I need to get a better pic, or at least one with a femme instead of an homme.
Or should that be puffy Orange? It seems it needs a capital. I had a quick coffee meeting with my business partner, in a cafe about half-way between our houses. She squeezed me in between basketball practices and I squeezed her in between dropping Princess over at her grandmother's to go to the opera and me cleaning the house in a frenzy.
No reason for the cleaning, apart from the house being a fucking brothel of mess and clutter and even, yes even dirt that has somehow blown in through the windows and coated the window sills.
I'm not a house-wifely person. Some are and that's fine, but I'm just not. I put it off as long as possible: I light scented candles, move piles around rooms, pick dog hair and human hair off my socks while sitting on the couch until just the day before my period is due I go into a frenzy. it's like I think I'm going to have a baby or something and I have to nest. The cleaning (and the resentment I feel against any and all who live in this house with me) feeds my hormone-rage until I'm in a state, saying fuck a lot in my head, having whole conversations where I blast someone, and then I have to take myself to bed to have a lie-down and read, and then drink wine far too early. And probably eat a whole bowl of chips (but not the whole packet: see, I've left some in the bottom - this is how I let myself off.) This is if this occurs on a Saturday, say. Like today.
I have no publishing news. I have no news about anything other than I dashed off a short story yesterday and am working on revising others. There are some writerly deadlines coming up for writing things that I would like to submit for. Teaching is going well. Home life is fine. I'm a bit overwhelmed with reading options at the moment. Probably because I keep buying books and then can't decide and then skip around and can't settle.
So. That's about it. I hope I bleed soon, I'm feeling rawther rotten. Bluddy hormones.
