“Well, aren’t you just the cutest… Oh. Oh God…”
He’s just so precious, isn’t he?
See more kickin’ Halloween costumes at Buzzfeed’s 32 Parents Who Nailed It On Halloween.
(via STFU, Parents on Facebook)
Hi! I’m Stefanie, or Stef. Never Steffy, unless you’re a kid, or a grandma, or you want your legs broken.
Ready for a good scare? Like weird fiction? Try these on for size.
Come hang out with me! (Fair warning: I’m a total weirdo.)
Turn your sound up. Click “Play”. You’ll see what I mean.
(And no, that’s not blood in the preview picture. It’s, uh… something else.)
Also, where the hell have I been? The good news is I’ve been writing like crazy. The bad news is afterwards I’m a vegetable. Will return, guns blazin’, shortly.
I am beat.
I had the most pleasantly productive week! A quick rundown, since it’s Saturday night and this is a long weekend and I got shit to do:
I wrote an entire short story, from scratch, front to back, in one three hour sitting this week. I’ve never written so much so quickly in my life. It’s still in its rough stage, of course, but still… I was riding high after that one. Expect it soon!
I’ve been on a mad “homeowner” kick: rearranging our family budget to reach our financial goals for the next house, and doing lots of little things around our current house in the meantime. I’m planning on using a chunk of my upcoming vacation to paint the front porch, and I stayed home today to “putter around the house”, which makes me feel old. But you know what? I’m loving how things are coming together.
We donated a ton of old clothes, talked over our Big Plan for the next few years, and next we’ll start the conversion of our front bedroom from ill-used waste of space into our dressing room. I’m just a tad excited.
I swear there was more, but between the fireworks outside and the cool breeze and the siren song of the alcohol in the kitchen, I’m feeling a tad distracted.
How was your week?
The cilantro babies are coming in nicely. And actually starting to, y’know, look like cilantro. I mean, I ate one before I was sure, just because I was curious, and it tasted right but looked so, so wrong. I have no idea what I’m doing. But I do know that every time I water them, I whisper sweet nothings about how I’m going to murder them and eat them. Plants like that kinda thing, right?
Today I went to my nephew’s third birthday party, where I spent a good deal of time “tattooing” children. (The one above is on me — can’t let kids have all the fun.) Clearly Auntie Stef is a total badass.
Writing is happening, but there’s nothing new to report. Next week, maybe? God, I hope I have something ready to share soon.
How was your week?
I hate my eyeballs.
Maybe that’s a little harsh, out of context. I mean, I guess I don’t, not really: they help me to read and write and I like the lovely things my vision allows me to do. I like the concept of eyes. But the eyeballs themselves, well.
This time of year, every year, they change. No longer are they happy little vitreous globes living inside my face; instead they become squishy jerks, (I’m sure) growing microscopic barbs that reach out to hook airborne pollen like cruel Velcro. I’m pretty sure they hate me. I thought we were friends.
Sure, I mean, they’re not in this alone. My sinuses get in on the action, deciding that all that hydrating water I keep drinking should in fact be flung far from my person, leaving my nose red and rough and raw. And my throat adopts the texture of finely spun glass, dry and parched and scratchy, demanding more water again.
But it’s the eyes, man. They’re the harbingers. They’re the bad kids from the fifties with the switchblades and the leather jackets. They’re the shit disturbers, coaxing the rest of my unassuming body into waging war on my poor brain, who just wants sleep and to not sneeze until it is dizzy. The eyes are how I know the Annual Allergy Apocalypse has begun: watering til I look like I’m crying, itching until I mash my knuckles into them. And all that mascara being ground in can’t be helping, I’m sure.
And this is with the help of modern pharmacology.
So if you see me in the next month or two, and I look like I’m rocking the world’s biggest hangover, rest assured my eyes drooping at half-mast is only because to open them fully is to invite disaster, and not because I am still half-drunk from the night before. Come to think of it, maybe I should adopt that old hangover stand-by of sunglasses worn inside, if only so concerned strangers stop asking me why I’m crying all the time.
At least my husband understands: he brought me these the other day. For this is no wussy cold, no silly flirtation with pollen, but a FULL-ON BATTLE which requires BADASS ARTILLERY. There are only ten of these tissues; he cautioned that they are to be used for only the mightiest of facial explosions. I’m sure I can ration them out… I just need to breathe through my mouth, keep my head still, not bend over OR lie down —
People have been asking why I’ve been updating less these days.
This week, there were two reasons: one, I was working the morning shift and getting up at the ungodly hour of four AM, which would turn all but the morning-est of morning people into shambling zombies. I was lucky if I made it past twilight before crashing hard into bed. (And people wonder why I’m trying so hard to make a writing career for myself — when I’m fully self-employed, four AM will be the result of a long night hunched over the keyboard, AKA “heaven”.)
And two (and by far, the better): I’ve been writing my ass off. I have a big, exciting project in the works, and by the time I bang out my daily quota (and then, thank you Universe, double and sometimes triple it) I’m pooched. Writing is my second job right now, and as anyone who’s worked more than one job knows, by the time your second shift is over the last thing you want to do is… well, anything, really. After I’ve worked DayJob then worked WritingJob, the most I feel like doing is staring at the tv or reading a few chapters before passing out for the night. Good for my career — each day getting me closer! — but not so great for being social.
It takes a lot out of me, being my own cheerleader and drill sergeant at once, but it’s the only choice I have for the moment. I have only 3.5 years left of my Five Year Plan, and I have to hustle if I’m going to make it.
So apologies (and much love!) to those of you who’ve been asking for more from me. I love hearing from you, and I do listen. I just need to get my head on straight again first. That fifteen hours of sleep I got last night is a good start.
How was your week?