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This Square Peg.

Happily Not Fitting In Since 1978.

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silly

Questions for This Square Peg.

Are you somehow impervious to injury? Is that why there are no band-aids in your house, which caused you to fashion a toilet paper tourniquet when you cut yourself shaving last night? 
Why do you think vengeful thoughts when people you smile at don’t smile back?

You totally pretended he wasn’t there, didn’t you?

Why do you say “nice to see you again” when you know full well that this person has no clue who you are?

Why does doing the above tickle you so much?

Why does the phrase “I don’t think Idris is that handsome” enrage you so? 

Because, honestly, that’s one less person you have to imagine fighting at sundown for his heart, right?

What was THAT?

You intend on remaining cryptic about THAT, don’t you?

Blogvember #18: About your Author. (Friday Taunts)

Been a while since you resurrected this feature, huh?
Well, I wanted to give you a break since you’re always so pleased when we do it.

By now, though: don’t your readers enough about you?
Nah, we haven’t even touched the tip of that iceberg.

Fine, fine. What’s going on with you? Are you eating tons of beef and wearing cowboy hats yet?
Perish the thought. I’ve yet to even see a cowboy hat.

Really?
A lot of people are transplants like me. And the natives I’ve met seem quite content to go hatless.

Interesting. What else is new? You still eating like it’s going out of style?
That was way harsh, Tai.

Sorry. But remember that you’ve accessed the meaner part of your personality when we have these silly conversations. You basically asked for it.
True.

Anyway, how is your eating and exercising and all that?
Much better. I’ve resumed my regular fitness schedule, left all the donut shops behind—we’re doing well.

Good. What else is new, pussycat?
You’re effective at pretending like you actually care.

I learned from the best.
Nothing else is new. My fro is handling the new environment better than I expected.

Oh, yeah?
Indeed. You know how temperamental she is. But I’ve been really moisturizing and babying her, so we’ll see. Next year will be a full-fledged summer here so she may implode.

Perhaps a protective style, then?
Look at you, giving advice!

I read enough about this stuff on here; might as well join in. Speaking of cowboys—
We were not discussing cowboys.

We talked about their hats, so yes, we were discussing them. Have you met anyone yet? You know…wink, wink…
Oh, Lord.

What? We’re all thinking it.
No, I haven’t.

No one?
No one. Unless Idris has decided to start dressing like John Wayne.

Oh, Lord.
Now you know what it feels like.

Switching reels: are you writing?
I am! Finishing up stories and starting new ones. All at the same time, of course, because this is how I do.

When is the third book coming?
I’m really shooting for early 2017.

Yeah?
Yeah.

Care to wager on that?
That’s my cue.

Come back! I want to taunt you!

This Square Peg: Redux.

Happy first day of November, party people. Did that greeting seem unexcited and blah? Well, blah is the operative word. I posted my feelings about November back on November 1, 2015. Re-posted below for your reading pleasure. Enjoy the redux.

*******************************

Blahvember?

Ever since I fell in love with autumn (since 1986 when we stepped foot on American soil and I experienced my first fall, in case you were wondering), I’ve wondered about November. 

What is this month that pales in comparison to October, my favorite month? It doesn’t have the roaring engines of September, when fall begins. It certainly doesn’t have the romance/je ne sais quoi and ego-inflating that I associate with October (it is the month in which I was born, hence the mild inflation of my ego when I remind my mother that her life’s purpose was realized when her eldest child was born). And by December, I’ve forgotten all about fall and begin the dreading of winter. So, essentially, November is the stepping stone between wonder and dread. The head-scratching interruption. The red-headed stepchild of the fall season. 

All that said, I’m officially making an effort not to do November wrong like this anymore. And, hey, I’ve always had a place in my heart for gingers and forgotten stepchildren. So this November:

  1. I resolve not to long for October. Much.
  2. I resolve not to side-eye a month as if it were the pesky seat-dweller next to me on the train who is determined to squeeze me in until I stop breathing.
  3. I resolve to do fun things during Blahvember–I mean November, such as weekend trips to see the fall leaves (even though, let’s face it, November means they begin to lose their vibrant colors, but whatever), spending much-needed time with friends (not complaining about dulling leaves), and eating all kinds of pumpkin-related pastries because it’s still fall. Thanks, November! (Even though my belly doesn’t thank you, but whatever.)
  4. I resolve to remember that November (you’re welcome for that rhyme) actually holds dreaded December at bay for several days, so this is good. Kind of like a moat around my castle. Wait. Did medieval marauding bands really find watery ditches all that intimidating? Don’t answer that.

And so, dearest November, you will suffer from my irritated and/or apathetic regard no longer. I will change the parameters of our uninspiring, tedious relationship. If it’s the last thing I do. Unless something else comes up. Anyway, I wanted to leave you with an inspiring quote about November, but–there weren’t any.

Happy November…

Tips.

As a singleton, invariably, 1) I’m offered someone’s murderous son/nephew/cousin/friend/random guy on the street as a potential marriage partner, and 2) I receive plenty of tips and advice about my future marriage. Here are a few of my favorites, along with a bit of commentary.

A good marriage consists of two forgivers. I’ve heard this more than once, and I like it. To me, it means that I can forgive him for forgetting that I occupy our home when a game is on and he can forgive me for reacting…melodramatically. (Think screaming “you obviously don’t love me” from our upstairs balcony.) marriagetip

Marriage isn’t 50/50. It’s 100/100. Another good one. I may be functioning at a third-grade level when it comes to Math and numbers, but this is clear: he will 100 percent buy me pretty presents and I will 100 percent love him for it.

The first year is the hardest; it can make you or break youMy mother said this to me. I believe her. I mean, yes, I imagined Idris and I just swimming in sunshine and roses that first year, but I don’t doubt that there will be some growing pains: what to name our yacht, pestering him to leave the outgoing message on my cell phone, reminding him about our weekly galas in the city (he can be so forgetful)…

Never go to bed angryTrue. But what about infuriated, incensed, and/or enraged?

All humor intended.

Happy Wednesday.

Cake.

pessimist

Either way: a win-win.

(Which one are you? Pessimist or Optimist? Assuage my curiosity and tell me in the comments, won’t you?)

A Conversation.

December: So you’re really killing ’em, huh? 16 degrees? cold
January: Please. After that 75 degree mumbo jumbo you were pulling, I had to remind those chumps that we’re in winter.

December: Sheesh. Calm down.
January: Don’t tell me to calm down. You had people wearing shorts in wintertime. Shorts! I mean, are you kidding me? In December? Like, how?

December: In case you haven’t noticed, Ms. Obvious Temper Issues, El Nino is really running things. Go yell at him.
January: What is that El Nino business?

December: No idea.
January: Me, either.

End scene.

(Seriously, I had to break out my thermal pantaloons this morning. It really was 16 degrees when I reluctantly opened my eyes this morning, and it’s currently 19 degrees now. So honorable mention to my mother for forcing me to wear those thermal things when I was a little Square Peg, which left an indelible reminder that they would actually keep me blissfully warm when I was a grown-up. Yay for forced under clothing.)

About your Author.

So how are you?
Blah.

Yeah, me too. So blah that I forgive you for doing this infernal question and answer thing again.
Yeah, you must be really blah to actually be forgiving.

Even that bit of sarcasm is ok with me.
Sigh.

What’s wrong, pussycat? I’m blah, but you seem a bit more than blah.
I haven’t written in a while. Fiction. I’m partially blocked.

What do you mean by partially?
The ideas and the stories are there. I just don’t feel motivated to follow through with them. I start thembored and then I abandon them.

How can you fix it, you think?
I don’t know, really. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s the time of year. Maybe it’s the fact that Idris Elba still hasn’t gotten the message that I love him with the passion of a thousand suns.

Uh, ok. You and this guy, though.
Yeah, me and this guy. You got something to say?

Nope. I will quickly move on. I see those clenched fists. So you’re partially blocked. What else is going on with you?
Nothing. Ennui. Boredom. Inertia.

In other words…
The winter doldrums and the winter blues.

What are we going to do?
Wait for April, I suppose.

So it’ll be April when you do this infernal question and answer thing again, then? And not before that time? Please and thank you?
Don’t you ever change.

Blahvember?

Ever since I fell in love with autumn (since 1986 when we stepped foot on American soil and I experienced my first fall, in case you were wondering), I’ve wondered about November. 

What is this month that pales in comparison to October, my favorite month? It doesn’t have the roaring engines of September, when fall begins. It certainly doesn’t have the romance/je ne sais quoi and ego-inflating that I associate with October (it is the month in which I was born, hence the mild inflation of my ego when I remind my mother that her life’s purpose was realized when her eldest child was born). And by December, I’ve forgotten all about fall and begin the dreading of winter. So, essentially, November is the stepping stone between wonder and dread. The head-scratching interruption. The red-headed stepchild of the fall season. 

All that said, I’m officially making an effort not to do November wrong like this anymore. And, hey, I’ve always had a place in my heart for gingers and forgotten stepchildren. So this November:

  1. I resolve not to long for October. Much.
  2. I resolve not to side-eye a month as if it were the pesky seat-dweller next to me on the train who is determined to squeeze me in until I stop breathing.
  3. I resolve to do fun things during Blahvember–I mean November, such as weekend trips to see the fall leaves (even though, let’s face it, November means they begin to lose their vibrant colors, but whatever), spending much-needed time with friends (not complaining about dulling leaves), and eating all kinds of pumpkin-related pastries because it’s still fall. Thanks, November! (Even though my belly doesn’t thank you, but whatever.)
  4. I resolve to remember that November (you’re welcome for that rhyme) actually holds dreaded December at bay for several days, so this is good. Kind of like a moat around my castle. Wait. Did medieval marauding bands really find watery ditches all that intimidating? Don’t answer that.

And so, dearest November, you will suffer from my irritated and/or apathetic regard no longer. I will change the parameters of our uninspiring, tedious relationship. If it’s the last thing I do. Unless something else comes up. Anyway, I wanted to leave you with an inspiring quote about November, but–there weren’t any.

Happy November…

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