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I woke up in a panic: I'd been chatting with Ginger's mother and flirting on the phone with tygerr while trying to do a survey about beer with him, and I'd missed my flight back to Phoenix as a consequence.

I had to calm down and realize that I was in Phoenix after I woke up.

I wanted to enter mistersleepless's thing, so I spent the bus trip to the plasma place scribbling on a little bit of something I started the other night. I still have no idea what to call it. We'll see if it shows up on the DiePunyHumans Fast Fiction Friday thing or not...

Today was my little exam-thing. I'm glad they remember the last time I gave blood, because I don't remember it now. Three piercings, all of them ears, no tattoos, no unexplained needlemarks, except for maybe the odd cat-bite-scar. (I didn't show off my butt.)

By the time they were ready to put the needle in my arm, I was counting words. 213. I crossed out, scribbled in condensations of the wordy bits. Count again, miscount, recount, cross out more.

The movie was Spiderman, live-action, Tobey McGuire. I've noticed that ever since something-or-other, I'm more likely than I was to just tear up at something small. Not eyes-overflowing, but a respectable drop or two of water for the undead.

My timing, getting out of there, was impeccable. I caught the southbound 19, then waited a goodly percentage of time for the eastbound 17, which was caught behind a train so I was able to catch it by the time I crossed the street. (Some freak of timing at the intersection of the 19 19th Avenue bus and the 17 McDowell Avenue bus makes it impossible to cross the Grand Avenue intersection before the 17 pulls out...)

The crowd at freshstartwrite tonight was pretty fresh -- two of the newer women had been there before, and three of the newer women I'd never met before. There was a note on the table saying that the Professora was unable to make it. V showed up, with grapefruit and grapes.

I read my little cyberpunk snippet. (Our long-time member who's training to be a ticket counter supervisor for an airline showed briefly, and I had to read it before she dashed off to crash at home.) I had to read it again, because the rest of the group don't speak cyberpunk. I think I failed in my attempt to make it accessible to all, though it's difficult to convey certain things in that short a space. After I see whether Mr. Ellis decides to post it or not, I'll share it here.

We ate grapes. Mmm, tiny sweet green grapes. Cat-grapes, as I used to say.

I finished up writing the latest installment of "A Cup of Time", and shoved in the needed crisis to push Dolores towards utilizing the available technological solution to the problem, but we never actually got to solve it before I ran out of steam. Also, Dolores's son shares some traits with grifyn's Uberkid. I was much amused when I found out the contents of the problematical parent/teacher conference. There wasn't really time for me to share the installment, because pretty much everyone else had brought something to share, and we'd gotten off to a late start. I'm hereby nagged to get published, evidently. Um, wow? I ... didn't think I was quite that good to be nagged about that. But, um...? V. shared her NNWM bunny. I offered my consultation services on some of it. We bounced ideas about as to how some of the technical details worked. She'd gotten the inspiration for the phrasing on some of the more archaic language that the one spirit communicates in from a line from an old Star Trek episode. As soon as she mentioned the ambassador, I knew. I shouted out the phrase before she could, "She who is my wife!" The rest of the group boggled: how could I know exactly which phrase V. was thinking of? We explained that it's just one of those things that you know.

We wound up all headed off to Coco's as usual. I was, for me, unaccustomedly quiet. Only five of us were there. One of the new ladies was there, plus the other bellydancing chick, the Maggie's House girl, V, and me. Turquoise Lady didn't make it, and the chick with the little boy didn't go either. We talked about vocations, charity work, relationships, and all sorts of things. The Maggie's House girl gave me a ride there, and the other bellydancing chick gave me a lift to the Red Line.

I evidently have two baby afghans to start on! Josh-our-nice-waiter and his girlfriend are going to have a baby too! Squee!

After my "how to do that online journal thing" article was such a success at V's journaling class, I'm going to be working up an article/presentation for Maggie's House on Internet Safety. Evidently I'm the tech wizard of the bunch. I explained to the other bellydancing chick how to save as a .rtf in WordPerfect. I'm so 1337, I could see the save screen in front of my eyes, and I was probably making clicking gestures with my right hand...
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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