Hello!
We've made some upgrades to the blog accounts:
-You should see the replies threading in a way that is easier to read, and reply
-Your user image / avatar will show up in your blog posts (so if you don't have one, add one now)
Hope you like the changes!
-Bee
Aside from Anika visitors this week include Marcus (Sweden, France, SF, though you might remember him from Las Vegas escapades if this journal goes back that far), Andrey (encountered most recently in Austin TX but more frequently seen in Saarbrucken), Andreas (stumbled across him in Santa Barbara in January, normally found in various European capital cities), and
I have two children. I have two passports. Clearly, I should therefore get two Mother's Days.... right?
My daughter agreed but had to rush away for the weekend, telling her brother it was his turn to take care of the holiday. He however maintains that the prevalence of celebratory days cancel each other out, and thus, I do not deserve any attention at all.
Heavy sigh!
So the First Official Houseguest was. . . drum roll please. . . Stella!
The punk ethos is largely anti-heroic and as such does a disservice to pioneers and progenitors. We all want to pretend that we are self-invented, lawless, new. But we all have parents and protectors, we all need a place to start. Even if our work is about ripping it all up and starting again.
I surfaced from multiple conflicting deadlines long enough to prepare for the First Official Houseguest and noticed that I'm not responsible enough to own white towels.
These goods were purchased from Heal's when I moved in to the flat last September. I had never before owned quality towelling and couldn't have known what to expect, but I did anticipate they would remain dazzling and fluffy longer than five months. Especially since I was away for two of those months.
They are not tattered or dirty, they are just. . . vaguely not quite white.
The discerning reader prefers My Baby Rides the Short Bus.
Vote early, vote often:
http://specialchildren.about.com/b/2011/02/11/vote-for-favorite-special-needs-memoir.htm
Deadlines! Oh, the horror! And oh, so necessary.
I never accomplish anything unless I have external motivation: a publisher, or a promise, or a legitimate need to earn money. Vanity and boredom might be sufficient motivations to play with words or tell a story, but I would never sit down and write without remunerative inspiration. I just can't - the words do not cooperate. I will happily tap and scratch away for years on projects that I never sell, or even show, but the intent from the first paragraph is always publication.
Do you sell on etsy? Then I have a deal for you: for a limited time, advertise your wares on Hipmama.com starting at $6! Tell your friends!
Coupon code: etsy-only
The entire staff of the local posh food store greets me by name (first and last) although I have been there merely half a dozen times.
I suspect they are being "friendly." I find the experience "alarming."
This is partly cultural: customer service in England is sparse, to say the least, and in Cambridge you could describe shop clerks as antagonistic. The folks at Bacchanalia and the farm store were the only amiable people I encountered on a daily basis, but they certainly never knew my name. Or at least, they didn't use it.
Like certain multinational banks, I have "complex tax issues."
Unlike certain multinational banks, I "pay taxes."
I'm an American citizen by birth and British by residency, and as such am compelled to pay national taxes in each country. Since I own properties and work in both places, I also pay local tax in whichever borough, county, or constituency I fetch up in.
