A Book of Rogues and Imposters

In regards to this post, the list thus far:

Call me Tae.

domestic arrangements (and phrases you will likely encounter)
-the Beast

context is everything

Viral English

Picky eater.

( etc )


So--what else do I need to add? :)

. . It's amazing the difference four years makes. O.o;

This thought brought to you by wandering over to my professor's office hours, sort of accidentally in the company of another student who also wanted to ask the professor about something.

Said other student (if he was legal to drink I'll paint my nails pink) talked slightly too fast, brought up references for various ideas from other classes as they related to the question he was asking, and was surprised by the relative lack of complicated in his question. He also kept up a conversation on the way to the office, largely to do with the other reason he had for being in the building. . . . four years ago, I would've been him, not amused by him.

Kind of interesting to note. Guess I do change with age. :)

The actual proper panic re: going back to school today hit last night. I think I got maybe four hours of light doze. >.>

Interestingly, I had a summer class with this professor a few years ago--that one was on the interaction between science and religion, while this one's the history of science from roughly 1500 to roughly 1900 (emphasis on European, as he teaches another class on US science development).

I may have reintroduced myself to his hindbrain by finding a typo in his syllabus. >.> He took it well, though.

*

I owe my landlord a 1099 form (for Canadians, this is a form that the revenue service Likes To See for any independent income amounting to over $500), because the business is paying slightly over half of the monthly rent on the house.

As such, I need a govermentally acknowledged identifying number for my landlord. Unfortunately, my landlord appears to be playing the 'if I don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist' game. Which means I can't mail out the carbon copies of the group of 1099s to the IRS. My unimpressed face, let me show you it.

*

In more snerkworthy news, I was yesterday mistaken for an employee at Nordstroms while coat hunting with the roommate. (Again, for Canadians, think something like a department store sized Smart Set, or The Bay)

Admittedly, I was wearing a knee length pinstriped light gray skirt, black leather knee high flat boots and a 3/4 sleeve gray turtleneck with the sleeves folded up to the elbow, with my hair up in a knotted bun. I'd been trying on coats, so my coat (with wallet and phone, etc in the pockets) was in the veggie's hands.

The bits worth snerking over? The turtleneck was from Old Navy (cheap knockoffs of a semi-rival department store), the skirt from JC Penny (hail $30 jeans and skirts), and the boots from Moscow. As in the November, 2000 trip to Russia. Nothing I was visibly wearing was younger than a year. Also both my tattoos were showing (although the right one was mostly obscured by a wrist brace).

And I got politely asked by a middle aged lady if I worked for a nice department store. Bwahahaha. (I totally thanked her for it, too, after telling her sorry, no. :D ) This is going to keep me entertained for months.

Begin infection sequence here (let's see how far this one spreads. :) ).

Hey, you lot. Do you think of anything, when you think of me? A name? Colour? Texture? Memory? Are there things that you associate with me?

Comments are screened, but may be reposted in part (with your identifying tags removed if so desired) if themes start cropping up.

Thank you & good night.

here because i figured it'd eat the comment. >.>

what she said: I've wondered what prompted you to write, how you came to adopt imagery that avoids stereotypic/iconic sf & f tropes, and how you came to work out the interrelations and family structures you've built for your stories.

To which I can reply flippantly that I was always the story-teller/worldbuilder for the games, among my groups of friends growing up, and that I grew up reading authors like Anthony, Azimov, Niven & Pournelle, Heinlein, McCaffrey, Bradley and James Schmitz.

( But that doesn't really explain it, I suppose. )

No, really, I actually do.

The rain's not old yet--and it's an excuse to wear a sharp hat and my russia leather coat, which've been too warm to wear all summer.

All the branches and leaves dip beneath their own weight, summer's reach pulled down with autumn's water.

Leaves are starting to turn colours and fall into pathways for the right reasons, instead of too much sun and too little water.

It's cold enough to wear layers again (although yes, I've been witnessed to wear two tanktops in summer; it's now cold enough to wear tanks beneath tees beneath longsleeved shirts), and fashion is aiming towards things I'd actually wear. Not spring's pastels, or summer's flirty prints, but jewel tones and desaturates.

It's cold enough that I hide beneath my covers in the morning from my cracked window, and my nose tingles by the time I walk into work, but not yet so cold I close my window to the breeze and whine about my fingers.

That, and it's nearly time to light fires again. ^,..,^ [/pyromaniac moment]

Apparently my 'cat that ate the canary' and 'i am in severe pain' expressions are remarkably similiar.

I begin to suspect my father's 'mature late' statement regarding the family tendencies may not have just been emotionally. (the 'live forever' half of the statement would be from mom's side of the family. Germanic farmers living well into their eighties two hundred years ago.)

I didn't use to have this much of an hourglass figure--very much more with the topheavy. O.o;;

caught from merditha( I have No Timesense )

It's not when I'm bitching about things that it's time to worry. It's when I stop bitching that it's time to worry.

My poor father, who does not understand that bitching about the stupid trellis means absolutely nothing about my willingness to work on it.

It is (I sincerely hope) unseasonably warm today, there's a saxaphone player somewhere in the alley that also housed the spray of playing cards, the pet duck and the lesbian pigeons (at varying times, not all at once), and the mother pigeon . . sort of nesting in the exhaust duct outside the bathroom window in the apartment below mine has mislaid one of her eggs. There used to be three of 'em (I discovered this by dropping a popsicle stick on the sleeping pigeon and when she flew off, lo, eggs!). There's now one rolled away, and I can't see the other two. How do pigeons breed up to those great swarms, if they're all that stupid?

Also, classmates wearing little white skirts and low slung thin fabric-ed yellow pants and thongs are very distracting.

This has been your random update.

( Tired. )

Also tired of a dirty laundry pile that's probably taller than I am if piled up. But that I can actually do something about. *makes note to stop by bank and get quarters*

for those of you bright enough to learn from others' mistakes:

By any god you can think of, do not drink jack daniels whiskey on top of a nascent sinus infection.

And if you do? Try to ignore the feeling that you've breathed bile into your sinuses.

I am not elegant. Most of the time I merely acknowledge this, and move on--there are other good things besides elegance--but there are days that it just hits me, like a brick from above.

( Cut for length )

Weber!crack, tall!ship!crack, and biker jackets from Red Light.

The world is conspiring against my pocketbook, I can tell.

And I still can't quite figure out how the little devil's advocate in my head as I stood there in front of a mirror trying to quibble ( Biker jacket ) sounded exactly like Danielle.
Whom I spent less than twelve hours with, most of them with her half-unconscious from jet-lag, all languid gestures and lazy glances.
Who also has planted the idea of cosplaying Mikael from Angel Sanctuary at Yaoi-con in my poor, demented little brain.

For being as out of it as she was, she accomplished a lot.


I seem to be on a military sci-fi kick. Weber-the-Bastard, C.J. Cherryh, C.S. Forrester, Debra Doyle & James D. Macdonald . . Dewey something-or-other, who Likes Tall Ships . . *sigh* I can't exactly blame it on Pirates, I really can't, not and be honest about it, but damn did that movie wake some old loves.

Right. Before. FINALS.

Argh, say I.