Bethanie's Brain

So when Ms. Four turned four a month-ish ago, it was princesses all around. Right down to the birthday cake, which this Mama-Lady managed, by some sort of honest-to-gahd, frikkin' miracle, to pull off by herself. Check it out: No, I didn't get this from a store, and no, I didn't really intend for the dress to be quite so Pepto-Bismal, neon pink. And yes, that really is a gen-u-ine Barbie wearing that contraption. A Barbie that I bought of my very own volition with my very own money. Me. The very same Mama-Lady that, for just over three years now, has been actively forbidding all forms of grandmother to purchase Ms. Four any form of Barbie. Why, you ask? Well, duh. Present femi-nazi dogma states that allowing little girls to play with Barbie with warp their poor little innocent brains into thinking they need to be six foot tall, blond, big-boobed, tiny-waisted, unnaturally curvy hipped bimbos. Right? Well, maybe. Unfortunately, the femi-nazis forgot one very importan...

You think barbecue is a verb meaning 'to cook outside'. You think Heinz Ketchup is SPICY. You don't know what a moon pie is. You don't know anyone with two first names (i.e. Jo Bob, Billy Bob). You've never, ever eaten Okra. You eat fried chicken with a knife and fork. You have no idea what a polecat is. Instead of referring to two or more people as 'y'all', you call them 'you guys', even if both of them are women. None of your fur coats are homemade. I clipped the foregoing out of a New England newspaper many, many years ago (I post it here only because it is so yellowed with age I'm afraid I'm going to lose it in the move to the new house because it may disintegrate at any moment). I clipped it because I thought it was funny. I had been in The South once or twice and thought I knew why: I THOUGHT it was making fun of Southerners. Now I'm not so sure. Take the barbecue one, for instance. I didn't know until I moved here three...

Things I’ll miss Playing guess the body part while watching my belly distort itself into configurations that even in my wildest nightmares I could not have thought up. Hiccups. (Hers not mine.) Taking my time crossing the street at the Medical Center where everybody is in a hurry. Everybody but the Pregnant Lady. Nobody dares rush her. The don’t-mess-with-the-Pregnant-Lady-if-you-value-your-life aura I seem to exude. People just do what I tell them. They don’t fuss. They don’t argue. They just do it. The Husband’s occasional participation in kitchen cleaning duties. Without being asked. (Minor miracle, that.) The extra scoop of Spicy Tofu that the ladies in the hospital cafeteria give me after eyeing the belly. The fact that the cafeteria's older cashier gentleman who wears a hairnet and always has a hand-written quotation taped to his register never charges me extra for the extra scoop of Spicy Tofu. Things I won’t miss Waddling and the constant pain that goes with it. G...

So part of a comment (the one by Sarah, a.k.a. the Orangina Angel) on my Deprivation post got me thinking. It’s the part about “in defense of my native state”. I forget, you know, that people actually are born here and like it. (Which is sorta like, really stupid of me, considering I’m married to one. (I will be SO happy when this baby is born and gets done with the whole breast feeding bit and I can have my brain back. In like, 3 to 5 years.)) Anyway, I got to thinking. I don’t hate EVERYTHING about life in Exile. There are some things that aren’t so bad. And some things I actually like. Here they are in no particular order: Spring. The South has the best springs of any place I’ve ever lived. Hands down. No contest. For one thing, it lasts a long time. Early to mid March things start budding out. It starts to warm up, but not too much. Days can be warmish on occasion, but nights are cool and comfortable right up until the end of May (they’re actually not too bad right n...

1,000 words a day, 5 days a week, for the rest of your life. That's what Carolyn See says to do if you want to be a writer. I believe her. Now granted, that system won't work for everyone, but I can see the value in it. Because, of course, the one and only thing that makes you a better writer is writing, more writing and, when you're done with that, sit down and write some more. 1,000 words a day for me represents a quantifiable goal that I can chip away at. Sometimes it all comes out in one session where the words fly out with so little effort I wonder whether I actually wrote them or was channeling some other force. More often the words come in bits and spurts, maybe 100 at a time, and I hit my word count button after every single paragraph to see the progress (which, believe it or not, actually helps). 1,000 words a day also forces me to sit down and at least try, no matter how tired or overworked or stressed out or pregnant I may be feeling. Like now. It was an ea...

I don't know WHAT it is with this child and my bladder, but she is DETERMINED to mash it with her head as much as possible before birth. I mean, it's nifty and everything to watch her knees or feet or elbows or whatever move all over my belly, but SHEESH! I'm working under a deadline here. I have until midnight to fix up that chapter for a volunteer reader and I could REALLY do without the (additional) distraction. Aaaaah! Where are the Depends?!?!

OK. Supper is over. The dishes are cleared. The extra food is put away. The Husband and Ms. Three are downstairs watching a movie. It's nice and quiet. Sounds like a perfect time to get some writing done. I just called my sister and left a message for her to call me. I've logged into yahoo messenger. I've logged into my work email. I have a browser page up with my personalized google. I'm almost out of water. And I need a snack. It must be time to get started. Must be.... guess I'll do that now... unless the phone rings or something...

So this has been the weirdest pregnancy. Well, weirder than the other one. Everything is happening earlier – belly button popage; massively painful hip displaysia; pubic symphisis rebellion; sacroiliac complaints; breathlessness; constant heartburn; etc. Oh, and the good stuff too – kicking baby; hiccups; the precursors to lactation (“Houston, we have colostrum!”); etc. OK, maybe that stuff’s not weird. But a couple of weeks ago, everything I ate that came out of my freezer tasted like bananas – ice cubes, ice cream, hot dogs, everything. And then, there’s the following: I am, apparently, partially color blind. Whether or not this is pregnancy-induced, I have no idea, but there is a particular shade of green which no matter how hard I try, I cannot distinguish from black. Now I don't have any problems with any other shade of green (so far as I know) and I passed every color-blindess test I could find on the web, but this one shade just is beyond my ability to discern. No am...

It's a tiny little speck, but it's there: Orangina can be found south of the M-DL. In fact, I have proof of this little speck of hope in the form of an undiscloable number of little bottles safely tucked out of sight under my cube's desk-like appendage. You may wonder: How on Earth did this happen? Answer: Apparently, I am truly pitiful. So pitiful, in fact, that my previous post bemoaning the (apparent) lack of Orangina prompted a comment from a friend, a native of Exile. This lovely woman not only had suggestions on where I might find Orangina AND called around to see which places actually had it, but WENT AND GOT SOME FOR ME . And would not take any money for it. This sweet and selfless act brought tears to my eyes and still does. ( Yes , I love Orangina that much. What do you want, I'm pitiful, remember?) I can only hope to return the favor some day. Now. If only I could get my mitts on a Moe's.

*sneaks surrepititiously onto posting page* Just taking a little break from the wonderful world of polymorphisms, abstracts, and SORRY-your-biosketch-cannot-be-longer-than- 4-pages-stop-looking-at-me-like-that-I-don't-make-the-rules- I-just-work-here to check in and ... well, goof off. 'Cuz I need my damn brain back for five minutes so I can remember what else I get to use it for besides hunting for errant commas and missing definite articles. Spent all weekend and all evening editing other people's stuff. Not done yet. Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds as this is a perfectly legitimate excuse that keeps me from having to edit or *gasp, clutch at heart* write my own stuff. Yeah, that chapter still ain't done. Oh crap, there goes my damn email again... What the hell ever gave me the not-so-bright idea that working from home was a good thing anyway?

So after 8-1/2 years together and nearly 6 years of marriage, it has finally happened. A member of the right-wing, religious-nut side of the family ( his family, people, not mine!) has asked The Question . Five little words: Do you believe in god? I assumed she meant her god, the Christian one, and answered rather bluntly. I think I even used the word “bunk”. (What!? It was late, I was tired and I just couldn’t think how to put it any more politely.) She was quietly scandalized and made the mistake of asking for further details. Which I provided her. I was nice, really, I was. I mean, I have to see this woman again (at least several times a year). She’s my sister-in-law and she’s really a nice person – good mother and stay-at-home-mom to two boys and a girl. And Ms. Three and her daughter just adore each other. In other words, there was some incentive there not to actively alienate her. So I gave my standard, very succinct and polite-as-I-could-manage definition of agnosticism...

I SO need an Orangina today. They SO don't have them in Exile. *loud, dramatic sigh*

So I was bopping about online looking for I-don't-know-what when I somehow stumbled upon the following quote from Robert Jordan: Harriet, would you let someone who quit his job to go write fantasy anywhere near your nuclear reactor? He said this after 10 or 15 years of writing in response to his wife reminding him that, if he ever got sick of writing, he could go back to being a nuclear engineer. It made me laugh. I'm not sure why. Maybe just the sheer juxtaposition of "fantasy" and "nuclear reactor". Those two things sorta shouldn't really be in the same sentence, know what I mean? Now I've never read anything by Robert Jordan, but I think I might just because he made me laugh. That and a bit further down in the interview he talked about writing women characters. As in, he's done it and apparently done it very successfully. That made me feel better because I tend to like writing my male characters so much better than writing my female ones...

OK, so here I am out. Out on a limb. I cruised by this writer's website last night and, if you join this forum, you can post the first 13 lines of whatever you're working on to see if you can interest anyone into reading the rest of the piece. I was tempted to do it except that what I'm working on (new prologue to novel #1) isn't finished. However, my exhibitionist tendancies are getting the better of me... So here it is: the first 13 lines of my novel. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lars let his boots make plenty of noise as he strode down the stone paved hallway. He was a large man, taller by a head than most and built like the trunk of a main mast tree, so there was plenty of bulk to put thunder into every step. The sounds echoed, bouncing to the end of the hall and back again off the grey stone walls of Keep Talistor. Probably, the noise wouldn’t make any difference. Probably, Fenn was too high from smoking magweed to hear anything of th...

Observation: It is very difficult to edit scientific papers while your three-year-old is watching Seasame Street in the same room. This does not seem to be the case with other shows she might be watching while I am working. Seasame Street, however, is a different story. Perhaps, it's because I watched it myself as as child and when my favorite characters come on (Ernie & Bert, Cookie Monster, Super Grover - they didn't have Elmo way back then), I am drawn back into my own childhood for a few precious moments. That's very hard to resist. Then again, maybe I've just had too many polymorphisms for one day...

OK, I don't know why and it makes no sense at all, but I was googling "science writing master" just now because I'm thinking about getting a Master's degree and, among some science writing programs, one of the links it came up with was: " Church of the Flying Spagehetti Monster ". Eh? This has WHAT to do with science writing? Naturally, I click on said link - I mean, how can you NOT - and find this website dedicated to spreading a new religion that makes about as much sense to the poor little agnostic brain as any of the others out there (which I think is the point... I think... it's getting late...). Anyways, worth a laugh if nothing else. Still no earthly idea what the Flying Spaghetti Monster has to do with science writing. Eh, who cares!

Spotted on the way to work this morning: A white oval with bold black letters over a pink ribbon that said... Save the ta tas Humorous and effective, what could be better?

So the old friend mentioned in Owls dropped by, left me a line, started her own blog and turned me on to this: Your Toes Should Be Black A total rulebreaker (and heartbreaker), you're always a little punk rock. Your flirting style: Wacky and a bit shocking Your ideal guy: An accomplished artist, musician, or writer Stay away from: Preppy guys looking for a quick bad girl fling What Color Should Your Toenails Be? Egads! Is that really me? The bit about the punk rock, certainly. Wacky and a bit shocking? Well, I try. But rule breaking? I doubt it. Heart breaking? That'll be the day. And as for artists, musicians and writers... one in the house is probably plenty....

Did you know you can make S'mores in the microwave? Me neither. At least, not until I had the happy accident of noticing instructions for making S'mores in the microwave on the back of the graham cracker box when we went camping (not bringing S'mores when camping is like not bringing water). It's shockingly easy and takes less than 10 seconds: Place 1/2 of a graham cracker on a microwave-safe plate. Place 1/4 of a Hershey's chocolate bar on top of the graham cracker. Place one regular-sized marshmellow on top of the chocolate. Place the other 1/2 of the graham cracker on top of the marshmellow. Place the entire contraption in the microwave, being careful not to upset it. Nuke for 4 seconds - WATCHING CAREFULLY. As soon as the marshmellow begins to swell up, open the microwave door and squish the contraption so the top graham cracker doesn't fall off. Rotate contraption a 1/4 turn, close microwave door and nuke another 4 or 5 seconds. Remove from microwave, s...

My heart has rooms that sigh with dust And ashes in the hearth. They must be cleaned and blown away By daylight's breath. But I cannot essay the task, For even dust to me is dear; For dust and ashes still recall, My love was here. I know not how to say farewell, When farewell is the word That stays alone for me to say Or will be heard. But I cannot speak out that word Or ever let my loved one go. How can I bear it that these rooms Are empty so? I sit among the dust and hope That dust will cover me. I stir the ashes in the hearth, Though cold they be. I cannot bear to close the door, To seal my lonliness away While dust and ashes yet remain Of my love's day. -Stephen R. Donaldson ~~White Gold Wielder~~