Scarlett Letters

So one of my passtimes during this pandemic life has been perusing homes for sale on Redfin and Zillow. For a while, it was entertainment. For a while it was boredom. But the more I do it, the more I feel the 20+ years I've been here weighing on me. A lot has happened here, some great things, some things that I need to put behind me in a pretty significant way. It may be time for me to really find a new space to build my life in a new way. I feel stymied and stuck. I feel like no matter how I rearrange and reorganize, it's the same damn place with the same damn issues and the same damn memories. I want better space, not necessary larger but better distributed and better organized. I want something newer without as many issues. I have to learn to trust myself and my gut feelings, and this feeling of stagnation is just wearing on me. I've put in a call to my investment banker to see where things are at with my accounts. I want to talk things through with someone who doesn't have an emotional investment in where I am and who understands my financial situation. I want to see if I can get pre-qualified and figure out what that will mean. If I know what my options are, I can make a more informed decision about which way I want to go, whether it's stay and prep the place for sale, renovate and make it work, or just dump the place and move on. All I know is I feel stuck and I need to move or just disintegrate.

1) I'm a little crabby this morning. How do I know? I didn't put the package of English muffins on the counter carefully and when it fell off, my honest-to-gosh thought was, "F*cking gravity."
2) Zeke is all about honesty. I put his antibiotics in salmon-flavored pill pockets this morning and he wouldn't eat them. I took the pills out and pilled him like the pro I am, and then he ate the pill pockets as if to say, "Good. We understand each other. Transparency is important."
3) Sophie is sunbathing on her back with her paws stretched over her head and I giggle every time I look at her.
4) I'm all excited about the new Seattle hockey team, the Seattle Kraken. In a fit of enthusiasm, I went to the team store, couldn't decide which team-logo-emblazoned shirt I wanted so I bought, I admit, several in different sizes and designs, figuring I could try things on, see what fit and looked good and return the others. Now I can't figure out how to return the ones I don't want. No receipts with the packages, no return info on the website, no answer at the customer service number. I am irritated as hell.
5) It looks like it's going to be a nice, mild summer day in Seattle today. I look forward to that.

I was scanning Facebook this morning and came across a post by an acquaintance of many years who posted a link to an article of his that had just been published. It was about weird Westerns, and was full of book cover pictures as well as about 7 columns of text. All of the books were by men. Only two covers featured women: busty women, tightly clothed, obviously there for the male gaze. My first reaction was to congratulate the writer and then ask him if his article included a woman writer of my circle who had written a trilogy of very good weird Westerns, all of which had received critical acclaim and one of which was an award winner. I then decided that since the article was a fait accompli, getting combative about it, trying to educate him after the fact, would not improve the quality of my life and so I did not challenge his choices.

I don't know whether making this choice was a sign of earned experience or just exhaustion. Probably both. I'm just so tired of this kind of blindness. No genre is the single province of men and to assume so, to write as if that's the case, especially in 2020, is the worst kind of chauvinism. There are times when I'm really up for the fight. This morning, at 6:30 AM, in the midst of a global pandemic, I don't have the energy to spare for a man who should know better. As a feminist, after decades of trying to be aware and make others aware of things like this, it's angering, sure, but the exhaustion is just overwhelming.

So this morning, I decided not to get into the fray. I'm jus going to let it be. The article is a fait accompli, as I said. Someone else can educate him. Me? I'm just disappointed in him.

I got my hair cut and colored today for the first time in about 6 months, maybe more. I just looked at myself for the first time since I left the salon. (I'm so blind that I can't really see more than blurs without my glasses, which were off most of the time I was in the salon.) Both the colorist and the stylist did a nice job with my hair, though it's a little darker and longer than I would prefer for summer. (They're both new to working with me. My regular colorist just left the salon for another job, and my regular stylist isn't coming back until Washington State is at Phase 4.)

But the thing that has stayed with me is what it felt like to be touched intimately by another person. I won't say how long it's been since that's happened, but it's been a really long time. Someone touching my head, which is a Thing for me, felt almost like a forbidden pleasure, like something that shouldn't happen in a public place. I enjoyed it almost too much. And now I can't stop thinking about it, because I don't know when I'm going to share that kind of touch with another person, ever. Touching one's own head isn't the same thing, because what you feel is how your hand feels touching your head. When someone else touches your head, your head feels it, rather than your hands, and it's a whole different sensation. I knew I was touch hungry, didn't realize I was that touch hungry. It's almost enough to weep.

Sometimes, you make a decision for all the right reasons, and even though you believe you were being smart, it still hurts, it's still sad, and you still feel bad about it. I made a decision that almost everyone I consulted with supported. It seemed like the smart thing to do. But every decision has consequences and the consequences I'm living with right now just . . . well, they suck. I knew they would come and I can't change my decision because it involves other people whom I can not and do not wish to control. But the decision makes me sad, among other feelings, and some nights it's harder to take than others. Tonight, it's really hard.

1. Thursday was the surgery to fix my trigger thumb. It went quickly; I was in and out in about three hours. After surgery I had lunch with KSWINOD (KS who is not on DreamWidth), picked up my pain meds, came home and napped. Took a sick day yesterday from work because I was just knackered and in pain. Still just chillin'.

2. The NHL has announced the name of Seattle's new hockey team, the Kraken, and as a child of Long Island in the 1970s, when the Islanders had their dynasty years, I'm all in. I love the logo, I love the idea of Seattle hockey. I'm happy.

3. I have all this time and I want to craft, but my dexterity is significantly reduced and it's driving me a little bit crazy.

4. Protests are planned in Seattle today. I have prior plans for things today, but I continue to donate to supporting organizations. For now, that will have to be enough. I have friends who are putting their bodies into the fray; I admire them. I have, however, what they don't: disposable income to help the work go on. So that's my contribution. For now.

5. I took a shower this morning, the first since surgery on Thursday; I was too beat and freaked out to shower before. The hospital gave me three evening-length plastic gloves to put on my arm so that I wouldn't get the dressings on my hand wet (not to use all at once, mind you--one at a time as needed). I used a rubber-band on my upper arm to make sure the water stayed out. It was a very peculiar experience showering that way, and it was weird washing my hair that way. I suspect I won't really feel clean until I can use both my hands properly again.

Woke up this morning and realized, based on how my head and body feel, that I forgot to take my meds yesterday. Maybe the day before, too. Meds taken. This f*cking pandemic. I'm reverting to all my very worst tendencies.

I'm going to try not to be late to work today. Why would I be late to work? Because my dear ironymaiden pointed me at this post that discusses fandom, fanfiction, and the confluence of the two as it relates to how fanfic has been treated by mainstream SF fandom over the decades. I have A LOT to say about this; the short version (because I don't want to be late for work) is that, as a fan fiction writer going waaaay back, I agree with the author of the post. At the same time, as someone who has worked in book publishing and has occasionally been a professionally published writer, I have a slightly different perspective. So I'm not going to get into this now (see above re: not wanting to be late for work), but I will later.

I also, as a result of the above, dipped into File 770 for the first time in a while. My thoughts are as follows:

OK, it's still possible for me to get to work on time. I'm out--more anon.

We are 30 days away from Halloween. There are projects I promised I would do this month. I must get on them all.

I have fresh corn and I haven't eaten it yet. What is wrong with me?

I have conquered the first of the two major work deadlines for this year. It was, in many respects, much easier this year than it has been in the past, even with new challenges to address. The next one is in a month. May it also be easy to conquer.

I have wanted to be crafty creative for several days now, but was feeling so lousy that I couldn't muster the energy. Last night I did some coloring. I would like to finish the piece I started within the next couple of days. I enjoyed the work.

No great insights here, just . . . wanting to note that I'm still here.

WorldCon and my dream state
Last night's dreams weren't as mild as the dreams of the night before.

I dreamed that I woke up aware of someone in my home. The first time, it was a stranger, and I fought him off, down the stairs to my front door and out of the condo, screaming all the while. I went back to sleep and the second time I was awakened, the home invader was Frederik Pohl stealing my first editions of his books to take with him to WorldCon. As the convention ended, I tried to call him to demand he return my books; he told me he'd given them away as prizes at his readings. (This irritates me, this framing of the man with whom I was acquainted as a villain; each time we met he was kind and funny and generous. I didn't know him at all well, but my experience of him was always good.)

I really did not expect to have this kind of reaction to not attending WorldCon this year. I know that not everyone in my life is going, even though as I read through Facebook right now it seems that way. I also know that the rhythms of my life will be different from now on for not attending (as they are different for my not attending Norwescon, though that may change again at some point). I just didn't guess my psyche would work overtime to process the emotions I wasn't aware of having about it.

Air quality
It's big news in these parts: the air quality sucks. The West is burning, as varina8 says so succinctly, and the air is full of ash. It seems like this year, it's of a finer grain than it was last year. I remember being able to see the ash on flower petals; this year it seems more like dust. Our skies are yellow-gray, the sun is a hot orange-red ball in the sky, and the whole world looks like it's being shot through an apocalypse filter. Yesterday, I worked from home in the morning and from Wayward Coffeehouse in the afternoon. I'd be in the office but for after-work appointments more easily accessed from this neighborhood than from downtown. The air conditioning at Wayward made it much easier to handle. But I wake up every day right now feeling this film of grime all over me, and breathing is just unpleasant. I spend most of the morning wiping my eyes as they try to relieve the irritation. My next door neighbor has a beautiful long-haired cat that they leave outside. I wake every morning to hear her meowing for company and breakfast, and I worry about her out there in this foul stuff, breathing it in and licking it off of her fur--but she's not my cat. :: sigh ::

Redecorating
I've been slowly redecorating the house: new and different furniture and art. I've been obsessing about this piece to replace the pine end table I have in my TV room; I'm sick of the thing even as I have a weird loyalty to it. It reminds me that I should have bought the end table that matched the Asian-style chest I have up there rather than trying to be pennywise at the time. I still kick myself for that choice, despite the fact that the end table is sturdy and modestly handsome as these things go. (I'm betting the Wayfair piece isn't as solidly well-built frankly.) I'm also getting ready to rotate art in the house again. I need to look at my inventory and see what it's time to display. I'm also keeping my eyes open for new and interesting things to add to the collection. I have an idea for what I'm thinking of as my Stephen Maturin wall: what might a 19th century naturalist display as a result of exploration and travel? I have found a centerpiece, must excavate my collection for other bits, and am keeping an eye out for the strange and interesting as I peruse garage sales, antique shops and flea markets this summer. It's a kind of creative project at a time when I feel like other creative pipelines are clogged.