Scary thoughts for your Sunday morning

You know it's St. Patrick's Day when you find yourself demonstrating the froog frug (apparently I can't spell this morning!) for people to Irish music.

Some of you lot probably have to drink significantly to get to that point. But for me apparently the frug is always close at hand, unaided by ethanol of any flavor. How...um. I'll leave it to you to come up with an adjective there, really.

Week of March 11-17 (slightly belated)

Five rejections. I try not to get emotionally involved with short story submissions -- either they'll buy it or they won't, and once it's shipped out, it's no longer my problem -- but I must admit that I had a sinking feeling when I saw an editorial staff change at a magazine that had asked for a very small and reasonable rewrite. Sure enough, the new editor did not want the story, not even enough to send a courteous, "Yeah, hi, I know the last guys asked you to do a rewrite on this, sorry," sort of rejection. Form reject. Wheeee. So let's not dwell on that too much; the small and reasonable rewrite improved the story, and it has miles to go before it sleeps. Ideally very few miles. But still.

Oh, dog. Dog dog dog dog dog. Do you have to pat my face in supplication when I'm trying to put you in the sink? Because remember why you're going in the sink? It's because your paws are muddy. (Stupid thaw.) And having a soft but muddy pawprint on my cheek is just not fetching, no matter how carefully and sweetly you do it.

Today we are denning, me and the dog. Between errands and social engagements, we haven't had a day of just curling up around the house for awhile now, and it's time. I am her alpha monkey, and we need to be in each other's noses a certain amount. So that's today, along with some house stuff and getting stories resubmitted and so on.

And now I have ( five questions from akirlu )

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