It’s the Fourth of July, and I’m wearing orange

Why I’m wearing orange

My mother told me when I was very young, “You can’t take a culture away from someone, because you don’t have anything of value to give in return.”

My grandfather (paternal, mostly white) attended an Indian school, because it was the closest one to where his family lived. He said he watched the Native children get beaten for speaking their own language. This was my first contact with what has been in the news lately, the Native American and First Nations children who were murdered in the residential schools, and the shell-shocked survivors.

Now they’re in the news, with already hundreds of children’s bodies found buried. In solidarity with the Native Nations, I wear orange.

Saturday Morning

As opposed to any other day of the week

Working at home in the summer (which consists of a lot of waiting around for things to happen and writing) makes every day blur into another. The only thing making sense of my days is my husband’s work schedule. He’s off on Mondays, works Tuesday-Thursday, off on Friday, at work every other Saturday.

Today is a Saturday when he works. Ideally, on a Saturday, I’d get rest. But I’ve been napping nearly every day, so I don’t need a restful Saturday. And I need to write 2k words for NaNo.

Today’s coffee

Today’s coffee is Wet Hull Java, roasted medium roast. We’ve been struggling to get the right grind for this bean — too fine and the extraction is sour; too coarse and it’s bitter. Today, we have it perfect.

There was another bat in the house

My husband can hear bats. This is handy for when we have bats, which is often in the summer. This one was down and behind the fake fireplace in the living room, and the little girl (Chloe, our youngest cat) was trying to smack the living daylights out of it. I’d say she was successful, because the bat crawled out of her reach like a half-drowned wreck survivor. Because Chloe had had extensive contact with a little creature that can bite you without you knowing and carry rabies, the bat will be going to Public Health to be tested for rabies.

I have a phobia of bats, but we’ve had so damned many in here that I only get them tested for rabies if they could reasonably had human or cat contact. And if I have to get rabies shots (something I think is inevitable someday given the number of bats we shepherd outside every summer), so be it.

What to do today

I have to do my NaNo writing today — so far I have written 4000 words or so toward Kel and Brother Coyote Save the World, and I estimate I have 14k or so left to write. I’m writing NaNo style, which is fast and fearlessly, and I dread the amount of editing I am going to have to do on this document. Outside of NaNo events, I write a little more slowly and thoughtfully. But this is Camp NaNo, and the mode is fast.

What are you doing this weekend?

Drop me a comment!

Cataract Surgery

I’m much too young for this

I will get cataract surgery on both my eyes next month. I didn’t think I would get the surgeries this early — I’m 57, and the average age of cataract surgery is somewhere between 65 and 70.

According to my research on the Internet, however, I’ve found out:

As the procedure has become safer, opthamologists don’t have to wait for cataracts to “mature” anymore.
Baby boomers (of which I am one) have been getting them at earlier ages
Some people’s professions necessitate them getting the surgery done sooner. (I’m assuming spending much of one’s day in front of a computer might be an example of this)

What should I expect during surgery?

Not much — I will be out for the surgery. But likely they will make a small incision in my eye to access the lens, break it up using some sort of ultrasound probe, and suck the former lens out. They will insert some sort of lens in my eye, which may or may not correct vision, and stitch me back up.

What will after-surgery look like?

I’ll have to wear a patch, or an eye shield, not sure which. I will probably have to wear these for a few days, especially during sleep. I won’t be able to bend down or lift things for a few days. I will have to use proprietary eye drops that my opthamologist supplies.

In other words, recovery looks a lot like recovery from other minor surgeries.

Why I’m glad to get the surgery

My right eye is cloudy despite correction and my left eye not so much (but beginning to get there.) The sight in the right eye is like someone smeared vaseline on it. My two eyes together yield a strange amalgam of sharp and blurry. It’s almost (but not quite) like seeing double.

The cataracts make it harder to do computer work and increase my eyestrain to the point that i get headaches. I don’t anticipate using my computer less, given that I work as a professor and as an author, and I compose everything on computer.

I’m glad I don’t have to suffer like my mother did, waiting until the cataracts were “ripe”, or mature. She spent years with muted colors, with struggling to do her cross-stitch and embroidery, with cursing her advancing age.

Today’s cataract surgery guidelines are much more humane, and I am thankful.

Back to Camp

I’m back to Camp! I have some finishing of projects for Camp NaNo this July. I’m feeling in need of motivation. I hope the coffee helps.

Getting Back Into Writing

I haven’t done a lot of writing lately

I really haven’t done a lot of writing lately. I’ve been tired and dragging, taking lots of naps, doing a lot of editing of prior works. This means I have about 5 novels that I could submit today if I were in a submission cycle, two needing beta readers, and one that I will finish at Camp NaNo this year. Hopefully.

I feel like I’m losing the knack

It’s been so long since I’ve written a novel start to finish that I don’t know if I can do it again. Of course I can; it’s only been six months. But when I write that down, six months seems like such a stretch. I’ve been editing things for that long, which uses a different set of muscles, as it were.

To be fair, I have almost completed a serial space opera of novella size, so it’s not like I’m not writing. In fact, that whole last paragraph sounds stupid if I take that into account, doesn’t it? It’s not like novels are a whole different beast than novellas, is it?

Ok, never mind

There is a tend to aggrandize novel writing over other forms of writing. I’ve never had anyone ooh and ahh over short stories. Novelists are a rare breed (hint: No, they’re not) and what they do is mysterious. So non-novel writing is, indeed, writing.

I must go write. Bye!

Fear of Tik Tok (or: Facing a Budding Addiction)

What marks an addiction?

A long time ago in my general psychology class, I learned that three characteristics of addiction, whether physical or emotional, were dependence, habituation, and withdrawal. Dependence means going back to the drug or behavior repeatedly, needing that “reward” (a physical sensation in the case of drugs, a psychological boost of brain chemicals for non-drug items). Habituation means getting used to the dose (psychologically or physically) and wanting more, and withdrawal means feeling tension or even physical symptoms when away from the stimulus (again psychologically or physically) From there, continuing the drug or behavior despite bad effects to one’s life, cements the addiction.

There are various psychological addictions that follow this path: gambling, television, and, as it turns out, Tik Tok.

Tik Tok?

I am dealing with the beginnings of the addiction response in my relationship with Tik Tok. Although I’ve only been there a month, and watching content for about a week, I have found myself scrolling through my For You page a few times a day.

My behavior shows:

Habituation, as it takes more and more content to satisfy me;
Withdrawal, as I feel figuratively itchy when I put the phone down.

I’m missing the dependence, the actual part where I continue despite bad effects. This is mostly because I recognize when the process is happening and break the habituation.

The almighty algorithm

Tik Tok’s “algorithm” makes the app more addictive. Although nobody but Tik Tok knows the exact algorithm, users believe that the app provides you with more content in areas where the user lingers in. In other words, if a reader watches certain content all the way through, they will get more of that content, thus boosting dependence. And since the viewer is watching more and more of the same thing, habituation develops.

What saved me

I tend to get frustrated with passive pursuits like television and Tik Tok. No amount of habituation gets past the fact that I’m not doing anything. I like making things happen, and Tik Tok isn’t going to make that happen. I get bored lately, and the content algorithm of Tik Tok doesn’t deliver new content (like educational content) to keep me occupied.

So I think I’ll put Tik Tok up on the shelf for a while and let it tick without me.

Cute Fluffy Wide-Eyed Things That Love You

What are they?

Cute Fluffy Wide-Eyed Things That Love You (henceforth to be known as Cute Fluffies) are multidimensional creatures about the size of a bocce ball but consisting of iridescent, gossamer, silky fluff. They are almost all fluff. They have googly eyes and spindly arms and legs. They weigh nearly nothing (not surprising) and they burble and coo and like to hang around with people, who they find endlessly captivating. Being from an alternative dimension, we do not see them, but sometimes we feel them in a breeze.

Their effect on humans is usually to make people act giddy with how cute they are. Those in the know can elicit this effect in other people by scooping up the invisible critters and throwing them at someone. A person hit by these little puffy creatures is usually a giggle.

Where they come from

They are, alas, a figment of my imagination. I think.

Let me explain. I have never truly grown up. Yes, I’m 57 and hold down a pretty demanding job, but I have a strong sense of play. And when I dated another person with a strong sense of play, we chanced across the Cute Fluffies, and how much fun it was to throw them at people.

The secret to throwing the Fluffies is to scoop them up, pet them, and burble at them before throwing them at people so they know that they have, in fact, been hit by a cute fluffy. It helps to pick imaginative people who will appreciate them. Many people actually giggle and feel temporarily buoyant when hit by Cute Fluffies.

Why don’t I have a picture?

Nobody has been able to photograph a Cute Fluffy.

An Excerpt of My Current Project

Arriving at Port Serenity

“I miss my new ship already,” Kel Beemer groused as the shuttle lifted off toward the Ridgeways. Her new ship, the spoils of subduing two slavers, had been detached from her former passenger/light cargo ship, the Stalwart. Before her lay Ridgeway III, restricted class beauty world. And beside her in the shuttle were two handcuffed slavers, their unharmed victims, and the man who got her into the mess. The runner in control of the shuttle sat rigidly, not looking back at his passengers. Maybe, Kel thought, he was having a rough day.

“We’ll get back to your ship,” her new partner, Brother Coyote said, his lanky height folded into the small seat. “What are you going to name your ship?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She ran her hands through her buzzed blonde hair in a characteristic gesture and scowled in her passenger seat. Kel could only imagine how she looked after a dramatic scuffle with the slavers. “Am I going to get a chance to freshen up before I meet the Prime Minister?”

“You mean the Convener of the Moot,” Coyote corrected. And smiled. “Not likely, but knowing my mom, she won’t notice. She’s never been interested in outward appearances.”

Kel grimaced. Brother Coyote looked a little rumpled in his order’s garb, yet serene, his staff across their knees as if it didn’t focus immense energies and create wormholes. His long blond hair had even fallen back into place. She looked like a shipper complete in jumpsuit and the de rigeur buzz cut. With her big brown eyes and diminuitive stature, she looked little older than the two chatting merrily across from her. She did, however, feel every hour of her 32 years, especially when about to meet the head parliamentarian of Ridgeway III, who was also Coyote’s mother. What a mess.

“I should warn you,” he smiled. “She doesn’t want me to leave Ridgeway III again, and will try to exert pressure on me to get me to stay. And on you, of course.”

Of course. This was going to be a trip to remember.

###

Kel expected a guard station at Ridgeway III’s port, which she discovered was named Port Serenity. Cute name, she thought, as the party whisked through the almost empty customs office with no difficulty.

Kel learned the reason why at the other side of the gate. A woman at the center of a small collection of people, dressed in a muumuu of deep purple shot with gold thread, held her arms out. Brother Coyote stepped away from Kel’s side and rushed toward the figure – doubtless his mother with her entourage.

Coyote’s hug enveloped his mother, who was not much taller than Kel herself, although much better dressed.

“How was your little trip?” the Convener of the Moot said in a warm alto voice as she held him at arm’s length.

“Oh, Mom,” Coyote said, “I need to introduce you to my partner.” He stepped back toward Kel, who checked escape routes only to find none.

“Partner!” Coyote’s mom exclaimed. “I didn’t know you’d slipped your bonds for a partner!” She stepped forward to envelop Kel in a massive hug, and Kel found she couldn’t escape. The Convener of the Moot smelled like exotic flowers, and Kel smelled like – she didn’t want to think about it.

“I’m not that kind of partner –“ Kel squeaked.

“What am I thinking?” Kel’s mother exclaimed, letting Kel loose. “You need a bath and a good rest before dinner. Bojun, take Kel to the Statehouse and settle her in.”

“But Mom, where is she going to stay?” Coyote – Bojun? – pleaded.

“In your room, of course.” And she and her entourage drifted away in a cloud of frangipani, taking the twins and the prisoners with them.

Better Safe than Sorry

I worried for nothing

It turned out that the irritation on my lip was a chronically inflamed ingrown something. Like a really, really deep blackhead. I went through a pimple-popper procedure with my doctor digging it out with a pair of tweezers and sent on my way.

Yes, I feel a bit foolish. I worried for nothing. I suspect I’m a bit of a hypochondriac.

Yet I don’t regret going.

The area looked like a peeling mole a good part of the time, and I’ve heard that’s A Very Bad Thing. So I wasn’t going to mess with it. If the choice is between looking foolish and getting something too late, I’ll take the former. Besides, I don’t go to the doctor for every ache and pain — I’m pretty reasonable with my worries.

So now I have a big sore bump on my lip, and if it doesn’t clear up in 4-6 weeks, I go back to the doctor.

Better safe than sorry.

A Trip to the Doctor

The sore that doesn’t heal

I will visit my doctor today, who squeezed me in to her schedule to look at a sore on my lip that doesn’t heal. It’s on my lip, and I do worry a bit. Not so much about whether it’s cancer, but whether they’ll have to do a biopsy that may make my lip lopsided or something.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

It looks like nothing to worry about

It’s like a scab that forms on my lip, shrinks, comes off (without my assistance) and there’s an open wound underneath, like a picked scab, and maybe I’ve been doing the facial scrub too vigorously.

It looks suspicious

The scab is very thin and brown, and to a casual observer, it looks like a mole. So if this is a mole whose top conceals, say, an open sore, it could very well be suspicious. I would say “it’s just a scab” but it’s been doing this for over a month and shows no signs of shrinking. I’m doubtful that it’s anything to worry about.

Smart enough to drive myself crazy

This is why I get worried when I get something like this happen. On one hand I think I’m making too much of a little thing and annoying my doctor. On the other hand, I have to go to the doctor because WHAT IF. So there’s worry that it’s bad and worry that I’m going to cause my doc to do an eyeroll, even though she’s taken three suspicious moles off me previously and would the large one off on the side of my face if it weren’t on the side of my face.

Takeaway

You should always get suspicious sores, moles, bumps checked regardless of whether you think you’re making too much of it. My sister’s father-in-law died of melanoma that had been undetected for years and had metastasized. Something we all should avoid.