First of all, Mr./Ms. “how to eviction somebody,” keep your illiterate-ass searches out of my “homelessness sucks” blog. grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

*ahem* I’m getting scarily close. I’ve finally decided (ok, for this week) to just shove all the serial killer’s backstory to the front of the “past” narrative. I’m also returning a chapter of the good old ultraviolence, because it’s character development. (“Adventures in Peru” goes in there; I’ll have to move it from its current slot.)

And I’ve laid out the final several chapter outline–before now, it was too not-done to even think of a realistic outline.

I’m frustrated right now, because I’ve been on a roll for the past couple of days, but I’m now at a point where I need to let it tumble around in my creative dryer-mind for a while–think I know what Aria has to say to Damascus, but not what he says to her; I need to get Terry’s poor head in gear in a way that doesn’t make him sound like a reactive manic version of myself. sigh

I have to go call the friend I am actually going to socialize with tomorrow; meanwhile, please send me glowing warm psychic dryer-quarters of love.

I know that Child Protective Services can be demonic. One afternoon, I came home from work to see a nice lady patiently waiting at my door.

My then-7-year-old son, whom I’ll call Coatikit, has top-of-the-chart ADHD (which admittedly he got from me) and he has always been what can charitably called a drama queen (see last answer, sigh). He had been crying when he had gotten on the bus that morning, claiming that he was afraid his mother would yell at him (why, not even he knew by the time he got home) or maybe give him that dread punishment: A (single) Whack On The Butt. And they really had to check it out. Of course, I was terrified beyond belief, as the nice lady had the power to walk out with Coatikit and Tigercub that very afternoon.

Luckily, the nice lady got Coatikit’s number immediately, (and, completely off the record, validated The Whack On The Butt.) But scared as I had been, in a way I was glad she had checked it out–and the following explains why:

Lonely child

Tiger lived in an ongoing nightmare at home: no heat; no hot water; food availability was random at best; and her abusive parents were mentally ill and alcoholic. She would have immediately have set off modern alarms; but in 1975, when she came to school unkempt and in dirty clothes, the other kids mocked and the teachers sneered.

One afternoon in 7th grade, one of the nuns took her aside and, in a kindly way, attempted to help Tiger out.

Bathing and clean clothes, she said, were essential things. She was immediately completely embarrassed, and tears came to her eyes. She flinched. Sr. Katherine was nice; in all Tiger’s school career, she would be the only teacher who cared enough to even address the issue. Despite wishing she were anywhere else in her shame, Tiger became hopeful. Surely this nice grownup would scold her parents; make them fix it.

“We don’t have hot water, or any heat for that matter. But I can take showers in the summer when it’s hot.” Their boiler had broken a few years ago and never been repaired. Tiger felt horribly guilty, because it had been “her job” to watch the water gauge, as she played in the basement. She was too ashamed to admit this to the nun.

“And we never have money for the laundromat.” Cigarettes and booze, yes; but not non-essentials. Her father ate at his drinking buddies’ houses, and her mother ate anything and everything she could get her hands on. Plain grits and rice were fine; anything to fill her up.

But Tiger was a growing eleven-year-old guilt, and she herself was always hungry. As she brought some of the grits out to feed the dogs (who eventually starved to death from protein deficiency–mercifully, Tiger usually had peanut butter) she sympathized. There was one weekend where there was some cabbage to fry up with the grits, and Tiger felt she was at a feast. Once a month, when Tiger’s father got paid, he would bring Tiger home a Whopper from Burger King, and she would wolf it down in ecstasy, keeping an uneasy eye out for her mother, who would wheedle some of it away.

Similarly, she was sometimes literally “on the rag.” But not all the time; when she went to pick up the cigarettes, she could usually ask for a little extra for Kotex.

She made it sound pathetic, which was easy, as it was all true. *helphelphelp,* she thought. But it was the ’70s; the nun had grown up in the ’40s; and Tiger was dirty.

“Well, you can boil a pot of water on the stove, and wash in the sink,” was the prompt answer. “And you can wash out your clothes the same way. You’re a very bright girl, Tiger.”

Tiger cried. She felt hopelessly inadequate. She was very bright, and she knew that what the nun was suggesting was quite doable. But as she sobbed, she was angry.

“But that’s not my job. They’re my parents. They’re supposed to take care of me.” Wasn’t that fair? All the other kids had hot water, food, and clothes.

“Well, I understand that,” said the nun. And she did; but what worked for the poor in the ’40s would work forever. It didn’t occur to her that for a child of the 70s, surrounded by ordinary assumptions and expectations, her advice was akin to suggesting that Tiger could solve her food problem by fishing in the polluted Hudson and laying wires for squirrels in the Park. “But you have to take care of yourself.”

There was nothing Tiger could say. Her cheeks burned, but she knew the nun was right. It was her job, and it was her fault that the boiler had burst. She could have done this all along, and it was her fault for whining. Her father washed in the sink himself, as he had to go to work; he had occasionally scolded Tiger when he randomly noticed her state. But after all, as he would continually remind her, it was her fault the boiler had burst.

Bad enough, thought Tiger miserably, that the nuns were disgusted by her obstinate failure to come to school in the same crisp cleanness of the other kids, with their pressed clothes and shiny hair. But she nervously covered her forearms, hugging herself. Sr. Katherine was the nicest nun in school. If she saw the bruises from her mother’s cane, she would know that Tiger was actually a very bad girl to deserve to be beaten like that.

She was completely humiliated. Every time she saw the nun after that, she averted her eyes. Sr. Katherine knew one of those horrible secrets: It was her fault she was dirty. But at least she didn’t know the other one.

She was bad; she was lazy, and she was greedy. It was always Tiger’s fault.

Coatikit is 19 now, and he did eventually learn how to swim. And no, of course Coati had done no such thing, and never ever would have. But dying sort of short-circuits parts of the brain.

113/365 Drowning

After several hours in a hot car with two preschoolers, Coati and Tiger were looking forward to the motel pool. It was unlit, but both parents swam, as well as Tigercub. But Coatikit was only three, and so he and Tiger played horsie in the shallow end.

As Coati stayed with the ecstatic Tigercub in the deep end, Tiger happily bounced around with Coatikit on her shoulders. But instead of the usual gradual rake, this pool's transition between shallow and deep was a steep and sudden fall. Tiger couldn't swim with 30 pounds of kid on her shoulders; and down they both went under the black water.

She struggled frantically. Coatikit had reflexively tightened his grip for literally dear life, and she couldn't dislodge him. She could hear him scream desperately for help: At least for the time being he was above water, and she held her breath as well as she could; but it took too long and too much energy, and she breathed in water. She intellectually noticed her lungs' outrage at being filled with non-air.

This is drowning. I am going to die. Oh God, Coatikit is going to die too. Oh no no no no. She flashed on a future news story: It was on the bottom half of page two of some local tabloid: Mom and Toddler Drown in Tragic Motel Pool Accident. She could see their blurry pictures from some happier time. Coatikit was as usual joyously showing his dimple. His ringlets were Coati's dark blond; his eyes were Tiger's dark brown. Oh no no no. Not my Coatikit.

Where was Coati? Couldn't he hear Coatikit scream?

Finally, she shook Coatikit free just long enough to surface and give one desperate yell for help–and down she went again in despair. But Coati came and grabbed Coatikit, and she was able to choke and paddle her way to the side of the pool, where Coatikit was howling hysterically.

Back in the motel room, Coati was wrangling the two frantic children (Coatikit was blessedly completely fine) while Tiger coughed and cried alone on the edge of the bed. She felt abandoned and frightened.

"Why didn't you come earlier?" Tiger gasped. Coati logically explained that Coatikit yelled for help ALL the time–for imaginary dangers; that it wasn't until he had heard Tiger's own plea that he realized that it was for real; and that he was just about to head back to her when Coatikit was safe.

But even the breath of Death puffs away reason, and for a long time the terrifying thought slithered in the back of her head: Their marriage was less than perfect. Had he left her there to drown?

Weirdly dumb people. Like the ones who circulate urban legends on FB and get people all fired up. Before I changed it, my name was "Honor," and I had it on a nametag in the store where I worked. A lot of people commented on it, but then there was this perfectly normal-looking (American) lady who said it was nice–and then asked me what it meant. How do these people shamble through their days?

Finished Damascus’ backstory last week. I really, really hate that my brain takes so much downtime between pushes. But . . . I’m on schedule, iffen that creek don’t rise: All done by the end of the month.

I’m pushing back the anxiety, the anticipated failure. There are SO many bad books out there.

I do just love my brain–I just realized at the end of this that my title is a pun: To make my life even specialler, we’re moving . . . some time. My new leasing manager is a Cambridge gal who thought it was OK to just drag her heels on the BHA inspection, so at this point I’m technically looking at a move-in date of August 1. My big plan was to do it next weekend; I struggled through my part in this; had serious hysterics at the part I bozoed and it got fixed. And now I’m screwed through somebody else’s naivete. It looks like I’ll have to whine on my belly to my BHA agent; collar the new manager and shake; apologize abjectly to my current housing manager, who put up with the hysterics engendered by the bozo above.

Just thinking about this makes me really angry. (Duh.) The new manager gets in to work at 10:30 or so; I’ll leave another message and get down to work myself (albeit changing my Pandora station to a less-distracting offering, i.e., one that does not feature the always-enthralling Mr. Robbie Fulks).

It should be noted that the oft-reviled BHA aren’t the bad guys here. The inspection unit is a bunch of really nice people. Too bad they can’t be scheduled on my say-so.

I went and got groceries today; too much, really–I came home exhausted and haven’t been good for much since. The store is about 3/4 of a mile away; I can usually manage a backpack full, but this added a couple of bags for a total of 30-40 pounds. Although, this time I remembered what the walk home had been like, and I took the bus home instead. Yay me and the good decision making.

Anyway, before I left, I made up a basic punch list for the book, and realized unhappily that I really do need to keep pumping out the original. (I’d be perkier about this, but see title, above.) I go through cycles of avoidance–I generally fall behind on the transcription, because the actual manuscript usually goes where I do (a major benefit of the old-fashioned longhand method). But sometimes the catch-up is a cover for dawdling on the rest of the story.

I think worrying about the more police-procedural part is getting in my way. I should once again go get a doughnut (heh) and just let Bun-Bun and Sandy go after Damascus in peace. They know what they’re doing; and if I catch them being stupid at it later, well, all right then. Besides, isn’t catching that sort of stuff what readers are for, anyway?

Moreover, most of the books I’ve selected aren’t all that informative–except to tell me that aside from the poetically fictive genius of the protagonists, the cop shows (and the other procedurals) have it pretty much dead on target (oh swifties just stop)–the real guys really do it more or less the way they do it on TV.

The noteworthy thing about them is largely the wide spread of the writing skill and style. I was miserably unhappy to find that the tantalizingly titled Postmortem is actually a sociologist blethering depressingly about cultural mumbawhutsis and avoidance hrmah-Kübler-Ross-yevm and objectification jurisdiction coughcoughgotta-kill-a-chihuahua-now so it can be vutzikeckkeck coronary artery disease. Just like most of us (and don’t ask the man; please; if you do, let me know so I can just leave) I absolutely refuse to envision the possibility of a time of no me, and have given myself permission to not think of it, other than taking my statin and blood pressure meds like a good girl.

On the other hand, Working Vice is the sort of the surely-I-can-get-published thing full of “first this happened; then this happened; then it got boring; and then this happened too,” with enough harshly unambiguous comma splices for a grammatical rope reaching halfway down the Eastern Seaboard.  (I’m not linking, because I don’t want to hurt the WV writers’ feelings, and refuse to propagate the intelle-dreck of the other.)

On the other hand, Hypnocop is engaging and useful. It’s written by a nice smart cop who tells me stuff I didn’t know, and I actually like him. But “he’s” on my shelf in Widener, not on my coffee table.

So I’m depressed-ish. But I’m tired, so I’ll just go to bed.

I fought once again with the seemingly-endless Chapter 47, and finally vanquished it. It’s actually coherent now, and so-o-o much better than the frantically annotated original manuscript. (What did I mean by some of that gibberish?)

One more brief transcription of the next (happily extant) chunk of serial-killer-bio frame . . . and then back to the blue-sky country of churning out new text from the confused and terrified curdling cream of my brain.

From the beginning, I had this sort-of idea of the story I was writing, or that I intended to write–and there’s very little of that story left. A lot of the basic elements are there; almost all of even the earliest actual writing still remains. But it’s all been re-contextualized.

Sometime in the last week of April, 2005, while I was supposed to be finishing up my dissertation, this weird thing happened to my universe, and it became infested with vampires; the Thena-se, as they first were called.

For the next month, the fictive IMs/e-mails I wrote between pieces of my fictive selves were set within the normal consensus universe, and then the Th’nashi Contract swallowed me whole, and I can’t get out; I have become Th’nashi myself.

It’s been one hell of a five years, and it’s almost over. I have the feeling that it’ll be wrapped with a bow by Chapter 60. I wonder if I’ll ever become humani again; I wonder which piece comes next.

My current sense is that, absent the holocaust of the prospective move, the entire first draft will be done by the end of June. Still refusing to do a page count; still refusing to even start the final process of keeping names straight and checking facts and vocabulary against each other.

I understand now the problem people have with actually finishing the fucking things: When that last word is written, so is a piece of your life and soul. That’s really what sequels are for–for us, not the readers. And again I wonder if I shall ever be humani again.

It’s been a hell of a five years. I think there was a period somewhere of several months when life just took it out of my hands. But it refused to die. I think it’s a good book; people reading the first scraps have all told me (convincingly) that it’s a good book. But it’s the only book I have right now.

And it’s almost done. At least by now I have some hope of how it’ll turn out. But I don’t know. There are so many bits and pieces that were planned to end one way, and now it really doesn’t need to happen that way.

Oh God in heaven, but I’m glad the text wrested itself away from my crude stupidity of five years ago. This was gonna be wicked dumb, but now it’s got a sense of being readable.

I’m finally at the endgame, where everything telescopes down onto poor Damascus, the serial killer. I have some vague ideas–but I have to let go and jump off the bridge that Terry Riverly and I climbed five years ago. When I got out of the way, Terry just told me the story, and the story survived my having to take half of it away from it and turn it into omniscient 3d person. (Terry survived too, but I was pretty traumatized.)

Let go again; watch what happens; listen to Meeze and Merlin and Lynn and Sandy and Pharaoh and Solveig and Damascus and Terry and Sasha and Eamon and Sean and Devon and Joel and Toria and Tris–and everybody else–and get out of their way so they can tell the story.

But the water looks so cold. And I’ll never be completely humani again.

Sometimes you just have to wonder what companies are thinking–and what they can get away with. Apparently, if your targeted market is Latino, virtually anything.

Yesterday, I got tired of the completely crappy generic dish liquid, so went after the Real Stuff. Ajax was on sale at Walgreen’s, and of course I went for the antibacterial. Something was a little off, though: Their claim on the label was to be able to remove bacteria from your hands–or something to that effect–and the lack of the actual claim that this product was in fact antibacterial in and of itself made me look closer.

And it wasn’t. No triclosan, which is what other actual antibacterials use.  Instead, this product protects your health and keeps the world safe for democracy by (in an understated note on the back) drumroll, please!!!! By decreeing that to make this so, you should thoroughly wash your hands! (Golly gee, Colgate! Thanks for clearing that up!)

Annoying, yes. Well, OK, I’ve clicked up a notch or so from that by now–and the Walgreen’s district manager was also puzzled by this. However, he brought up what I suspect to be a salient point: One of the unusual things about that label is that it is half in Spanish. And you gotta wonder about that . . .

. . . particularly as there’s an Ajax that is antibacterial–it states it unambiguously on its label, and includes triclosan in its list of ingredients. But I had to get that list from their website.

Oh yeah. List of ingredients. The fake stuff dutifully lists them on the label–obviously to cover their butts–but none of the other bilingual scents on sale had a list at all.

I find this despicable. Yeah, everybody from Mr. Obama down to the postal dachshund knows that you’re supposed to wash your hands–but the aforementioned group also “knows” that orange liquid + the word antibacterial somewhere on the label = triclosan, or some other specifically biocidal agent.

But not them dummies here in the barrio!! They’ll fall for anything! Aqui estamos, lavandose nos manos!!

So much for the 21st century.

Here’s the full letter I sent Colgate-Palmolive, and copied to the Soap and Detergent Association, which seems to understand what “antibacterial” means.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t have the barcode, because I didn’t buy this product.

At the Walgreen’s in my district, there’s an Ajax product that superficially looks like your antibacterial dish detergent. But . . . it’s not.

The front label is different from the one depicted on the product on your site and on Walgreen’s. The product on sale in the store doesn’t *quite* come out and say it’s antibacterial per se; instead it states that it’s capable of removing bacteria from your hands. There is an asterisk, and on the back it admits that in order to do this, you should wash your hands thoroughly for some minutes.

Well, yes. That’s how soap works; that’s the basic rule we learn in kindergarten. That’s what the APHA recommends–but (for good or ill) that’s not what the consumer expects in this product.

There isn’t any triclosan in this product, as there is in your other *actual* antibacterial product–which is, of course, clearly and unambiguously labeled as such.

There were several other scents of your dish detergent available–and none of the others had any ingredients labeled at all–but the clone of your antibacterial product DID have a list of ingredients. This seems to clearly be covering the possibility that you might legally be said to be  flat-out lying to the consumer: Hmm, we didn’t *say* it had an actual antibacterial agent–as does our similar product.

This liquid has the amber color consumers now automatically associate with products containing an antibacterial agent. It looks just like the “real” thing, and it bears the word “antibacterial” on the label. This is clearly an attempt to mislead the consumer into thinking she has bought a product with different properties.

This is particularly troubling given the concerns over the H1N1 virus, and the upsurge in hand sanitizing products–of course proper hand washing is vital for hygiene–but, again, that’s not what the consumer expects. She’s not getting an agent which kills microbes rapidly–in fact, the detergent industry standard is that an actual antibacterial should kill bacteria on contact–see the Soap and Detergent Association–she’s just getting good ol’ soap.

Incidentally, the Walgreen’s district manager and I both noticed that these labels–the amber product and the other scents in this sale, which, again, lack any ingredient list at all–are printed in both Spanish and English; I wonder if there’s a connection between this frank attempt at deception and that you are clearly trying to reach a market of people who lack fluency in English.

Shame on you. The manager is contacting their regional buyer; I’m sharing and posting my observations–and you’re not getting any more of my money.

(Um . . . way before my time too. It’s a cute little 1943 song that still slinks around. This is the Spike Jones version; the first pre-spikatized bit is the straight way.  Ah, c’mon. You know who Spike Jones is.)

As I write this, my right index finger is doing the owie thing that says Mr. Mouse is no longer my friend. And I’m still on the sheeping computer.

I worry about stuff like this, particularly as I have had what has now been diagnosed as a bad flare of chondromalacia for almost two months now. I saw the orthopod this morning, who was quite reassuring as to the underwhelmingness of my arthritis–for the last week or two, I was carefully avoiding words like “cane” and “crippled” and “lap band surgery to lose weight to keep it off the knees that I can’t exercise on.”

Being hyperactive and easily bored, I really need to find activities that use other things–i.e., I use my hands and my eyes for pretty much everything I do or find interesting–just as pretty much everybody else does. Good luck with that, eh?

This was a bad knitting night. ‘Nuff said. So me being me, I had to vent. The next thing I knew, I have a oh-dear-sweet-heaven-I-never-thought-I-would-have-a . . .

. . . knitting blog.

Stupid knitting. Doh!