I finished the beds this past weekend. Sanding. So much sanding. I think I could build a beach out of the sawdust from my sander. And then staining. And assembly. Disassembly and transport. Reassembly. A quick Home Despot run by Mrs. Dave to acquire more pocket screws and plywood for the bunk boards. Finally, the beds are assembled and installed, made, and sleepable. Half a pool noodle is working well to keep the Wee Horde from a surprise plummet during the hours of darkness. And they love them. Which means the toys are out of the laundry room and upstairs, and I’ll be setting up my computer desk in the near future. And the Great Garage Re-Org can move forward. Finally. Read more
Posts from the ‘KILTED DAVE’ Category
Can I just say I’m really looking forward to school starting next month? Growing up, I always thought summer was a glorious time of play and adventure. I can’t help but think I drove my parents as nuts as the Wee Horde make me. Still, I’m managing to progress on projects, which’ll see write-ups elsewhere when the time comes. Regardless, here’s part two of what I started last week.
It’s Tuesday, and while that means I’m here, this Tuesday is not like other Tuesdays. My own stress is reaching a fever pitch. The Lesser Unknown is pissing me right off, and so are Wee Dave and Wee-er Dave. The usual sitter has appointments out of town, today, so my DARLING CHILDREN are spending their energy working to distract me from, well, anything productive. In addition, we had a long, full weekend full of good and (very) tiring things, and I’m fighting a headache and fatigue. So I’m going to try a thing, and see where it gets us.
Filed under: HFY, BEM
Grothmorgu stared around the battlefield after the indigenes had withdrawn. The remains of his Mass heaved themselves out of the heaps of gore and corpses, staggering to their pods. Few of the green-skinned savages lay among the Holy People. The ugly things had sent their wounded back, and soaked up an unreasonable number of casualties retrieving their dead before withdrawing completely. There were a few limbs, here and there. Mostly, they left broken equipment, or even bits of their own, loosely attached skin where their own medics tore it off to treat more serious wounds. The Higher’s own skin rippled in distaste at the notion, though he respected their will. The sensation was discomfiting.
Image by 7854 on Pixabay
The short story, once the absolute heart of the sf writer’s career has long since dwindled off to become so irrelevant that many a successful author never writes one, and certainly many (me included) never sold one prior to selling a novel.
As you read this, I’m working toward being on the road again. We’re absconding for parts south, the littles and I. Just a few days, and eating turkey (I think we’ll be eating turkey. I’m not actually sure. I know I’ll be roasting brussels sprouts with bacon, and then mulling cranberries, for my contribution to The Meal.) So I’m writing yesterday, on some thoughts I had the night before, while listening to Matt Colville’s excellent Running The Game series of youtube videos on Dungeon Mastery. Specifically the video on playing evil player characters.
*checks watch* It was that time a few hours ago. Okay, so more than a few hours ago. Okay, so I’m late. Again. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.
As an aside, any day everybody in the house survives until bedtime is a GOOD day. I’m just putting that out there. I mean, it’s not like I was trying to write this post earlier with two toddlers demanding my undivided attention. Each, not together.
Anyway. To more writerly-important things: to the War of Art!