Shall I enumerate the crappage for you?
1. Guess what happened this morning. The housekeepers came at 8:20 a.m. 8:20! That’s their earliest ever. And two early visits in a row. I wonder what I am doing differently. I wasn’t totally prepared for them at 8:20, but I was mostly prepared. There was still a bit of clutter lying about. I purposely didn’t pick it all up last night because I thought maybe if I was technically unprepared, they would be more likely to come at 8:30 than 3:30, and I definitely didn’t want them coming at 3:30. At the same time, I didn’t want my hubris to bring down the wrath of the gods, as it were. It is a delicate dance I…dance. But apparently it was the right combination of unpreparedness and hubris, because they came at 8:20, and I feel like I controlled my destiny a little bit, even though I understand, intellectually, that it’s just a coincidence. Feelings matter.
2. Today I have to go on another field trip for Girlfriend’s preschool. We are going to a music school. I would rather be taking a nap during that time. I should probably take a nap now instead, since Girlfriend is currently occupied with other activities. But then I couldn’t write this Very Important Post for you Very Important People. That’s right, amigos. You matter. (No, I don’t think I can keep up this “_____ matter” theme for very long, but that one just seemed to work.)
3. I didn’t sleep very well last night. The husband and I went to bed late because we were watching Angel on the Netflix. We are now on Season 5, and while we are still enjoying the show, it does appear that they knew they were going to be canceled and decided, “Screw it, let’s just be ridiculous.” As if a program about a vampire detective were not already ridiculous. Ridiculously awesome. Of the two episodes we watched last night, I would say one was merely ridiculous, and the other was ridiculously awesome. Totally worth investing five seasons’ worth of viewing hours. And getting to bed too late. It also may have accounted for my ridiculous dreams, one of which was about a rather large group of superheros. If only I could remember the details, I would share them with you, because I have nothing better to talk about. But I don’t remember details. I only woke up with a vague sense of experiencing something ridiculous and non-restful.
4. So TR mentioned on OBL‘s site that she doesn’t read books by men anymore, or something like that. Officially, I do read books by men. Some of my favorite books ever are by men. But when I gave it some thought–like, right now–I realized that I lately have a bias toward lady authors as well. (I purposely said “lady authors” because I’m feeling retro. I could have said “authoresses,” but that would have been over-the-top and also awkward.) The bias asserts itself in all genres except non-fiction. But it asserts itself especially in the serial-killer genre, which is the genre I am currently enjoying because when I think about reading something literary, it reminds me of my own writing career and I get depressed. So to fight depression, I read serial-killer books. Unless you are new here, you already knew that I like to read serial-killer books, but now you know that I do so for medical purposes.
But back to my point, I have known for years that I prefer lady authors of serial-killer books to gentleman authors of serial-killer books. For one thing, lady authors tend to have a) more female characters (aside from the victims) and b) better-drawn female characters. Ordinarily, I don’t really care that much about the gender of characters in books. Some of my favorite books ever have few to no female characters. But sometimes I just want to read books about women, and if I’m going to read books about serial killers, who tend to kill a lot of women, I also want to read about women who are not being killed by those serial killers, women who maybe are even trying to catch the serial killers. Maybe I find it empowering or something, or maybe I just like to live vicariously through fictional women, who knows. Whatever.
Which brings me to my second point, which is that women tend to draw female characters better than men do. Which is not to say that men can never draw female characters well. No example springs to mind immediately, but I’m sure examples exist. I just find that in the serial-killer genre, men tend to do a less-good job with their female characters. The women might be smart, but they don’t seem very real. Or necessary, except as love interests for the male (main) characters, or as a good excuse to write about breasts. (Well, come on, breasts are fun to read about, aren’t they? Eh.) I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve read a serial-killer book by a man. I guess I read Turning Angel by Greg Iles last year. That was pretty good. But in terms of female characters, not great. It didn’t make me want to read anything else by him. But who knows, maybe by now I’m just so entrenched in the idea that men can’t write serial-killer books with good female characters that it has affected my judgment.
Speaking of which, it probably isn’t even feministly correct to enjoy this genre as much as I do. There is probably something psychologically wrong with me, but I don’t analyze it. I just accept it.
5. I have been using my incisors this week, but I find I can’t use them for very much. I tried to eat a burrito the other day. Well, I achieved eating a burrito the other day, actually, but my incisors were not happy about it. I’m beginning to think that at least some of this discomfort must be psychological, but I can’t shake this sense that my incisors are going to just snap off if I put too much pressure on them. Obviously, if you put too much pressure on incisors, they certainly will snap off–I mean, that’s possible, yes? If I punched you in the face hard enough, I could knock teeth out, right? If I fell face down on the concrete hard enough, teeth could be lost. But my point is not that it’s possible and always has been, but that I have never, ever before thought about this possibility while I was eating. Historically, I have always assumed that my incisors could handle themselves while I was eating, regardless of what they were biting into. The thought that they could just snap off had never, ever occurred to me until I got the braces and I become hyper-aware of just how fragile my teeth technically possibly are. And it’s creepy, okay? It bothers me. Also, my front teeth really do hurt. Not a lot, not horribly, but they do, a little, which doesn’t help with the fear-of-snapping-off thing. I’m troubled by this chapter in my orthodontic journey. That’s all I’m saying.
6. When I snap at my five-year-old for annoying me, she immediately withdraws and starts whimpering to herself, and it buys me at least five extra minutes to finish doing the unimportant thing that she was preventing me from doing by annoying me in the first place. I have stopped feeling guilty about it and am starting to use it to my advantage. But I don’t abuse it, which is why I end the blog here. Enjoy your respective Wednesdays, gentle readers.