Monthly Archives: September 2006

My Intimate Fantasies

As usual, the lusty headline of this post is just a cheap trick to get you to read something that is not lusty whatsoever. Sorry.

I do want to talk about fantasies, though, or more accurately about Fantasy, the genre. And Horror and Science Fiction while we’re at it. Collectively, the three genres are known as Speculative Fiction. Collectively, the three genres ought to be my favorites. In reality, they’re a continual source of disappointment. Like Charlie Brown with Lucy’s football, I keep going back for more, thinking this time it will be different. But there’s just so much crap being published in SF that I have to settle for a Suspense or a… well, a Suspense. God bless you, Jeffery Deaver.

I am a total slut for anything paranormal. (Hey! That was lusty! Kind of!) I am the tiniest bit psychic– remind me to post that story someday– and I have this embarassing fascination with supernatural stuff.

Case in point: Lo these many years ago, when I watched television, I couldn’t enough of the X-Files. I would actually cancel dates to watch it.

(This is not true, at all. I didn’t have dates in high school.)

(Who am I kidding. I don’t have dates now.)

And I love being scared. And I prefer dismal endings to happy endings. Which might explain why I love Russian novels.

I’m a prime candidate for loving speculative fiction. It is the segment of popular literature for us folks who won’t read anything that could be described as wholesome, or heart-warming, or inspiring. If you cannot abide the thought of an adorable critter solving a mystery, give SF a try. (Or hard-boiled or noir. That could work, too.)

So whatssamatter with me? Why oh why can I not be content?

Perhaps because I am undersexed. That would explain a lot, really.

But more to the point, I just don’t like the SF books being published. There are exceptions, of course, like anything written by Ian McDowell. (Yes, I’m pandering to Ian. I know he likes it, same as his uromastyx likes to be scratched behind her ears, or where I assume her ears are.) Ian has written two Dark Fantasy novels, Mordred’s Curse and Merlin’s Gift, and lots of disturbing short stories. But most SF is disappointing. Let’s criticize the genres separately, shall we?

Fantasy. A common criticism is that there’s nothing new. I’m pretty lenient about conventions, but even I get weary of beautiful, noble elves and belligerent, hairy dwarves. But my bigger complaint is with sloppy editing and sloppier writing.

I’m gonna pick on C. S. Friedman, cuz she just sucks. (Or is it C. J.? …C. Something Friedman.) She used the word "mere" or "merely" twenty-three times in three chapters. I counted.

Not everyone’s as bad as C. Whatever Friedman, but very little fantasy rises above mediocrity. It’s a shame. Just because a story includes wizards or goblins doesn’t mean it has to sacrifice artful writing or sensible word choice.

Science Fiction tends to have very cool plots and lousy characters. The narration is usually very distant– impersonal, like– and the style is usually dry. ‘S all right if that’s your kind of thing, I guess, but me? I like to get emotionally involved with the story and the characters. (Maybe this is why women don’t read science fiction.)

And horror— well, I only have one main criticism of horror. The characters are usually much better than what you find in science fiction; otherwise you wouldn’t be horrified when the monster eats them. The plots are good ("Hey! A monster’s gonna eat us!") and the writing is no worse and no better than in most genres.

So what’s my problem? Y’all, I haven’t been scared by a horror novel since I was 11. What’s the point of reading horror if you don’t get scared?

I’m willing to concede that the problem here might lie with me, not with the genre as a whole… (But seriously, was anyone actually scared by The Haunting of Hill House? Or Matheson’s Hell House? They put me to sleep. Am I obtuse?)

If anyone knows of a book that’s really, truly scary, let me know about it, kay? In return, I’ll tell you about a SF books that don’t suck. They do exist, if you know where to look for them.

Horror. Fat White Vampire Blues (Andrew Fox) is more about humour than horror, but it technically counts. Our hero is portly because he lives in New Orleans, where all of his entrees are fat. (See? See what I mean? Isn’t that funny?)

‘Salems Lot, by Stephen King, was the last book that scared me. You’ll recall that I was 11, and you’d probably be hard pressed to find any 11 year old who wouldn’t be scared of it, but I’m guessing there are a lot of adults who might get a tingle, too. Vampires infest small town. Terror ensues. Lots of gore and thwarted love, too, just the way I like it.

John Bellairs writes kids’ book, but they’re pretty creepy for all that. He’s good for ghosts and mummies, that sort of thing. He’s always making his boy-next-door heroes face eternal undead evil. Good stuff.

Science Fiction. Connie Willis, I love you. I love you I love you I love you. Read The Doomsday Book, and read it now. It is time-travel science fiction with awesome characters, unexpectedly funny bits, nasty diseases, and the sinking suspicion that everyone is doomed.

Dune– just kidding! I think Dune totally sucks! BLEARGH!

Kurt Vonnegut is kind of miffed that he’s been pegged as a Science Fiction writer, but that’s not preventing me from mentioning him here. You’ve got lots of choices for older science fiction (Ray Bradbury, anyone?) but I think Vonnegut is the most compassionate and readable of the lot. Welcome to the Monkey House is a collection of his short stories, SF and otherwise, in which you’ll find the classic dystopian "Harrison Bergeron."

Lois Lowry, like John Bellairs, is a children’s writer with appeal for adults. The Giver is a Newbery winner and is the first of her dystopian trilogy. Bear in mind that dystopias are often simplistic (gotta make sure the dire warning hits home), and of course children’s writing is usually simplistic, and yet Lowry still manages a complex, sophisticated story. She is capabale of tugging at the emotions, oh my yes. Immediately after finishing the last line in her trilogy, I set the book down and said "You bitch." I’m still pissed at her for the way she twisted my heart.

Fantasy. Guess I should mention Neil Gaiman at this point, though I could have done so under the other two genres, as well. Neil Gaiman is an astounding writer. I am unutterably grateful that he chooses to write stories with witches and zombies instead of contemplative middle-aged women. Go read his Sandman series. (Actually, I would prefer if you first read my NoveList piece on him, and then read the Sandman series.)

I feel silly writing about J.K. Rowling. If you’re not familiar with her by this point, well, there’s really nothing I can do… know why I’m such a Harry Potter fan? It’s because the books affect me like nothing, bar nothing, has done since I was a kid. When I was a kid I could totally get into my books. As an adult I have never been able to recapture that escapism, with the sole exception of the HP series. After book 7 comes out, I won’t have a reason to live.

I feel silly writing about Terry Pratchett here, too. Yeah, he’s a fantasy writer, but only incidentally. First a foremost he’s a satirist. He happens to satirize fantasy, but then again he happens to satirize everything under the sun. But hey, it counts. He’s the funniest writer alive. So there.


Faking It

I’m a fraud. I’m not a reader. I talk the talk but it’s all lies. Your average hamster knows more about popular literature than I do.

True Confessions of a False Librarian

(does this thing do blinking text? …No?… I suppose that’s for the best.)

I have been reading since age 2– almost 3, but I was still technically a two-year-old. My first book was Hop on Pop.

My first grown-up book was Watership Down. Read it when I was 8. I liked the bunnies. I didn’t pick up on the misogony. ("Hey, boys, let’s go start a new life on that next hill over there!" .. "Okay!" [two months pass.] "Shit! We forgot to get girl bunnies! We’re gonna die!")

Shortly thereafter I discovered Stephen King. Reading all his books, and then re-reading, kept me occupied through my teen years. I confess to maybe reading a Babysitters Club book or two or thirty– this despite being insulted by the transparent plots and static characterizations– but truly, most of my reading was school-related. I didn’t read much popular stuff.

(Okay, FINE. I read the Sweet Valley books. Quit badgering me.)

Then I got to college and found myself majoring in English. (And Russian history and Women’s Studies.) I read a slew of books, you betcha, but the Norton Anthology of English Literature v. I and v. II aren’t exactly bestsellers.

(Exception: in college I discovered Harry Potter. I am J.K. Rowling’s biggest fan. I mean it.)

Then I went to library school. (What the fuck else are you going to do with a degree in English, history, and women’s studies? Nothing, that’s what. Not a thing. It’s a useless piece of paper. I was unemployable.)

So I got to read a lot of library science literature. Can’t say as I recommend it.

Then somehow I found myself in a job at a public library where I was supposed to buy books that normal people would like to read.

"Oh shit," I said to myself. "Shit shit shit."

Not very eloquent, but there’s a certain raw energy there, wouldn’t you say?

As I believe I have demonstrated, I’ve always been an avid reader, but the types of books I prefer tend to come with prefaces by esteemed scholars and lots of explanatory footnotes. And bibliographies. The only popular author I was familiar with was Stephen King, and there’s a no-brainer if ever there was one. Any collection development librarian who doesn’t purchase SK for her library should be fired. No: shot.

So I’ve been faking it for over a year now. I’ve been working my tail off to play catch up, but it’s slow going. There are a lot of genres and a lot of popular authors I need to read up on. And that doesn’t even take into account the quirky, underground, cult-favorite titles that certain librarians in Seattle have the audacity to be fluent in, with the net effect of making me feel singularly stupid.

Is there a priest around? I need to confess. I have not read any of the following authors:

· James Patterson

· Nora Roberts

· Karen Kingsbury

· Patricia Cornwell

· Rita Mae Brown

· Beverly Lewis

Or any of these genres:

· Westerns (unless you can count Brokeback Mountain. That’s a stretch.)

· Regency romances

· Street Lit

And I have VERY limited experience in reading romances, chick lit, contemporary fiction, women’s fiction, non-academic nonfiction, Southern lit, urban lit, Christian fiction, horror… and I could go on.

You may be wondering how a poseur like me could get a job writing about popular fiction for NoveList. Good question. Here’s the story:

When I was in grad school I decided I should be a volunteer. Civic duty called, style of thing. So I signed up to volunteer with ComPeer, a mental health program that matches a mentally stable person with a mentally unwell person. (They must have made a mistake. They thought I was the healthy one. Chalk it up to a clerical error.)

That’s how I met Jane. (How’s that for a transparent pseudonym?) Jane and I spent an hour per week together, getting coffee or going shopping or just hanging out. It was good for her to get out of the house, to have someone supportive to listen to her.

Thing is, I graduated and moved to another state. Obviously the official ComPeer relationship ended, but it’s not like I was going to tell Jane to bugger off. She has my phone number and we still talk every few weeks.

Last Christmas Jane invited me down to Chapel Hill to attend a holiday gathering. It was not actually inconvenient, as I was passing through that day while en route to my parents’ house in western NC.

But the thing is, see, is that I hate parties. I hate gatherings of people, even when I know them, and save for Jane and her family, these would all be strangers. Her care team (local church do-gooders) would be there.

I really didn’t want to go. But I knew how much it would mean to Jane, and it was only for an hour anyway…

While I was there, considerately holding up a wall in a dark corner, a not-too-scary woman approached me and asked if I was the one with the Muggle license plate. (MUGL, actually. Some fucker already has the correct spelling.)

We got to talking Harry Potter, and then books, and then it slipped that I was a librarian.

"Oh!" she said. "Are you familiar with the database NoveList?"

Familiar with it? FAMILIAR WITH IT? I adored NoveList. It’s the best thing since pad thai.

This nice lady, Katherine, turned out to be an editor with NoveList. From that point we started an email correspondence, and eventually I got up the nerve to ask if she needed another writer. (Me, of all people! Me, with no qualifications!)

Turns out she did need another writer, which is how I sneaked my way onto the NoveList crew. Excepting me, it’s a group of very savvy, knowledgable, book-smart librarians. It’s how I got to meet Marian– obviously the highlight of the experience– and it’s how I got to meet Melvil, my new boss.

Yup. Because I decided to volunteer with Jane in grad school, and because I forced myself to go to her holiday party after I had moved away, I got to meet Katherine, which meant I got the prestige of writing for NoveList, which meant I was more than just a random name to the guy doing the hiring at the new job.

And that, ladies and gents, is the finest example of serendipty I have ever encountered. It would be the perfect story if the leading lady weren’t an imposter.

Gremmy on a Hot Tin Roof

As I was driving home today, I was mentally composing the blog I would post about my crappy day at work, cuz who wouldn’t want to hear my tedious whining? The petty irritations of my mundane life make for riveting reading. Right?

So there I was on the way home, hungry and tired and worried because I’d seen a flea in the morning. (You know, after yesterday’s flea bomb and flea powder and flea dip at the vet.)

Gobby was in the window waiting for me, as usual, though Gremmy wasn’t with her. That’s not atypical. Goblin is the window slut, not Gremlin.

The weirdness started when I walked in the door. Goblin greeted me but Gremlin didn’t. That’s not normal, not at all. Gremlin always comes over to say hi to me. Or to anyone. She’d say hi to a serial killer.

I found Gremlin lying in bed in exactly the same spot I’d left her that morning. Her posture seemed peculiar. Don’t ask how I could sense odd posture from a cat lying down. Feline mother instinct, or something. Then I picked her up.

What’s wrong with this situation?

Read that last line again. I picked her up. You can’t pick up Gremlin. She doesn’t tolerate it. That’s my only criticism of the girls– you can’t pick them up. They’ve very affectionate and they love to cuddle and hop in my lap or sit on my feet– but always, always on their own terms. I can’t pick up either one.

When I picked up Gremlin and she didn’t even meow, I knew something was very, very wrong. I walked her over to the food dish and water bowl. No dice.

She tried walking to the litter box. For a second there I was worried she’d broken something– she was moving gingerly, and seemed to be favoring one leg.

When she got to the litter box she tried to get in but couldn’t manage to climb in.

At this point I called the vet. I got the recorded message telling me to contact Greenbiar clinic in Chesapeake.

Do you know how far away Chesapeake is? Over an hour. I didn’t even know where Chesapeake was. Somewhere to the east, but I hadn’t the foggiest how to get there.

So I called the Chesapeake vet. After I described the symptoms, the nice lady on the phone told me to bring her in then, not to wait till tomorrow.

By this point I was nearing hysteria. My little girl was so sick she could barely move, and it was urgent, and the nearest goddam vet was over an hour away in a city of indeterminate whereabouts.

I’ll spare you all the details. Careful readers will recall that Gremlin hates car rides, but– get this– she was so sick she barely protested the whole hour and forty minute car ride. (Why did it take so long? Because I got lost, naturally. I got to explore part of Virginia Fucking Beach, though.)

Then we waited, and then we waited some more. Long story short: Gremlin is reacting poorly to yesterday’s flea dip and/or rabies vac and/or bordatella shot.

Also, her neck is sore. The nice vet this evening speculated that she was handled roughly yesterday. Now it’s no secret that Gremmy-Lou is a she-devil when you try to give her a bath (remember, she won’t even let you pick her up), but was it really necessary to throttle my little baby?

They gave her a bath to counter the effects of yesterday’s flea dip and sent her home with some medicine.

My poor little girl. Car rides, neck-choking, baths, medicine, and general malaise and tenderness. Hasn’t eaten in who knows how long. Hasn’t had anything to drink, either, though this evening’s vet gave her a shot of something to hydrate her.

And poor little me. I didn’t get to eat dinner till 11, I am really fucking broke, and we still have fleas. All that shit yesterday didn’t do the trick. I saw one this morning and Goblin’s still itching. Gremlin probably would be too, if it didn’t hurt her to move.

If this were any other time, I would seriously entertain the idea of calling in sick tomorrow, but I’ve got too much work to do. I told my boss I’d be in a few hours late, though– that will let me sleep in a little. (Naturally, I’ll stay late to make up the hours.)

But on the very, very bright side, Gremlin is alive.

World’s Shortest Poem


Adam had em.

Very short horror story:

Goblin and Gremlin had fleas.

It’s totally unfair, you know. They’re indoor cats.

Instead of going to work today, I woke up bright and early at 7 (I swear I don’t know how other folks get up so early– I’ve heard some people ENJOY it) and drove to the vet. All three of us were miserable. G. & G. were mraowing so loud I couldn’t hear NPR playing Shostakovich. (Happy birthday, Dmitri!)

Car rides with the girls always involve kitty pee, kitty poo, and a very tense driver. Why oh why didn’t I make the Kennedy-Rockefeller chauffeur do it?

While the girls were getting their flea dips, I sprinkled the carpet with flee-b-gon and set off a flea bomb. Two hours later, after the stuff had done its work, I came home and started cleaning. You’ve got to vaccuum up the stuff really well because it’s poisonous to kitties as well as fleas. Then I scrubbed the kitchen and the bathroom to cleanse them of lingering flea bomb junk.

Let’s be clear, here: I hate cleaning. I am lousy at things domestic. I can’t cook. I clean only when it is desperately, desperately necessary. I kill houseplants. I have all the interior decorating instinct of your common snow shovel. I am the opposite of a domestic goddess. I am the domestic anti-christ.

But actually it’s good that the flea poison forced my hand. I’ve got to start cleaning this place for when I move out.

I toyed with the idea of hiring someone to clean the apartment for me, despite having read Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickle and Dimed. Ehrenreich’s thesis, essentially, is that people who hire cleaners are maggots. She’s more eloquent than that, but there’s your basic gist. She makes a good case for it, too. You walk away from the book thinking that maid service is no better than slave labor, and that anyone lazy enough to hire a maid is a facist bourgeois pig.

Still though, I thought about it, until I realized that I’m about to be very, very broke. There was the kitty bill today. There’s the price of the U-Haul. And dear heavens, there’s the price of the labor. $89 an hour is the cheapest I could find for the Wilhelmsplatz end of things, and absolutely no one seems to be available in Franklin. I know it’s a small town, but Christ.

And my first paycheck from Wilhelmsplatz won’t come till the 14th of November. I’ve hit the cycle in exactly the wrong place: I’ll have worked for nearly a month before I get some cash. When you consider that, plus the money I’m about to lay down… Well. I won’t be hiring any cleaning services. Only fascist bourgeois pigs do that.

Enter Crystal. Crystal’s one of my co-workers, perfectly young and healthy and capable of moving, but I didn’t want to ask her for help because she’s got a young kid. (It is common knowledge that I don’t like children, but Marlee’s pretty cool for a 4-year-old. She’s one of those obnoxiously attractive blonde little kids and she shows every sign of being personable and intelligent.) But Crystal thinks she can rustle up some friends to help for less than $89/hour.

If anything Crystal should be mad at me, cuz with me abandoning ship and all, she’s just going to have more work to do at the liberry. But she offered, so I think my worries are taken care of.

Crystal is totally on my Best Person du Jour list. I completely renounce everything I said on talk radio about her being a tramp and a whore. (Kidding, Crystal, kidding.)

And now I am going to settle down to an itch-free, flea-free evening after my hard day of not being at work.

You make my heart sing… you *move* me

Let’s turn Franklin into a place for Maurice Sendak to write about!

That probably didn’t make any sense. Here, let me connect the dots. There’s the song Wild Thing, right? WILD Thing… you make my HEART sing… you make EVrything… GROOvy…. you MOVE me.

And I want someone to MOVE me, from here to Wilhelmsplatz, which means I need Wild Things here, which means I need Maurice Sendak to draw me some critters that go bump in the night.

(I always figured that line in the song was about an erection. Am I wrong?)

The awful things is that I don’t know anyone who can help me move. Dad is willing to drive 6 hours out here, but his back has been giving him problems and it’s really hard for him to get off work. It’s well nigh impossible for Mom to get off work… and it’s not like they’re spring chickens, anyway. What kind of lousy daughter would I be if I asked them for help?

I have plenty of friendly coworkers around here but they’re almost all Of A Mature Age, and frankly they’re not in the greatest shape to start with. I don’t want to be responsible for giving anyone a heart attack. I have three, count em three, coworkers who are younger than 40. Tom and Shameka both work on the day I’m moving. Crystal is in the middle of moving herself, and besides she’s got for a four-year-old.

Rob could drive up here from Chapel Hill but he’s in the middle of a senior year semester. Mike could drive up here from Durham but he’s broke. And that juuuuuust about exhausts the number of exes I have with whom I am on friendly enough terms to beg a moving favor. Any other ex would prolly dump my stuff from the James River bridge.

So at risk of exposing how few friends I actually have, I have to admit that I’m running out of people to ask. I still have a few good buddies tucked away, but durn if they don’t all live far away. And since I’m lousy at keeping in touch anyway, it would be really tacky to call them up out of the blue and beg them for physical labor. ("Amber! What’s in been, 10 months? A year? How’s everything? Great, great… Say, you wanna drive 3 hours and help me move, and then drive another 2 hours to haul my shit up two flights of stairs? And then drive back?")

I checked on Craig’s List for movers and odd-jobbers. Keep your fingers crossed that something comes through.

And if anyone’s been wondering why I’ve been maintaining my blog so faithfully this past week, well– isn’t it obvious? I’m procrastinating.

Blood, Boobs, Sex, and Explosions!

Coming soon to a laptop near you! It’s Blood! It’s Boobs! It’s Sex! And… It’s… EXPLOSIONS!

Long the hallmarks of quality cinema, these elements are coming to you in the action-packed blog-posting of the summer!

Let’s start with the blood. It’s been on my mind in a figurative sense, and on my underoos in a literal sense. ‘Bout once a month my uterus decides to leak blood. I’ve tried reasoning with it.

"I don’t want kids," I explain. "If for reasons inexplicable I ever decide to raise a child, I’ll adopt. There are too many babies out there who need parents."

"But what about those excellent Kennedy-Rockefeller genes?" responds my uterus.

And it is very difficult to respond to that, cuz let’s face it, any sweet child o mine would be a badass, especially if Johnny Depp is the daddy. Still though. Until that day when Johnny Depp comes begging for my body (and it’s just a matter of time) I’m not going to breed.

So there’s this renegade organ in my tummy that gets a kick out of dripping menses from that oft-sought but rarely-seen region of my body. And until last month I had been using tampons and pads to staunch the flow.

Think about it. Imagine you’re a happy little cotton plant in Alabama somewhere, assuming it’s possible for any living creature to be happy in Alabama, which it’s not. And then you get harvested and turned into a Tampax. Your whole raison d’etre is to sit in my vagina for a few hours. And while any sentient human being would kill for the opportunity, I just can’t see a cotton ball getting off on it.

But now I’ve discovered The Keeper. It’s a plastic cup you stick up your hoo-hoo. It collects the blood and then you dump it out, preferably into your houseplants, which thrive on menses. It’s painless, it’s practical, and you only have to buy one to last you the rest of your child-bearing years. It’s so much less wasteful than disposable cotton products.

Now then. Sex and boobs. While reading MarianLibrarian‘s blog, it occured to me that the whole of library science literature is sorely missing an important textbook, and that she and I need to co-author it. To wit: there is no text on the world’s hottest authors.

Naturally, Neil Gaiman would be the star. He’d probably be featured on the cover, and mebbe we could get him to write the intro. Maybe he’d agree to a personal interview, if you know what I mean.

But who else would be in the book? WHO ELSE? Discuss.

Me, I’m opting for Kurt Vonnegut. (It is not a coincidence that Vonnegut and Gaiman are my two favorite living writers.) He’s hot for an octagenarian. He’s the Sean Connery of writers.

Though I don’t normally think of him as a hottie, when I was a young teen I was totally turned on by the picture of Stephen King on the back cover of Insomnia. It still has a strategic place on my bookshelf.

And then there would be philosophical questions to consider. Should he choose to write a book, do we include Johnny Depp? (He is, after all, going to father my children. See above.) Do we exclude celebreties who happen to write something? What about Madonna? She’s written a children’s book and a rather better known grown-up book.

Which brings to my attention that this is a rather hetero list. Marian’s never gonna sleep with me if she thinks I’m all straight. (I suspect her husband might have something to say about it too…) So who are the hot female authors, huh? They’ve totally got to be included in the book. And authors of color! And international authors! This will be a book of the new millennium, please and thank you. No discrimination here.

Eric Jerome Dickey? Sandra Cisneros? Ian McDowell? (Hi, Id! Call Women!)

Guess that about wraps it up… oh! Wait! I promised explosions!

Here ya go:


Fall of the House of Franklin

Goodbye, musty old Franklin apartment complex! Hello, swanky new Wilhemsplatz apartments!

After several days of false hopes and nail-biting suspense, I’ve found a place to live. It was actually the number-one apartment complex on my list. I had looked up info on all the apartments in Williamsburg and ranked them based on a variety of factors, including location, cost, distance from work, and reviews I found on an apartment-rating website.

Parkway Apartments came out the best of the bunch. I had coughed up a $35 application fee to begin the screening process before I realized they didn’t have anything available. (The email they sent me said they did, and I paid my $ before I discovered it was wrong).

So I was all grouchy over the loss of my 35 smackeroos. I resigned myself to an $825 apartment in a less appealing complex that wasn’t going to open until 2 days after I started work.



They called me this morning around 10 to tell me about an apartment available in… November!

Damn it, got my hopes up and everything. November was just too late.



They called around 11 to tell me about a new apartment available on October 2!

It is a 900 sq. ft. one-bedroom that’s going to chip away at my bank by app. $750 a month. There’s no washer/dryer, but there is a balcony and it’s not far from either branch and it’s near the historical district. Or as Dad calls it, Hysterical Wilhelmsplatz.

So I’ve got a place to move to AND I get to move to it BEFORE the new job starts.

So who wants to help me move? I’m not going to look kindly on excuses like "But I live in North Carolina!" or "But I live in Missouri!" (or Kansas, or whichever one it is. They’re indistinguishable.)

In fact, here is the only acceptable excuse: "But I live in China!" Only Becca gets to use that.

See you Saturday the 14th, everyone. 🙂