It's here!  It's here!  I are so excited....

(Dear flist - this may be long and boring, but it is really important to me and I hope some of you actually read it all the way to the end...it should, at least, have amusing parts...)

I may have mentioned casually somewhere along the line that I am not particularly athletic.  I should clarify.  I am not particularly athletic the way Neville Longbottom was not particularly adept at Snape's potions classes.

While I never managed to actually melt a pair of sneakers just by standing around in them, I did manage to get lost in the water in the  pool and had to be retrieved from where I got lost to.  I managed to fail the President's fitness test in Junior High School.  (You did  not know it was possible to FAIL that?  Evidently it was...) They put me in remedial gym with about 5 other kids, all of whom had some legitimate disability of some sort.  (They had to take me out of remedial gym because it conflicted with advanced French, so I wasn't there long.)

Once I got to High School I could PICK, within reason, what I wanted for gym.  So I took weight lifting, and recreational games, (crab soccer, anyone?) and dance, and orienteering, and one semester when no better choice presented itself, golf.  This did not get me off scott free from basketball, softball and, the worst, taught by a teacher who insisted we follow the very latest international women's volleyball association rules, Volleyball.  And I hated, with a burning, driving passion which I cannot begin to describe, any competitive game.  I never understood the rules.  No one ever taught me any of the skills.  People would yell at me what to do with the ball and I never understood what they meant.If the ball came anywhere near me, it hit me in the face.  I sucked at every last bit of it, it was humiliating, I wanted to die, and that was pretty much that.  Throw in that I hate getting my face sweaty and changing clothes in front of strangers and you've got the whole gorgeous enchilada of my-life-in-gym. 

Thus, when the note came home in the bookbag for Mommy basketball at the kid's school, I knew it was the perfect opportunity.  It would be hard.  It would be miserable.  I would hate it.  And if I did it, I could then forevermore point to this and say "House Elf, remember when Mommy did the basketball, and it was hard, and she stunk at it, but she kept on trying because it was a good thing to do and eventually she stunk a little less at it?" at points where he needed to work hard at something he didn't enjoy.  That, and I thought it might be some sort of bonding experience for him to be able to laugh at me.  I signed up.

Ben Franklin said to beware any enterprise that required new clothing.  This bizarre effort of mine started with my having to ASK my knit buddies what people wear to play basketball.  I must have looked achingly pathetic, because one of them decided immediately that she needed to upgrade her yoga pants wardrobe and could I possibly use a pair she was "getting rid of anyway."  She even delivered them to my door late Tuesday night.

Wednesday it occurred to me that the last time I bought sports shoes of any description was back in the 90's.  Not that I have exactly worn them out, but I had no idea where they might be, and I didn't even have a pair of skippies to my name.  Nor did I have a nice big T-shirt to wear over all this.  So we went to the Dollar store and 35 dollars later we came out with t-shirts, underpants for my kid, a set of long johns that should work for pj's for me, leggings, a nice pair of athletic socks with the American Flag on them, two lipsticks and a crystal bracelet featuring red aurora borealis globes, so I could channel my inner Gryffindor.  I mean, despite the cauldrons, Neville does eventually get the snake, so maybe...

I went to Payless Shoes for something to put on my feet.  Athletic shoes are ugly.  They are unremittingly ugly at normal female sizes, and I have the feet of a drag queen.  However, there was one pair with bright blue soles, which looked somehow like large little kid sneakers, so I got them. For the egregious sum of 35 dollars.  And because it was BoGo, I got a second pair of shoes, five inch high Come-F#ck-Me pumps, in a color to match the two dresses I got back in October, just to remind myself that I am still me, even if I do have new athletic shoes.  ( I wasn't always old and fat and ugly and the legs are holding up better than the rest of me...)

Begging God and all the saints to help me, I walked into the gym still chewing on my dinner, because of course there was not time to eat it at home, and had the first failure - seltzer I bought refusing to open without spraying all over.

And that was the last true failure of the night.

I mean, no, I could not do a single sit-up.  And yes, I did fall over at one point when I missed a ball that was passed to me.  And true, the only people in the room who might have been worse than me were people with foreign accents who had probably never touched a basketball before in their lives.  But I really was not that bad.  I was a lot better than I was the last time I tried doing any of this in HS.  I dribbled the ball.  She who had amused 20 years of HS students by saying "I am not telling you I know everything.  I can't even dribble a basketball.  But I am better at what I teach than you are..." and fielding incredulity every single time dribbled the ball down to the end of the gym and back.  Did it slow, did it faster, did it with her non-dominant hand, did it from one hand to the other. 

I DRIBBLED THE FECKING BALL! 

And when we got to practice how to shoot baskets after a brief explanation ( I do not recall anyone in gym ever telling me HOW to shoot one - just Go Do It.  Sylvia B, and the rest of you, you probably TRIED, but I could not possibly hear...)  I got three baskets!!!!

And two were nothing but net!!!!

And One was on my first try!

Now this was not on the regulation hoop.  It was maybe  a foot lower.  But it was not a LOW hoop, not down near my head or anything.  AND I GOT THE BALL THROUGH THE HOOP!

Can y'all say "And Hermione Granger has Scored with the Quaffle!" in Lee Jordan's voice???

No one laughed at me.  No one laughed at anyone.  We all just had a good time.  And when I had to try to get a point for my team at the very end of class and the best I could do was four attempts that hit the rim or the backboard (At regulation height this time) I still got a high five and I was not the least bit humiliated.

My six year old was wildly disappointed that he won't be able to teach me to dribble, but I pointed out that I still don' know how to do it while someone is trying to take the ball away from me, and he was ok with that.  And the silly shoes, on the way home, well, I can't tell for sure, but they might be glow in the dark... how fun is that?

Maybe there is something to be said for desperate prayer and for getting better at things as you get older after all...

I've actually had a number of really nice things happen lately...

Last week, when I had to show up to a militia function with a rag wrapped around my head like a brain surgery patient, everyone was nice enough not to notice unless I mentioned it, and then they said it was fine. 

And when I was absently commenting on my family, a Raveler posted to ask about them and I exchanged a pm or two with her,

Which then led me to go look on Ancestry for my grandfather when he was in Australia, and, finding some mentions of a name like his asked in the Genealogy group there if some kind soul with the correct kind of subscription would look and see if any of them were him.  Two people did, and one found him!

And it is for a record which might yield more info about his father!

AND it yielded the correct name of his ship, which then led to being able to find it in all sorts of newspapers, including some very interesting tidbits about a storm it was caught in, I think when he was on it, which ripped the masts off, washed everything on deck overboard, and swamped the cabins.  And this obviously gives me an intriguing set of details about the life of a very very beloved grandfather who died rather young and way way before we were done with him, and who we all miss to this day, and this day is a good 45 years later.

Then, there is Braveheart.  Braveheart has been moving his lips more - he seems to be ABLE to move them a bit more.  And his other muscles seem to be working a tiny bit better, too.  We are even getting more verbal language!!!

My mom took him and me to the movies today to see The War Horse, which she had previously read to him.  The movie was wonderful.

Even better, he was really engaged during the vast majority of it. 

He expressed opinions about it in response to questions.

AND

Then we ran into a friend of my mother's who made Braveheart a sweater when he was a baby.  This woman has a daughter who was about ten at that time, and about whom I have heard bits from time   Well, I was introduced to the Friend, who I probably met once before on some occasion I do not recall, but also, for the first time, the daughter, now a grown woman, and I was chatting with her while our mothers were talking.  I'm not quite sure how it happened, but she asked me if I knew what fanfic was.!

I raised my hand and said, "Harry Potter."  Which resulted in a discussion about fan fic, fan fic friends, her Frasier Fics, friends you make over the internet, her job, her degree, My life, my degree, etc, etc, etc... 

And then, it turns out that not only does her mother knit, her mother also researches genealogy.

And they live a few blocks from my mother. 

I have, seriously, made a new friend.  And it was a WONDERFUL feeling.

And as if all this were not enough, Braveheart was trying to be in both conversations, which is much more confident and outgoing than he usually is, and trying to use his communication board, which we are often struggling to get him to use...

And mom and I bought pashminas together, which was fun...

Oh, and now Dan is on SNL as the guest host.

And the duvet cover I bought at Ikea has passed muster as close enough to make an 18th century gown with...

And I got us another pewter mug to reenact with, and this one actually is made from pewter   and it was only one dollar.  (They both have glass bottoms, which they should not, but you can't have everything.)

Your niceness below, please...

um... See mah icon?

That's mah icon.

<<dulll

One of the nicest Christmas presents I've received this year, and certainly the most unexpected, is that my story Chestnuts was recorded for the audiofictions. 



It was a tremendous pleasure to hear it read in a man's voice, and one who managed an in-character Severus as well as a very creditable Harry. This story was nominated to be read years ago, but I know Carole had something to do with it being done now.  Thank you, Carole, from the bottom of my squiggly little heart.

I managed to get out when DH got back tonight and go to Starbucks for the cards for the teachers and bus drivers, and then went to Michael's and Barns and Nobles.

Bigger brother taken care of, sisters in law taken care of, younger brother at least half if not entirely taken care of, DH bought his own pressie, lemme see, the kids...

I had a coupon so I got Braveheart Inheritance on Audio Book.  IT was an obscene amount of money even with the coupon, but EXCUSE me, but no, Grapes of Wrath does not count in the present accounting.  You bought it, you can wrap it, you can put it under the tree, you can effing listen to it with him, but it is not something I am giving my son for Christmas, I have NO PART IN IT. 

I wrapped a bunch of the stuff, too.

Remind me to Help Braveheart glue things tomorrow...

Ok, this is going to be a bit monotonous...

My kids are recovering from being sick.

I am recovering from being sick.

My friend's brother is recovering from being sick.

I think one of my friends has recovered from minor surgery.

My dieing wing char has been recovered in a stretch slip cover which, surprisingly, DH likes.

Well, recovering is nice, isn't it?

Your niceness below, please...

Yes, I finished NaNo, for the seventh year running. 

This one is a pile of horsecrap/roadkill/youpickthederogatoryname

Nor, of course, is it done.  50,000 words is not enough.

However, I must allow that I was branching out in a new direction, so maybe that has something to do with it...

It has one novel, with an interconnected novel that has a novel in it, and another bit of a novel inside the first novel.

Because, erm, yes, I really do think that way...

So somehow, someway, despite any number of times that I saved things before then, to no less than three drives,  I lost 15 or 16 thousand words yesterday.

Luckily, I had ALSO emailed to myself at about 10,000, so I was able to restore from that, and had another 3-4 thousand on my Neo that i had not erased yet, so I got back up to close to 14,000, but it took the stuffing out if it.  That, and a minor, inoffensive comment about a very slight thing I mentioned about the book by a person who was a. totally well-intentioned and b. has never read anything I've written but forum posts and pm's in a totally non-writer's forum.

Took the stuffing out of me.

Is it possible God did not like the direction the story was taking?  Seems unlikely....

I am writing two books in one this year and I actually hate writing one of them.  I'm doing it because Braveheart asked.  But that's not the one I lost words on.

I didn't get a word done yesterday.  No idea if I will get a word done today.  I'm not afraid of not getting to 50,000, but I would so very much like to get to the END of a story for once.

I don't know where she gets these questions, but this one intrigued me, so...

"What do you want done with your body after you die?"

First, I am never going to die.

Second, if I actually die, my plan is that I will have lived to 132, and Braveheart to the appropriate age, and my parents to the same day, etc, and that we will all be at a wonderful party and then boom, we all go at once having no idea what is happening.  In which case, then, who cares.

But just in case it is actually ever door number three...

What do I want?

I will tell you what I want.

I want a mob of sobbing, heartbroken people, all of whom knew me personally, some of whom flew in from other continents because they just could not let me go without saying goodbye.

I want five packed to the doors of the funeral home out to the street nights of a wake with people trying to be brave and constantly breaking down.

I want Funeral Cards with Saints on the front and the date of my death over a prayer on the back, laminated, printed in Italy.

I want to look better than I ever did in life, and I want that they made REALLY SURE I WAS MOST SINCERELY DEAD before they start embalming me.  And I want someone who loved me to hang around and make sure they are not selling  my body parts to the unsuspecting.

I want a High Mass with a booming organ.  If anyone wants it concelebrated by four or five priests in full regalia, that is ok, but not essential, although if you do go for the High Mass you should really make sure it has incense...

I want everyone to go to the cemetery, where not only does someone say something nice, but everyone waits while they lower the casket, and then shovels dirt over me, taking turns, until the grave is full, at which point a piece of plywood is pulled up, and people dance across my grave on the way back to the waiting cars.  They should dance the Lindy to "In the Mood" and they should dance the Hora.  Everyone.  If, God forbid, Braveheart is still in a wheelchair, one of you be kind enough to push him please.

Then I want everyone to go back to the Diner and eat. 

And I would like people to still miss me many years later.

Oh, yeah, and bury my keys with the store cards on the keychain to confound future archeaologists who dig me up, and NO JEWELRY.  I DO NOT WANT TO BE DUG BACK UP UNTIL THE SCHOLARS ARE DOING IT BECAUSE NO ONE RECALLS THE NAME OF OUR CULTURE.

Throwing religious medals into the coffin before they close it is entirely optional, but a thoughtful touch.