round trip. (Good cardio workout, though.) So we looked at the time, thought about how long it would take to get to Italmelodie, how little time that would leave for actual testing, and decided to call it a night for the amp shopping.

It was a really interesting experience. I learned a lot about producing sound while amped in just that half an hour or so of messing about. I learned that moving my pick-up around on the bridge to the centre or the treble side or under the bridge affects the amped sound. I learned that apart from messing with knobs on the amp itself (a much too obvious short-cut), changing how I hold my bow and what part of the bow hair I use to produce sound affects how the amp sounds. I discovered that my shifting and finger placement technique is going to need a lot of cleaning up. It was fascinating to experiment with technique and hear how the amp reflected it back to me. It's going to be a really valuable learning tool, when I finally get one. And interestingly enough, my experience with the Fender acoustic amps echoes the experiences of other cellists who have nixed them as undesirable for cello amplification. I didn't remember that until I was discussing my research with t! on the walk back from Archambault.

After a couple of weeks of intensive research into amps, my brain is full of trivia. Such as: An acoustic instrument requires more amps to accurately reproduce the sound cleanly. A bass instrument, whether acoustic or electric, also requires more amps to accurately reproduce the lower tones (simple physics). An acoustic instrument, particularly a bass instrument, is actually limited by an electric bass amp, because it can't reproduce the mid-tones and higher register, and can actually deaden the bass register. For a cello, something like an electric keyboard amp or a well-balanced guitar amp will deliver the most balanced sound reproduction (both of which I will defintely try at Italmelodie next week). Ideally, an acoustic instrument should be used with an amp designed specifically for acoustic amplification, because it's a different kind of sound reproduction and will deliver a cleaner, more focused sound. So logically, an acoustic bass instrument requires a higher total of amps for accurate reproduction, which means, of course, that it's going to cost more money. My goal, of course, is to test a variety of amps to find one with an accurate, mellow, balanced sound that I like (no matter what it's designed for) and a price that I find acceptable as well.

It was a great evening, and t!'s moral support was invaluable to me. He even sent me home with his new Ibanez IBZ10B, the little electric bass practice amp he picked up a week or so ago, to experiment some more and hear what an electric amp sounds like. Although the amps are going to be nowhere near what I need, I'm looking forward to messing about with it -- and with the bigger amp and the huge tube amp in ai731's basement this Saturday.

I slept wonderfully once I was back home, and woke up only ten minutes after HRH got out of bed this morning. I'm in a terrific mood, and all geared up for more amp tests. I'd love to go to Italmelodie to continue to research, but the body's simply not going to let me do it today. (Besides, I sent HRH off to work in the car to make sure I wouldn't head up there.) I may -- may -- walk leisurely over to Jimi's down the way later, to see what they have in acoustic amps, but only if the body will allow. Besides, I have writing to get done, and a final polish on that article Ceri kindly edited for me last night.

The Evils Of Assigned Article Lengths

The article's down to 1,200 words again. These are much better words than the first 1,200 were, by leaps and bounds. And hey, I cut two pages' worth of writing to get it back down from the 1,800 it had grown into. Be impressed. I am.

It's still too long. So I sent it to Madame Editrix for a look-see and an impartial opinion on what else can go. It kills a couple of birds at once, since she's also the copyeditor, and guest editor for this issue, too.

I'm walking away now. I learned my lesson yesterday.

Write More!

When in doubt, the answer is to rewrite what you have to make it more coherent.

Except now the article's over 1,800 words.

Yes, I'm A Professional

The aticle is 1,200 disjointed words which would be terrific to lecture from in a live class, but is a pile of useless wet wood shavings when it comes to anything worth submitting to a journal.

I have now been staring at it for forty-five minutes, with no idea of what to do with it.

Argh.

In Which She Admits That Being Heroic Is Just Plain Stupid Sometimes

Rehearsal last night was a disaster. Of course, if I'd admitted I had a migraine instead of heroically pulling myself together because, you know, we only have nine rehearsals before July first... gah. Such a bad idea. And bad, bad music to subject myself to -- five flats? With no idea of the tune? Oh dear, very bad. My old stand partner is back after a one-concert sabbatical, and maybe I've just become used to sitting with my last quiet and self-composed female stand partner, but it seemed like he was bent on talking at me about the music and interpretation the entire ninety minutes, when all I was trying to do was grit my teeth, contain the pain, and hang on until intermission. When one indicates that one has a bad headache, one usually expects the person one has just informed to understand and shut up. Maybe he was just excited to be back. Whatever. It made my life pure hell, because I couldn't even focus on the music.

I left at break.

After a bath I slept beautifully, thank goodness, and woke up feeling immeasurably better. Went to osteo, then on four hours of errands at bookshops (gifts for others!), clothing stores (sexy black halter top for band!), and grocery stores (warm bread right fromt he oven and fresh squeaky cheese!). When I got home, there was no parking anywhere, so I'm currently parked three streets west and two blocks south. I'll have to remember to leave earlier than I was planning to leave this evening, because it's a fifteen minute walk to the car.

Today: my primary project is rewriting that article on research. Then, if there's time, I'll take a stab at some green witch stuff, and do a final review of the amps I'm interested in trying, before heading out to meet t!.

Have I mentioned HRH is not here? That he is, in fact, at WORK? Isn't that a lovely thing? (I find it amusing that the first day I have to myself, I spend half of it out and about; but being home this afternoon and knowing he's elsewhere, gainfully employed in the field he's trained for, is doing wonderful things for my stress levels.) They had a meeting this morning to go buy art supplies for the studio, and his day is basically going to be setting up his desk and doodling ideas in preparation for another project meeting this evening.

So, on to the article!

Willful Author Comes To Bad End

When I think I should go lie down, I should really just go instead of trying to be virtuous and work some more, because then it just all ends in headaches.

This time, for real.

Work!

HRH starts work tomorrow! The money finally came through, and the project is an official go. His boss called him in for a meeting today about supplies and such he'll be needing to do his job.

And now, I think I'll go back to bed. I didn't think I'd feel this exhausted once it all resolved. Or maybe it has something to do with the lack of sleep I got last night, and the brain-numbing staring at the green witch document with little to no input occuring this morning.

GRW Book Update

Total word count, green witch book: 34,546
Total words today: 2,064

34,546 / 60,000 (57.0%)

Not bad for a day of writing, and some editing on the side.

Solitary Wicca for Life

I got the ISBN for my second book today!

Solitary Wicca for Life
by A. Murphy-Hiscock

SHIP DATE: September
PUBLICATION DATE: October
Category: New Age/Wicca
Trim Size: 6 x 9, 272 pp.
Price $12.95 ($19.95 Canada)
ISBN 1-59337-353-8

Next: the thrill of finding it listed in online bookstores for pre-order. Yes, I've been checking; it's coming out in four months, after all. No, it's not up yet.

I also had the opportunity to adjust the back cover copy to something a little more accurate. I am so, so glad I get the chance to do this; otherwise I'd just wince and want to crawl under a rock when I open the box of author's copies and read the back cover. The people who write cover copy haven't read the books; I know that. They look at the index, and the proposal, and the catalogue copy, and write something that sounds sweepng and impressive. It's just not, well, perfectly accurate, because they don't know exactly how the book addresses things. Enter me, trying to leave in all of Marketing's buzzwords that they want to use in order to sellthe book, while trying to make sure the actual product is accurately represented.

Actually, this one isn't bad at all. I only needed to remove a word here, and add a few there for clarification, which is a good thing because it could have been much, much worse.

Sunlight Map

The things I find when I research. Honestly.

World Sunlight Map: A world map showing current sunlight and cloud cover. Known as a rectangular projection, this map is one way of looking at the spherical Earth as a flat map. [...]

The World Sunlight Map provides a computer-generated approximation of what the earth currently looks like. While less impressive than actually being into orbit, this is much more accessible to most of us.

I start with cloudless images of the earth during the day (from a pair of NASA satellites) and night (from a DoD program to map city lights). Every 3 hours, I download a composite cloud image based on data from weather satellites all over the world. And every half hour, these images are composited and mapped onto a sphere by xplanet according to the relative position of the sun. The flat maps are post-processed by ImageMagick to cut off the 15 degrees nearest the north and south poles where cloud data is unavailable.

Very nifty.

Didn't We Just Leave This Party?

Yet again I'm looking at the pile of stuff I have to do for work, for the move, and for others, and I'm wondering how I managed to get right back into the "too much to do at once" boat. I thought I'd bailed this out to manageable proportions. Evidently not.

Argh

By turns, I've been editing and writing the bones of an article on using the Internet for research on alternative spirituality all afternoon.

My article is supposed to be 500-ish words.

I have 1,200.

::headdesk::

At least the whole article as it is (or, as it will be once it's polished) can be used as a teaching document. Maybe I'll just have to turn it into a glorified list of dos and don'ts for the journal.

Shopping Grumbles

While we were out yesterday, I looked in HMV for a cheap recording of Tchaikovsky's second symphony, since I don't own it.

Not only did they not have an inexpensive recording, they had no recordings of it at all. Unless, of course, I wanted to buy a 65$ set of all his symphonies, which I don't, seeing as how I own them all except the second and third.

I know Naxos publishes a second/fourth symphony combo CD conducted by Adrian Leaper, which is still available. I'll check at Archambault when t! and I hit it on Thursday, but I'm not holding much hope. If it's not there, I can always order it in-store, but that takes time, usually way too much time. Even online, I'd pay for shipping, and sure, that means a total of ten or eleven dollars for CD and service, and it would get here sooner... but still. Grr.

I hate playing something that complex when I have no idea how it goes. I'd make a lousy member of a symphony orchestra who debuts any new piece of music a composer produces.

Today, I accidentally bought an XS black tank top instead of a S. The inner lining is way too tight around the ribcage, so I'll have to drive back out to the West Island and exchange it -- assuming they have an S in stock. If not, maybe the M will fit. (No, I didn't take the time to try it on; there was a line-up, and I know the small size from that manufacturer fits properly.)

I did get a pair of black leather loafers today, so I have slip-on shoes that I can wear when it rains, as opposed to my lovely brown suede pair. The ones I came home with weren't the ones I really wanted, though; the ones I liked were a half-size too small, and they didn't have the next size up. These will do just fine, though, once they're properly broken in.

Sunday Afternoon

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: They managed to make a very British, campy B-movie without making it look too slick effects-wise (thanks the gods for the Creature Shop), or too B-movie. Don't know if I'll ever see it again, though: as with the books, I can't see why someone would see/read it over and over. Stephen Fry as the book/narrator was a joy to the ears, though.

We picked up a slew of paint chips today as well, to take over to the new place in a week or so and make final decisions.

And the packing has begun. Woe to dust bunnies everywhere! And dismay to the kittens, whom, we have discovered, had created an entire network of secret nesty lair-like things under the bed, in among all the boxes of out-of-season clothes and bedding.

(I should really stop calling them kittens; they're two and a half. And hey! Maggie-Cat and Roman turn 14 next week!)

Saturday

So after all the excitement about my new pick-up, I ended up forgetting to throw it into my gig bag because I was in a bad mood and had my brain full of reminding HRH about all the stuff he had to remember to bring when he picked me up from rehearsal (he's been forgetting a lot of stuff lately, okay?). Irritating, but not a huge problem. I got to hear what ai731's new electrified acoustic sounds like when amped, though, and ooh, what a lovely sound. Makes me all the more excited about my Thursday night date to go amp shopping with t!. t! is my secret weapon: his presence will hopefully stave off the condescension of narrow-minded and uneducated sales idiots who see (a) a pretty girl and (b) a cello, thus concluding that I'm empty-headed and uncool, in the wrong section, not worth their time, and refuse to take me seriously. t! is there to keep them in line and actually ensure I'm treated as my needs and intelligence require. Plus, y'know, he's a bassist, and he's bought amps before. And he's fun to be with.

Rehearsal with Random Colour was fabulous; we're really coming together and everyone's enjoying it. We also came to a consensus about commitment and it was nice to know everyone feels the same way about reliability and communication. It solved an uncomfortable issue that was kind of hanging over us.

Then we had a simultaneously stimulating and relaxing evening with the Zouaks, including the darling little Teela, who decided to stay up with everyone and be a sparkling social butterfly. Having spent a few hours with Matthieu the day before, it was so interesting to see a completely different baby of approximately the same age -- different personality, body structure, methods of communicating, and so forth. And I came home with more clothes again, this time for me, courtesy of Jen (thank you, thank you, thank you!).

All in all, after the bad beginning to the day and the upset stomach, things made a marked change for the better right about halfway through, which was awfully nice.

It's Beltaine today, and, incidentally also our six-year engagement anniversary. (Technically that's May 2, because I got ill the evening HRH planned to hand me the ring, but we default to May 1 for the romance of the original plan of proposing on Beltaine.) I'd like to get HRH out of the house to do something special, and get his mind off waiting for news of the project as well as the gearing up for three weeks of packing, but I really have no idea what or where. It might be as simple as taking him to see The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.