Ten am, day after Christmas, I am sprawled upon the couch.
One of the goals for the year was to put out a Christmas collection, and dude, we've got a week left in the year. So that's a goal that absolutely will not be met . . . but I figure I can at least figure out how many stories will be in it and which ones. I've written a number of Christmas-related stories over the year, having shared a lot of them on my solo podcasts ("Last Minute Shopper," "Choice of a Sidekick," "The Many Faces of Christmas Eve") and on the Dunesteef ones ("The Holiday Trip," "Present of the Christmas Ghost," "What You Deserve," "Naughty or Nice"), but there are a couple others that have never seen any kind of release.
The unfortunate thing about Audible is that they require extraordinarily high production values, silence, formatting (192 kbps bitrate, 44100 hertz) and that necessitates me re-recording them from the versions on the Dunesteef (all of which were fullcast or semi-fullcast anyway), which is not the end of the world--I like to record audio, but the editing is going to be the bugger, especially without a cabin to go to where I can say, "Alright, for the next two hours, I'm gonna sit here and just edit, nothing more."
I did go ahead and publish text versions of My Friend of Misery, "Never Let Him Go," and a short story from 2016 called "Roll With The Changes," which I mention here because ah, no reason.
Sit-ups Today: 100
Sit-ups In December: 2921
So, I went to the library shortly before it closed. I sat down, and almost immediately had to go to the bathroom. Paranoid that someone would walk off with my laptop (and the thousands of hours' work only located therein), I shut up my computer, took it with me, and went as quickly as I could to the restroom, only to find it Out of Order.
So, I went downstairs, to the main restroom right inside the doors, and found it locked. No Out of Order sign was there, but it was closed up. I went to the nearest librarian to ask about it and she told me they were closed, but there were two additional restrooms on the third floor.
Third floor? I've been coming here for a decade, and I had no idea there was a third floor. Turns out it's on the other side of the building, where the city offices are, and is inaccessible from any part of the library. There were elevators, but I took the stairs up two floors and looked around until I finally found the Mens room. It was locked up tight.
Luckily, I had passed a unisex one (I think it said "Family Restroom" by the door) on the other side of the hall, so I went back there . . . and it was locked too.
I'm reminded of John Cleese in the Monty Python "Cheese Shoppe" sketch, when he says, "It figures. Predictable, really, I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have posed the question in the first place."
So, I schlepped my way back here, sitting down, starting up my computer again, but having to go just as badly as before. Pardon my saying so, sir, but what if it had been an emergency? What if someone had to throw up? What if someone had a child with them that couldn't simply Hold It?
Guess that's what the library floor is for, folks.
Now, I have a few more minutes to write--only have 155 words so far--and we'll see if I can manage. Though that floor is starting to look awful tempting.
Push-ups Today: 66 (it wasn't push-up day, but I did them anyway. Sorry)
Push-ups In December: 2750
I wrote a story in September about the Siren Head creepypasta which I changed at the last minute to being about "the Waffle Iron Man." I'd really like to come up with a good title for that one ("Waffle Iron Man" is, alas, not that), preferably something that substitutes "waffle" for the word "awful." I wonder if there are any sayings or popular song lyrics with "awful" in them.
I did a search, but couldn't read the screen due to intense discomfort. I am now at the point where, having to go to the bathroom but refusing to do so, my body is rebelling, and I am actively sweating . . . in December. Amazing how that works.
Well, I knew that I wasn't going to make it, so I typed another ten words or so, then started gathering up my things for the night. And then I heard a toilet flush. I'm on the second floor, where it's normally pretty quiet, and there are only two other people up here with me--the librarian included--so the sound traveled immensely far. I went over and asked the librarian about it, and he told me it was the Women's restroom I heard.
I asked him if there were any other possibilities, and he said he would check the Men's room for me. He went over, produced a key, unlocked the door, and went inside. A toilet flushed in there. I did a little dance--but not out of excitement or attempts at rhythm.
The librarian came out, said the toilet was still broken, and locked the doors again. He apologized and said there was nothing he could do. I watched an old woman come out of the Women's restroom, and decided to go for it. "Let me know if I'm out of line, but could I just use the Ladies' room?"
And this may surprise you: he not only said I could, but he stood outside the door to prevent any unfortunate female urinators from going in while I was in there.
Relief came quickly.
Now, if you're a guy, you've heard this before (and if you're a gal, you have likely forgotten this), but the Women's restroom was gigantic, with a changing table, two stalls, a comfy chair (not sure what it was for, maybe breastfeeding?), two sinks with two separate mirrors, and the requisite vending machine. It was larger than my first apartment in college (and larger than my first apartment in L.A., including the bathroom and closet).
I got out as fast as I could, but I really appreciate the librarian being so willing to help me out, and now I can spend the next half hour (before the library closes) writing.
Except I won't. I'll blog and surf the internet under the pretense of finding out if the phrase "in my wheelhouse" existed in the 1890s.
Despite my ordeal, I didn't manage a whole lot of words during my time in the library. I'm still in the first chapter/section of the new Lara/Holcomb story (did finish it before I left), and I got to do one of my favorite comedic tricks from the Dunesteef days, where I cite three things, the first two being normal and the third being a joke (in this case, it was old lady celebrities--Lara thinks of Betty White, Meryl Streep . . . and Angelina Jolie). If you don't think it's funny, that's okay, we can still be frien--
No, I take it back. Go eff yourself.
I had intended, both tonight and last night, to sit down and finish recording "A Sidekick's Errand" or "Z Day Report," two audio projects I halted right in the middle. That would've garnered me another hundred words or so, but I didn't manage either night. Maybe tomorrow.
Words Today: 755
December: 24,264
To my surprise, "in my wheelhouse" originated in the 1950s, in sports journalism, describing the area where a batter was most comfortable, most likely to hit a home run. The word "wheelhouse" is a nautical one dating back to the riverboats described by Mark Twain, but I give zero poops about that bit.
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