wishfulaces: (rory)
I'm in this little singing group, of six women with a female accompanist, and I'm the youngest by almost 15 years, and sometimes the ladies drive me batty with their chattiness when I want to get down to business and sing, and sometimes the ladies piss me off something fierce when they start going conservative Christian on me (where I live, it's sadly par for the course, and I keep telling myself just by living here I subvert the norm), but when they focus, when we're singing...it's beautiful. We sound really wonderful together, especially when harmonizing.

And I'm a total switch hitter in this group, jumping around between first and second soprano and first alto, and I'm used to doing the harmonizing. I enjoy harmonizing, when I do it right, I enjoy hearing myself help complete a chord. I'm not used to singing the melody in the first soprano line, but I do on a couple songs we're rehearsing right now, and--suddenly I get it. Hearing my voice rise above the crowd, and hitting the notes sweet and true, holding the harmonies together with my melody--it's fantastic.

Or maybe it's just my control freakiness taking over another aspect of my life. Whatever, I'm enjoying it.
wishfulaces: (alas poor yorick)
I offer these two items in conjunction with each other, from the same city:

Kansas governor signs act allowing pharmacists to refuse to dispense abortion drugs

Nine-year-old protests Westboro Baptist protesters

I have no commentary to offer.

*

I had an insane schedule for a while there that involved being somewhere every single night after work and then again during the weekends, and now, even though I am done with that schedule at least until the fall (and am reminding myself I AM NOT ALLOWED THAT SCHEDULE EVER AGAIN), I am still stressed out and tired and cranky. So stressed out and tired and cranky. Hopefully I just need more time to recover. Maybe I need to take up a calming hobby. Like sleeping more, that would be good.
wishfulaces: (parker is awesomer than you)
Hey y'all! Like I mentioned a few days ago, I've put my fannish proclivities up for auction for [community profile] fandom_helps, for both fic and for podfic. Proceeds support Planned Parenthood, which has been going through a lot of hassle of late (most especially in my neck of the woods), and bids close on Tuesday, Feb. 21nd, I believe around 11:30 pm EST.

I think I've got about 6 months after that in which to turn over my donations to the lucky recipients, and hopefully I won't take the full 6 months to do so, but hey, I get busy. :)
wishfulaces: (revolution)
Okay, so for the first time ever, I'm putting myself up for auction in [community profile] fandom_helps. The auction is for Planned Parenthood, and since I seem incapable of donating myself (I haven't been this broke since grad school...?), I thought I could at least help the cause another way.

So, if you're interested, I have a thread for fic and a thread for podfic.

Completely unrelatedly, I am Crankypants McCrankypants, daughter of Crankypants today, and I would quite like to get over myself, thank you and good night. Hmph.
wishfulaces: (jeremy)
I've written poetry in the last week.

I haven't written any poetry, that I can recall, since 2005. So this was a novel experience. (Har har.)

two poems under the cut )
wishfulaces: (yellow roses)
Okay. I'm just going to say this because it is worth noting. I have been happy since, um, mid-March or so, I think. Not just okay, or fine, or even good, but happy. Like, dance-around-work-when-no-one-is-looking-and-grin-for-no-good-reason happy. I have crappy days, I want to cry for all the shit things we do to ourselves and to each other but, on the whole, I am happy.

It's strange, and wonderful, and I kinda want to cling to it forever and bottle it and give it away to everybody I meet because it's worth so much more than selling. I'm not even trying to fight the giddiness.

So, flist, have some happy. *hugs and snogs you all*

***

I have started reading the Nero Wolfe books finally. My mother's voice is in my ear, as always, saying she didn't like them because Archie is no Donald Lam. And no, he isn't, but he drinks milk, which I find ridiculously charming--Archie is also very definitely no Nick Charles--and I can hear Timothy Hutton saying his lines, and he and Wolfe live in each other's pockets and I always love that in fictional characters, even though I know if anybody lived in my pocket I would probably beat them with an ice scraper like I almost did that stupid bug that got stuck in my car this morning and would NOT GO BACK OUT THE WINDOW because it apparently thought it could fly through the windshield. But I digress. Slightly. I'm only halfway through the first book still, but I am glad to have a new-old author to read. (And one of these days, I have to finish the Donald Lam books too.)
wishfulaces: (England)
"Wir koennen zusammen wegfahren." My German CDs are teaching me how to make discreet assignations. "Are you alone?" "Could we go away together?" Creepy, German CDs, deeply creepy.

I got a postcard from my state representative today regarding our state allowing individuals to opt in or opt out of the health care reform, asking for feedback on how he should vote. I actually wrote to a legislator. I don't do that--ever, unless somebody's given me a form letter that I can add a sentence or two to.

I realized something horrible this weekend, while my dad was visiting. While his nosiness drives me batshit insane--if it were only curiosity, an insatiable need to know without putting that knowledge in its most negative, gloomifying light, I might be able to handle it better (then again, perhaps not)--I have that same nosiness. Or, well, hopefully not quite the same; I'm pretty sure I don't put *everything* into its most negative, gloomifying light; but the thing about working in archival institutions is, you are professionally and ethically obligated to get into everybody's (historical) business. If I want to describe the records, if I want to help point researchers in the right direction, I have to know my shit. And I love knowing shit. That's the other thing I realized, again--know-it-alls are damned annoying, my dad especially, but hopefully when I'm being a know-it-all I'm a little more charming.
wishfulaces: (hobbit hands)
Two t-shirts I've really, really had a hankering to make or find lately:

EXAMINE YOUR WHITE MALE PRIVILEGE

CONTEMPLATE FUCKING ZEN [Which has been my mantra for the past couple weeks; so long as it keeps making me smile instead of twitch, I think I'm good.]

Blah. I've been having professional issues and insecurities the past week or two, don't mind me. And it's all gotten so annoying and stupid and frustrating that driving home tonight I decided to remind myself what I have to be thankful for.

List under cut to spare my flist )

Have a good Thanksgiving, everyone. Even if it's not your holiday, I hope you have a fabulous Thursday.
wishfulaces: (lom boys)
SO. BORED. I'm reading this cranky wanker's book on academic archives. I still have another 125 pages or so to go to finish it. SO. BORED. And my head hurts.

Back in my 1960s history class, we had a resource book called Takin' it to the Streets: A Sixties Reader, that was pretty awesome. All kinds of primary source material for the civil rights, New Left, counterculture, Black Power, anti-war movements, you name it. It also included this article by Lucian Truscott IV from the Village Voice concerning the Stonewall riots. The thing that struck me, reading this article originally, was how free it felt. The tone is so...happy.
wishfulaces: (yellow roses)
Oh man, you guys. You guys. I totally want to dominate the world with y'all. (My evol plan, since I suppose I should mention it? Backrubs. I shall make everyone succumb to me, one by one. With backrubs. I once started an entire row of people sitting on the steps down the house in our mainstage, giving the person sitting in front of them a backrub. It was glorious.)

Also? I ATE A STRAWBERRY LAST NIGHT & HAVEN'T DIED YET. I've been allergic to strawberries for about twenty years. If I'm still not dead, I consider this a minor victory. I don't think I'll eat more than one strawberry at a time though. Color me paranoid. Or just hive-y. (I was a bit itchy last night. But I think it was bug bites, not hives. I hope.)

Mmm. Strawberries.

So, speaking of things that I love, and gakking from loads of people on my flist--

I love

giving backrubs. Blueberries. Cheesecake. Pineapple pizza from Papa John's. Plosives and clickatives. Alliteration. Weskits. Rolled-up shirtsleeves. Acoustic guitars. Harmonies. Green trees and blue skies and horizons stretching out as far as the eye can see while driving on the interstate. The breeze. Fireflies. The changing of the seasons. Baking with my mom. Walking arm-in-arm with my friends. Visiting with old friends. Snuggling. Illya Kuryakin doing gymnastics. The cast of Barney Miller. Big Finish audios. Parker and Hardison. Builds and undercuts. People who know their shit. Water. Underwater archaeology. The 1830s. Words. Sunlight. Going underground by myself in a hoist in solid dark while singing Sinead O'Conner songs. Simon and Garfunkel lyrics, and Dean Martin's voice, and the Smother Brothers singing "Chocolate," and the intense comfort of happy memories. My nephew. My new car. My old car. Roses. Puppies. Cats. Making babies giggle. Making other people giggle. Giggling. Connections. The network of people that I know across this small world. The Indiana Dunes. Gage Park. Forest Park. Lake Storey. Fireworks. County roads. New experiences.
wishfulaces: (sofa of reasonable comfort)
FOIA is back in, Guantanamo is out, apparently. You know, I keep telling myself to wait and see what happens, since we're only two days in, but jeez, it's kinda hard to avoid the emotional high.

Bodily humor does not usually amuse me (this is why I have mixed feelings about Death at a Funeral and didn't particularly care for Tropic Thunder)--and I do mean bodily, as opposed to slapstick or physical comedy--but, apparently, me coughing up a lung while attempting to record the credits for an audio play is hilarious, judging by the fact that I'm still giggling over it. (I don't usually laugh that much when I'm by myself. Honest I don't.) It was kinda like a Red Dwarf outtake actually. Anyway.
wishfulaces: (blessed)
I keep being mildly surprised when I see a post on my flist that isn't election-related.

This, unsurprisingly, is going to be election-related.

I did not vote today. I voted last week with a mail-in ballot, and I made damn sure I had that sucker in the mail with plenty of time to arrive in the right place. And I spent a lot of this morning fidgeting about at work (as I hung off a ladder like the consummate box monkey that I am), and then this afternoon one of the reference people fetched us newbies to help some of the archives staff out with a minor flood, so we were interleaving maps and documents and things with blotting paper for an hour or two.

And I sort of forgot about the election for a while.

I don't know what's going to happen tonight and tomorrow. Life's going to go on, and it might get better sooner or it might stay worse for a while longer. I don't know, I can't say, and I'm a tiny bit terrified about what might happen.

We've been going through this every four years for almost 200 years, though. I feel better when I take the long view.
wishfulaces: (groovy)
I wanna be a cat when I grow up. Better yet, a dog, so I can wiggle my butt tail without anyone giving me weird looks.

"Something wonderful is going to happen," I told mom the other day. When she looked skeptical--and well she might--I went on, "I don't know what it will be, but in the next year something wonderful is going to happen. Even if I have to go out and beat it over the head to happen."

So there you go. Call it a prophesy, a premonition, a bloody New Year's Resolution, a faith, an order. Something abso-bloody-lutely wonderful is going to happen, even if I have to go out and create my own crukking miracle.

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