Humorous Sci-fi Goes Audio -and- the Winter of Our Self-Burglarization

Well, it's been a 24 hours of firsts for me. The first, er, first was summoning up the courage to not only read my work aloud but share a snippet of the first chapter of The Purloined Number with real and actual people. Normally, this is a performance only experienced by my two cats. And of them, only Alice is really ever very interested. 

So, yup, if anyone was ever curious about what I sound like, this is pretty much it.

The second first for me was this morning, when Old Man Winter decided that all the snow-shoveling wasn't enough to ensure I got a good ab workout. Nope, he thought that for funsies he should call on his buddy the SnowMiser to seal all of my car doors shut.

It was somewhere before any tears escaped to freeze on my cheeks that I realized I could, however, get my trunk open. And the trunk does have fold-down seats. 

So, into the trunk I went, sliding into the back seat, kicking the back door open, and then climbing into the front and giving that a good kick, too. It was like Ocean's 11, only more Thorson's One, so kind of low budget.

I must say, there's a certain surreality about climbing into your own trunk. I feel like I have a better appreciation for characters in mafia flicks now.

So that's the news for today. Me, I'm off to have a cup of tea, which I plan to use mainly to drive circulation back into two of my fingertips. I'd like to keep them, if I can. They balance out the hand so nicely.

Hope you all are hanging in there okay during this winter of our discontent. --Jenn

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PS-- OHHH! I almost totally forgot! I wanted to mention here some very cool news. I now know the title for the third and final There Goes the Galaxy book in the series! It will be called Tryfling Matters.

I had been driving to work, not really even thinking about the title, when it just popped into my head. The aliens in my book's universe call our planet Tryfe and the people here, Tryflings. Plus, much of the action this time around centers on Tryfe.

Gotta love the human mind. Always on the job!

Love, Alien-Style -or- A Very Special Sci-Fi Valentine's Day

Ah, Valentine's Day... The time of year when our thoughts turn to: "Why didn't I make the friggin' dinner reservations a month ago before it was completely booked?"...

And: "What a scam! These same roses were ten bucks last week and now they're a mortgage payment!"

Or love. Some people also think about love.

Me, well, lately, I've been pretty much having an exclusive relationship with the first draft of the last book in my trilogy... 

We stay in most of the time. I try not to look at him too critically, though I know he's not quite what I really want. 

Right now he's rough around the edges and sketchy. Yet someday, I think he could really be something. 

From this, I imagine it's not surprising to learn my characters have more interesting social lives than I do. But this week I had a lot of fun creating graphics for two of my more romantic quotes in the There Goes the Galaxy series...

Yes, in the Greater Communicating Universe, love can be expressed with an XJ-37 raygun.

This was another favorite, from The Purloined Number:

I hope you all have an out-of-this world Valentine's Day and weekend ahead of you. Based on the weather forecast, we pretty much live on the planet Hoth now. So good luck digging out of the tundra and don't forget to check for Snowbeasts.

If you survive, I hope to see you next week.

The Shoveling Gnomes

I swear it wasn't done when I went to bed.

I recall specifically lookin' out my front door, without any of that that "doo-doo-doo" enthusiasm John Fogerty expressed back at his house in the 60s. And with 100% fewer giants doing cartwheels, too...

Even though I was pretty tired.

But there was absolutely nothing to sing about, as far as I was concerned. The snow had piled up a good eight inches in no time, creating an image of idyllic postcard winter. Because y'know, those Currier and Ives landscape people clearly had snowblowers. What else could explain how they could summon up so much seasonal appreciation to paint under these sorts of conditions?

So I went to bed. And when I got up in the morning and faced the tundra again with a hot cup of java, that's when I saw it.

My walk, and the first three stairs of my house, had been shoveled.

There was also a path carved so I could get into my car.

"Again?"

Yes, this was the third time this had happened.

The first time, I had already shoveled, but overnight a mysterious, convenient path had been dug to my car that I didn't recall doing.

The second time, someone beat me to shoveling my front walk in its entirety, again somewhere between 10pm and 5am.

And now... this time, the walk was shoveled, along with three steps to the house.

I would say it was my neighbors, but initial dealings with one of them in particular hadn't proved to be overly... Mr. Rogersy. So unless it was guilt-ridden, Apology Shoveling, it just didn't seem likely.

And no one has come ringing my doorbell asking for money, saying if I don't pay up they'll put it all back.

So the only possible rational explanation is that I have Shoveling Gnomes.

I mean, sure, as kids we all heard the tales. Magical elfin people who'd repair massive amounts of shoes overnight. Or spin straw into gold. Or fold your laundry and stack it in your underwear drawer.

(Oh, wait, no, that last one is sometimes called "Mom.")

But the other two. Those. They count. So who's to say these magic-packed little people aren't expanding their operations to shovel snow?

What happens to lawn gnomes in winter, anyway? Do we really believe they're just under two feet of snow sleeping it off for six months?

No. They make themselves useful. Tidy up the place. And we have evidence that they're attracted to colder, snowier climes. I mean, who hasn't heard of Gnome, Alaska?

Okay, yes, I know that's spelled differently. But I think that's just a diversionary tactic used by real estate agents to strengthen the market values.

So, as winter slowly melts into spring, I'm looking to see what the future brings. Perhaps they'll turn their hands to gardening this year, and I'll find annuals where none were planted.

Maybe I'll find the barbeque polished up for a fresh season of grilling.

Or maybe I'll just find a ton of teeny-tiny beer bottles tossed under one of my shrubs, along with a pink plastic flamingo wearing a saddle.

Work hard, play hard, you know.

There's no place like gnome.
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Humorbloggers

Variations on the Pittsburgh Chair Law

My town, Pittsburgh, dances to the beat of its own stadium organist.

For instance, the 'Burgh believes there's nothing odd about tucking french fries inside your sandwich-- and while you're add it, slap a little cole slaw in there, too.

It believes that anybody making a left turn has a God-given right to go first, nevermind those pesky traffic laws or that giant truck barreling down on you head-on.

It stands for helping stranded motorists just because it's the right thing to do. It believes in never-ending potential for Steelers Superbowl stardom even if half the players are in full-body casts.

And it believes that once you dig your parking space out, like astronauts on a moon landing, you are permitted to symbolically claim it as your own.

And this can only be done properly by putting a chair in it.

Now, these chairs may look like ordinary chairs, but the moment they step a leg outside, they gain magical properties. That chair instantly stakes your claim. It renders that chair unmovable by foreign entities under penalty of instant epidermal liquification or a good punch in the snoot.

For Snowapolooza 2010, however, I'm noticing some creative variations on the Pittsburgh Chair Law.

I myself have never taken advantage of the Chair Law until this year. But after spending an hour digging out the space in front of my house-- resulting in my need to buy stock in a name brand Ibuprofin manufacturing company-- I was friggin' well going to make sure that spot was waiting for me at the end of a hard day.

But alas! I had no moisture-resistant chair available to sacrifice to Mother Nature! So, in an irreverent twist on tradition, I went for the Tall Kelly Green Plastic Recycling Bin.

My next door neighbors, I noticed, have selected a Homebound Resident Toilet Chair as their snowtime statement-- an interesting spin on the usual chair motif.

I have spied Tailgating Cupholder Chairs... Reappropriated Dairy Milk Crates in Leaning Tower of Pisa-like formations... and my new favorite: a stack of colorful desk "inboxes," a rainbow of hope in a tundra of white endlessness.

Come spring, these items will once again return to their original functions. Back again to the home office, the den, the spot cradling the bottom of Great-Uncle Alfie.

Or perhaps they'll end up curbside on bulk trash day. Having served their purpose for one cold, crystalline season. Having enjoyed a few months elevated as the one object that guaranteed a small moment of reprieve, of ease, in the relentless winter struggle of Man Versus Street Parking.

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Question of the day: Does your city have any odd unspoken rules visitors find confusing or funny?
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Humorbloggers

Snow-My-God and the Good Samaritans

Not once, but twice. Twice did I get my car stuck yesterday in the Great Untasty Icee that is our Pittsburgh streets.

I didn't hear the full story of the reason our fair city was allowed to become a geographically-diverse, mud-and-salt-flavored Snoopy Snow Cone... Though rumors reached my ears that Mayor Skippy, our pimple-faced Frat-Boy-In-Charge, was off rockin' his 30th b-day outside the 'Burgh and forgot-- in the frenzy of pinatas, pints and ponies-- to call home and let loose the plows.

(I don't actually believe that, of course. He'd also need a clown who made balloon animals to truly distract him.)

Anyway, as it was, I've been driving around with a snow shovel as my co-pilot. It sits in the front seat and doesn't say much... occasionally tries to mess with my stereo and I have to slap its handle.

Ice Encounter One, during the morning commute, had me grateful that shovel was there and could earn its keep instead of just trying to change my CDs.

I'd made the mistake of obeying a stop sign at a four-way stop, where traffic was coming from all angles. And that one moment of Good-Doo-Beeness and Not Crashing turned out to my downfall. I was well and truly sunk.

But as I turned around with a curse on my chapped lips and my third shovelful of seasonal muck, there stood two burly truckers, guys delivering to a local business. Who, with nary a word, unwedged my little car from the arctic slop and sent me on my way waving.

Cheers, guys! You are My Saviors of the Snowbank.

Then evening came, and I'd fled work with visions of pajamas and pot pies in my head. And that's when impatience and a polar ice cap brought me down to earth again for Ice Encounter Two.

This time, not only did I manage to get the car stuck, I managed to do it in a way I was blocking every single one of my coworkers who'd parked in our lot from leaving to go home.

Yes, if you're going to do something stupid, it's good to do it big and inconvenience as many undeserving people as possible. That's my motto!

(Wordy, yes, motto-wise, but I haven't had time to edit it down.)

Now, it turns out my colleagues-- much smarter than I in the ways of winter and not-sticking-- were able to use their knowledge of Advanced Slop Physics, and Nascar, and Driving Better Than Jenn to help me unwedge from Predicament Two. And they were far more good-natured about it than I ever would have been to me, I might add.

So seeing as it appeared to be a full-office exercise in teamwork, I really need to reward these good people with some sort of goodies for their help. (As any office drone knows, nothing says, "thank you" like free food.) Only I realize that I'd probably have to drive to do it. Making way for the unfortunate possibility of Ice Encounter Three.

Not happenin'.

So, perhaps when the snows melt a bit and the birds begin to sing their song, I can do a proper old-fashioned office "thank you." One that fully expresses how much I appreciate their good cheer, their effort, and their not letting me freeze to death in the alley like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

I must choose something that will make them happy. That will emphasize the joy they gave me. Yet it must be symbollic.

I can just imagine the look of surprise on the cashier's face as I order 20 Rita's Italian Ices to go.

Stay safe, folks!
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Humorbloggers

Snow Day Donner Party Overcompensation Syndrome

Heavy snow accumulation. The words escape the weatherman's lips. It reaches the ear. It travels to the brain.

And it triggers a jittery, uncontrollable need for bread and milk.

Why, even if we're so lactose intolerant we'd get irritable bowel from one lonely Milk Dud....

Even if we're Living La Vida Gluten-Free...

...We Pittsburghers still grab the keys, revv up the car and roar to the closest Giant Eagle supermarket to stock up for three months of total geographic isolation, by buying things that mold and spoil if you look at them the wrong way.

It's tradition.

So, I go to the store and, in an attempt to strike a note of stoic individuality, I buy hamburger buns and coffee creamer.

"These are not milk and bread. They are non-dairy creamer and sandwich fixin's," my shopping basket proclaims proudly. "Judge not, lest thine Wonderbread and Colteryahn 2% be judged."

And, well, while I'm there at the store, I decide I'd better just pick up some more toilet paper, too. Because what if I suddenly develop dysentery during my seclusion? Or... or... scurvy? (Does scurvy involve intestinal issues? No time to look it up, but why take chances?)

Why, I'd be forced to use... I don't know... sheets from the Pennysaver!

And not only would that clog up my drains, but the print would transfer itself in ways I'd prefer to not think about. There are just certain places on the body that do not need ads for purebred pitbull puppies decorating them.

So with toilet paper in tow, I realize I might want also to cook myself a nice hearty breakfast before digging out. To give myself the superhuman energy to move the artic ice caps that undoubtedly will be moving into my neighborhood.

And so I'll need eggs...

And bacon...

And, well, if I want toast, maybe I'll need that loaf of whole grain wheat after all...

I stack it in the basket with a furtive gaze, and in an instant, I feel a flash of chilled hands and frozen toes.

Dear God! Post-shoveling I'll want a cup of tea. Do I have tea in the house?

And in spite of some sense that there's actually stack of tea in the pantry so towering that Earl Grey himself would say "pip-pip" to it, I secure another box. Safety tea, really.

So by the time I've done, my basket is a low-rider and my 12-items-or-less has somehow transformed into the fully-stocked freezer of the Overlook Hotel.

And I can see, by the bulging grocery bags of my fellow shoppers, that I am not the only one. This behavior really needs itself a name. And I'd like to suggest "Snow Day Donner Party Overcompensation Syndrome."

I suspect it's borne of some innate fear that one day, lack of preparation and an Apocalyptic dose of Mother Nature will mean we'd be force to dine on... oh... Grandpa Al to survive.

We know deep down that even if we made it through the crisis ourselves, the post-dinner guilt of noshing on beloved relatives would kill us.

Plus, Grandpa Al is a little stringy.

It's just safer to buy the bread and milk.

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Question of the day: In your area, do you see the bread aisle pretty much cleaned out at the first sign of flurries? And are you one of those snowstorm stocker-uppers?

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