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!

Our Lady of Gravity and Perpetual Contusion

It'll be a new trend in women's businesswear! Flared trousers with salt and blood stains at the knee and down the calf, and suede knee-boots with matching salt residue trim just at the toe. Eye-makeup will coordinate with ice-scraper-shaped bruising and contusions at the temple.

I think, if I play it right, it will be all the rage for the 2011 winter fashion season.

The event that spawned such design brilliance, however, some might say lacks the glamor and grace of the collection's obvious runway possibilities.

Black ice and a top layer of rain on what I thought were well-salted concrete steps sent me-- in the high-heeled boots I'd considered particularly fetching only moments before-- bouncing and jouncing down each stair, individually, like a fleshy stone skipping off a particularly unyielding lake.

Bump! Clump! Flump! Glump! Pomp! Schlump!

The heels which I never wear much because I am under normal circumstances too tall to not look like some giantess barging in uninvited on the year's hottest dwarf cocktail party were handy in one respect. Because they go up to the knee, they protected nobly considering they were not chainmail... or made by the aforementioned dwarves.

Getting up, I Dorothy Hamilled myself over to the car, and realized I had not yet made the full fashion statement I really needed for Success. So I clocked myself in the face with my own ice scraper on a particularly defiant chunk of windshield ice.

The things we do for high fashion, right ladies?

Tomorrow, I believe I will try something new. Before I leave the house, I will ensconce myself entirely in bubble wrap.

True couture innovation never ends.

What's Your Snow Removal Style?

Given Jack Frost's pretty much given half the U.S. the snow equivalent of in-school bullying so far this January, and my hands are still frozen in the shoveling position (makes it seriously hard to type, let me tell ya), I was thinking a lot lately about neighborhood snow removal.

A look down the block shows everyone handles this winter chore in their own unique way. And I think if we were to classify these techniques, they might go something like this:

• The Winter Warrior. This is the neighbor who finds a single snowflake on their sidewalk to be a personal affront to civilization as we know it. The moment so much as one flurry dares to invade their territory, they are out there with shovels, plows, salt, and an elite troupe of anti-snow ninjas to remove the offending bit of crystallized H2O and return the world to how it once was. The Winter Warrior may shovel at least 17 times for a single snowfall. This person also likely aligns each bath towel inside the house so they hang of equal length on the towel rack.

• The Minimalist. This is the person who has decided to leverage the Obligatory Shoveling Loophole. They shovel a one-shovel-width path from their home to their car. If truly serious about the shoveling, they might extend the path to 50% of the sidewalk, crafting an elaborate illusion of safety and seasonal effectiveness. As a child, this was probably the kid who took two bites of dinner and pushed the rest around on his plate to fool Mom.

• The 'More Power' Enthusiast. This is the neighbor who was drooling all the way back in August with shiny thoughts of using the discount six-speed snowblower he just bought. At the first signs of snow, he is there, ready. Blowing out his drive, his back yard, his sidewalk, your sidewalk, the sidewalk of everybody on the block, people the next town over...  Eventually he finds himself at the equator, overdressed, sweating, confused and out of gas. He is very popular among his neighbors. By end of winter, he will have taken on a benevolent God-like reputation.

• The Guilt Shoveler. This person is always one of the last people to shovel out after a snow storm. They check the status of other neighbors' properties from the warmth of their homes, while cupping a mug of cocoa, and wearing fuzzy slippers. They are waiting for someone else to set the shoveling precedent. They need this time to rationalize why they must be ripped from the comfort of flannel and chocolate when this white stuff from the sky will only likely come back again for round two. Only the fear that the other neighbors will call them Lazy McNoShovel gets them from their cocoon.

• The Free Spirit. The inhabitants of the house on the block that has never, ever shoveled any part of their walkway or drive. The U.S Postal Service knows this and every year simply keeps their mail to be delivered in the safety of Spring. No amount of inter-neighborhood peer pressure will encourage these homeowners to address the outdoor world of white. These folks are typically the ones who don't rake leaves, or take advantage of the benefits of public sanitation service.

Me, I border on being the Guilt Shoveler. But I have a Winter Warrior on one side of me. I get guilted a little early on in the Snow Removal Process, since he and his Shoveling Ninjas sweep in and out several times before the last flake of the storm has dropped.

There can be six feet of snow everywhere else on the street and then his sidewalk is completely bare and shining with happy salt crystals.

It just ain't right.

So tell me-- what's your snow removal style? Do you live next to a Winter Warrior, 'More Power' Enthusiast, or the Free Spirit?

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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