I was thinking about the 52s this morning--what to do, where to go--when it occurred to me that I already had my adventure, and had even posted a comment that I should have used the experience for this week's escapade.
And you know what? It's my blog, it's my year-long quest, I can do what I want...so I turned my Tuesday lunch into Week 44. It was the perfect decision, on several levels, not the least being how much fun I had with two such interesting and amazing women.
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NaNo starts today. For the first time in a long while, I'm not participating. However, I'm toying with the idea that I could pretend to be doing NaNo, exert major self-discipline and finish the serial this month instead. I'd like to tie things up on Library of Souls, and move on to the next story, though I really don't have anything in mind at the moment. Possibly because I'm still too involved with the usual suspects. Or I'm a one-plot woman...
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I took a cool photo yesterday that I posted on Shot of the Week. It was one of those odd moments when you notice something for the first time, and yet it's always been there. It's a weird brain warp thing, because it's totally obvious the door has been that vibrant color for ages. Why did I just notice it, and on Hallowe'en, of all days?
It's not often new people move onto the mountain. There are only 18 houses up here, spread across the ridge, and no one ever seems to leave (though I tried last year, to no avail and the crap real estate market). Earlier this Summer, the first house on the road--a much neglected and semi-abandoned place--was sold to a pair of doctors from Florida. They have spent the better part of five months remodeling. Along with everyone else up here, I got an invitation to their Open House party tomorrow. If I don't go, it will seem rude and unneighborly, but here's the thing: I don't like flying solo to events where everyone is paired off. I'm the only singleton on the bloody mountain.
Still. I will force myself to go. I will chat with the few folks I actually know and maybe talk to some I don't. I will smile and have a drink and hopefully enjoy myself, even though I'll no doubt feel like the proverbial redheaded stepchild. Ah well, it builds character...right?
Uh huh.
Time changes this weekend. I am a huge proponent of leaving time alone. Once I even contemplated moving to Arizona where they don't act like jackasses rabbits springing forward or jumping back.
In a meager attempt to offset the irritation caused by the morons who still think this is a good idea, I change my clocks on Saturday afternoon with the slight hope I can forget the whole thing by the time I go to bed.
And I'm convinced this would be a great plan...if I didn't have dogs who can't tell time.
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It's not often new people move onto the mountain. There are only 18 houses up here, spread across the ridge, and no one ever seems to leave (though I tried last year, to no avail and the crap real estate market). Earlier this Summer, the first house on the road--a much neglected and semi-abandoned place--was sold to a pair of doctors from Florida. They have spent the better part of five months remodeling. Along with everyone else up here, I got an invitation to their Open House party tomorrow. If I don't go, it will seem rude and unneighborly, but here's the thing: I don't like flying solo to events where everyone is paired off. I'm the only singleton on the bloody mountain.
Still. I will force myself to go. I will chat with the few folks I actually know and maybe talk to some I don't. I will smile and have a drink and hopefully enjoy myself, even though I'll no doubt feel like the proverbial redheaded stepchild. Ah well, it builds character...right?
Uh huh.
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Time changes this weekend. I am a huge proponent of leaving time alone. Once I even contemplated moving to Arizona where they don't act like jack
In a meager attempt to offset the irritation caused by the morons who still think this is a good idea, I change my clocks on Saturday afternoon with the slight hope I can forget the whole thing by the time I go to bed.
And I'm convinced this would be a great plan...if I didn't have dogs who can't tell time.
There is no way you could be a redheaded stepchild. After all, you're blond. I've seen the photographs to prove it. Go get 'em, tiger!
ReplyDeleteMaybe my roots belong to a redhead...;D
DeleteI'll be okay, it's just that first bit where you walk in and don't know anyone and people stare. Eeww. On second thought, maybe I won't go after all...