My 5-year-old son drew this at school, and I think it's just awesome. :)
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Razor: Angel (Prologue)
PROLOGUE
Early Days In the Career of an Alchemist
There was a pile of small brass balls in the small puddle of green water that sat at the edge of the tunnel entrance. The Alchemist leaned down and scooped some of them up in his gloved hand; they were very tiny, but strong. He pushed the folds of his long jacket aside, opened up the large leather pouch that hung down at his waist and took out a small leather bag. Once he secured seven or eight of the small spheres into the bag he tossed it into back the pouch and closed it up again. His nose itched, but he knew that if he removed the plugs the stench of his surroundings would kill him. He gazed around for a moment through his red-tinted eyeglasses, and when he saw nothing else of interest he rose to continue on.
There was only a narrow space of walkway on either side of the vile channel of water, constructed out of the same gray-green stone that made up the walls and arched ceiling. Heavy drops of putrescence rained down from above and struck the sludge below. The drainage system hadn't worked properly for years: it was probably only a matter of time before the sewer water rose up to the streets.
The Alchemist cautiously stepped onto one of the walkways. It took him a minute to find his footing -- the spikes on his boots were designed to procure a firm hold on the stone, which had overgrown with a layer of sticky green ooze and heavy clumps of black moss. He reached out one hand, which was sheathed in a glove brown and dirty with age, and took hold of a small crevasse in the wall in order for balance. He turned and looked into the dark hole that the water normally ran into. There was no flow, for the water had grown solid and stagnant. Purple mosquitoes skimmed the surface, some trapped as their legs passed too close to the syrupy layer of filth. Dozens of clumps of algae clung to the wall where the water leveled, half submerged in the filmy liquid. The Alchemist kicked a small stone -- black due to the dismal substances that covered it -- into the water, and watched as it slowly sank. A cloud of vaporous wet dust erupted from the floor of the stream as the stone plunged down. The drainage hole was a half submerged tunnel, completely dark and filled with the resonant sounds of dripping water that echoed from its mouth.
The Alchemist walked on.
A few meters along the ledge he came to a strange mass of web and moss. It stretched across his path in a perfect incline that rose up the ceiling. The web was extremely thin and delicate, lined with crystal white dew and droplets of what appeared to be fresh water; this serenity was countered only by the clumps of black moss that marked the web’s surface. The Alchemist looked closely at the translucent web, and peered further down the walkway to another spot where a side tunnel appeared, about fifty feet away. He turned his attention to the black moss, and gently ran a finger over it. Though he had enough moss -- enough to last through the making of a dozen potions, he believed -- the Alchemist had never seen any so dark. It was rubbery, and it bounced back at him in the web when he pulled his finger away. With a surgically clean blade in hand, the Alchemist removed a chunk that was small enough to be squeezed between his thumb and index finger. After he removed one of his nasal caps and waited a moment for his head to orient itself to the fetid stench, the Alchemist smelled the moss, noted that it had an aroma not unlike a pomegranate, and tucked it safely away inside a leather bag and into his pouch. He pushed his way through the web once his nose filter was back in, and on down the passageway.
Another ten meters along and the ground and ceiling both became dry. He slowly approached the side-passage, pulled a large meat cleaver out from beneath his coat and held it off to his side, quietly wrapped one hand around the corner of the wall, and peered round.
While flies didn't care much for the heavy moisture at that depth of the underground, for the maggots the area was a haven, and they'd never feasted so well, the Alchemist supposed, as now. The body that he saw was nude, and from the damaged condition of the skin whatever garb it had once possessed had been torn or cut away. There were long, slender gashes along the legs, chest, abdomen, and upper arms. Its blood had evidently stopped flowing long ago: it was dried on, pasty and light red and spread out in wide, gummy streams. It was a male body, or at least it had been, for the genitals had been forcibly removed, leaving only a red morass of pulp between the legs. The corpse lay upon relatively clear ground, and the maggots had thus far only assaulted the major wounds -- the genital area and the chest, where the Alchemist now noticed a sizeable wound likely caused by the impact of a blunt instrument – and had left the head relatively untouched. The Alchemist scanned the area, looking as far as he could down the dark corridor that the body had probably been dragged down as he could, but he saw no one else.
The Alchemist stepped over the body, and knelt down by the head. There were a few more maggots there than he’d thought, but luckily they’d only begun the process of entering through the ears and nasal passages. He placed the cleaver on the ground, tightened his gloves, and pried open the mouth. Despite the white worms that wriggled around inside, the tongue seemed to be in good shape. This close examination he saw that the nose was in fact ruined, having been bent over to the left side of the face by some concussive force.
He rubbed his chin. The hair was worthless -- good for a few aches and pains chemicals, nothing more. The flesh was too badly damaged by both slashing wounds and rot for him to get any good use out of it. The hands were in good shape, though; even if he couldn't use them, he could probably find somebody in need of them, and get a good price. He shook his head -- it had been such a long time since he'd had a body to work with that he forgot what other important parts to scoop out. The internal organs would be well ruined by now, even though the body only looked a few hours old. He didn't have the means to get them back and preserve them quickly enough.
The Alchemist leaned in and looked at the eyes. With the exception of the dried outer film and a few almost unperceivable cuts, they looked to be in fine shape. He leaned closer and applied his tongue to one eye to probe the stiffness of the bulb: it tasted of stale accrued dust and dried glaze. Once it got moist enough he determined that it was likely in good condition. He held his blade ready: he'd have to make a clean cut just beneath the eye, and probably use the cleaver to hack through the bone so he'd be able to sever the cord to the brain. A bit of work, perhaps, but it would be worth it in the end. Why, with eyes, what possibilities! Invisibility, infravision, love elixirs, youth oils, maybe even a hallucinogenic or two.
He wrapped a thin cloth around his face to form a cowl that covered his nose and mouth, held the blade tight, and hummed aloud while he made the first cut.
© 2007 Steven Montano
Early Days In the Career of an Alchemist
There was a pile of small brass balls in the small puddle of green water that sat at the edge of the tunnel entrance. The Alchemist leaned down and scooped some of them up in his gloved hand; they were very tiny, but strong. He pushed the folds of his long jacket aside, opened up the large leather pouch that hung down at his waist and took out a small leather bag. Once he secured seven or eight of the small spheres into the bag he tossed it into back the pouch and closed it up again. His nose itched, but he knew that if he removed the plugs the stench of his surroundings would kill him. He gazed around for a moment through his red-tinted eyeglasses, and when he saw nothing else of interest he rose to continue on.
There was only a narrow space of walkway on either side of the vile channel of water, constructed out of the same gray-green stone that made up the walls and arched ceiling. Heavy drops of putrescence rained down from above and struck the sludge below. The drainage system hadn't worked properly for years: it was probably only a matter of time before the sewer water rose up to the streets.
The Alchemist cautiously stepped onto one of the walkways. It took him a minute to find his footing -- the spikes on his boots were designed to procure a firm hold on the stone, which had overgrown with a layer of sticky green ooze and heavy clumps of black moss. He reached out one hand, which was sheathed in a glove brown and dirty with age, and took hold of a small crevasse in the wall in order for balance. He turned and looked into the dark hole that the water normally ran into. There was no flow, for the water had grown solid and stagnant. Purple mosquitoes skimmed the surface, some trapped as their legs passed too close to the syrupy layer of filth. Dozens of clumps of algae clung to the wall where the water leveled, half submerged in the filmy liquid. The Alchemist kicked a small stone -- black due to the dismal substances that covered it -- into the water, and watched as it slowly sank. A cloud of vaporous wet dust erupted from the floor of the stream as the stone plunged down. The drainage hole was a half submerged tunnel, completely dark and filled with the resonant sounds of dripping water that echoed from its mouth.
The Alchemist walked on.
A few meters along the ledge he came to a strange mass of web and moss. It stretched across his path in a perfect incline that rose up the ceiling. The web was extremely thin and delicate, lined with crystal white dew and droplets of what appeared to be fresh water; this serenity was countered only by the clumps of black moss that marked the web’s surface. The Alchemist looked closely at the translucent web, and peered further down the walkway to another spot where a side tunnel appeared, about fifty feet away. He turned his attention to the black moss, and gently ran a finger over it. Though he had enough moss -- enough to last through the making of a dozen potions, he believed -- the Alchemist had never seen any so dark. It was rubbery, and it bounced back at him in the web when he pulled his finger away. With a surgically clean blade in hand, the Alchemist removed a chunk that was small enough to be squeezed between his thumb and index finger. After he removed one of his nasal caps and waited a moment for his head to orient itself to the fetid stench, the Alchemist smelled the moss, noted that it had an aroma not unlike a pomegranate, and tucked it safely away inside a leather bag and into his pouch. He pushed his way through the web once his nose filter was back in, and on down the passageway.
Another ten meters along and the ground and ceiling both became dry. He slowly approached the side-passage, pulled a large meat cleaver out from beneath his coat and held it off to his side, quietly wrapped one hand around the corner of the wall, and peered round.
While flies didn't care much for the heavy moisture at that depth of the underground, for the maggots the area was a haven, and they'd never feasted so well, the Alchemist supposed, as now. The body that he saw was nude, and from the damaged condition of the skin whatever garb it had once possessed had been torn or cut away. There were long, slender gashes along the legs, chest, abdomen, and upper arms. Its blood had evidently stopped flowing long ago: it was dried on, pasty and light red and spread out in wide, gummy streams. It was a male body, or at least it had been, for the genitals had been forcibly removed, leaving only a red morass of pulp between the legs. The corpse lay upon relatively clear ground, and the maggots had thus far only assaulted the major wounds -- the genital area and the chest, where the Alchemist now noticed a sizeable wound likely caused by the impact of a blunt instrument – and had left the head relatively untouched. The Alchemist scanned the area, looking as far as he could down the dark corridor that the body had probably been dragged down as he could, but he saw no one else.
The Alchemist stepped over the body, and knelt down by the head. There were a few more maggots there than he’d thought, but luckily they’d only begun the process of entering through the ears and nasal passages. He placed the cleaver on the ground, tightened his gloves, and pried open the mouth. Despite the white worms that wriggled around inside, the tongue seemed to be in good shape. This close examination he saw that the nose was in fact ruined, having been bent over to the left side of the face by some concussive force.
He rubbed his chin. The hair was worthless -- good for a few aches and pains chemicals, nothing more. The flesh was too badly damaged by both slashing wounds and rot for him to get any good use out of it. The hands were in good shape, though; even if he couldn't use them, he could probably find somebody in need of them, and get a good price. He shook his head -- it had been such a long time since he'd had a body to work with that he forgot what other important parts to scoop out. The internal organs would be well ruined by now, even though the body only looked a few hours old. He didn't have the means to get them back and preserve them quickly enough.
The Alchemist leaned in and looked at the eyes. With the exception of the dried outer film and a few almost unperceivable cuts, they looked to be in fine shape. He leaned closer and applied his tongue to one eye to probe the stiffness of the bulb: it tasted of stale accrued dust and dried glaze. Once it got moist enough he determined that it was likely in good condition. He held his blade ready: he'd have to make a clean cut just beneath the eye, and probably use the cleaver to hack through the bone so he'd be able to sever the cord to the brain. A bit of work, perhaps, but it would be worth it in the end. Why, with eyes, what possibilities! Invisibility, infravision, love elixirs, youth oils, maybe even a hallucinogenic or two.
He wrapped a thin cloth around his face to form a cowl that covered his nose and mouth, held the blade tight, and hummed aloud while he made the first cut.
© 2007 Steven Montano
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
And now for something completely different....
Nature abhors repetition, which is why, dear readers, rather than simply feeding you page after page of the same boring writing project, I'm going to feed you snippets from other...boring...writing projects. Hooray!
The next excerpt is from "Razor: Angel", my Nanowrimo project from last year. (This year's National Novel Writing Month is rapidly approaching, so I thought it would be a great idea to continue the "Razor" series, which I'm already 2/3 of the way done with.) "Razor: Angel" and the sequel, "Razor: Hell" were my first attempts I'd made at a long time at straight horror, and the results have been....well, better than I'd expected. (Though I do find it amusing that the second book, "Razor: Hell" drifts off much closer to dark fantasy territory than it does to the fairly down-to-earth horror roots of its predecessor. Oh, well.) With any luck, the end of the trilogy, "Razor: Serpent", will be the project I'll start and complete this coming November.
The first book in the series, "Razor: Angel" is the story of a sleepy college town in northwest Washington, where a number of seemingly unrelated individuals -- an age-old vampire who may possess more power than even she knows; a pair of modern monster slayers; a reclusive sheriff, still grieving the recent loss of his wife and son; and the dark spirit of a deranged madman -- are about to collide in a deadly battle of truly Biblical proportions.
The ideas behind the "Razor" series come from back when I was in college and I'd gotten it in my head to write a screenplay for a horror film. While that screenplay (and later stage script) never got past the first 20-30 pages, I was happy to pick up the idea again for the Nanowrimo project.
I've just finished with the hard copy revision of "Razor: Angel" (that's where I go through the printed pages and scribble notes and revisions like a madman), and I'm starting in on the hard copy revision of "Razor: Hell" while I get the revisions for the first book typed in. Since that's my project of the moment, I thought I'd share the Prologue; I'll possibly put up more snippets in the future.
(The Prologue, oddly enough, was not originally written for the novel, but was part of a short story compilation I wrote back in college. The character of the Alchemist wound up becoming a major character of the novels, however, so I revised and redid this short piece and turned it into the Prologue for the book.)
As a warning, all of the "Razor" series contains sequences of graphic violence, sex, and extreme language. It's unquestionably rated "R", so don't say I didn't warn you. :)
The next excerpt is from "Razor: Angel", my Nanowrimo project from last year. (This year's National Novel Writing Month is rapidly approaching, so I thought it would be a great idea to continue the "Razor" series, which I'm already 2/3 of the way done with.) "Razor: Angel" and the sequel, "Razor: Hell" were my first attempts I'd made at a long time at straight horror, and the results have been....well, better than I'd expected. (Though I do find it amusing that the second book, "Razor: Hell" drifts off much closer to dark fantasy territory than it does to the fairly down-to-earth horror roots of its predecessor. Oh, well.) With any luck, the end of the trilogy, "Razor: Serpent", will be the project I'll start and complete this coming November.
The first book in the series, "Razor: Angel" is the story of a sleepy college town in northwest Washington, where a number of seemingly unrelated individuals -- an age-old vampire who may possess more power than even she knows; a pair of modern monster slayers; a reclusive sheriff, still grieving the recent loss of his wife and son; and the dark spirit of a deranged madman -- are about to collide in a deadly battle of truly Biblical proportions.
The ideas behind the "Razor" series come from back when I was in college and I'd gotten it in my head to write a screenplay for a horror film. While that screenplay (and later stage script) never got past the first 20-30 pages, I was happy to pick up the idea again for the Nanowrimo project.
I've just finished with the hard copy revision of "Razor: Angel" (that's where I go through the printed pages and scribble notes and revisions like a madman), and I'm starting in on the hard copy revision of "Razor: Hell" while I get the revisions for the first book typed in. Since that's my project of the moment, I thought I'd share the Prologue; I'll possibly put up more snippets in the future.
(The Prologue, oddly enough, was not originally written for the novel, but was part of a short story compilation I wrote back in college. The character of the Alchemist wound up becoming a major character of the novels, however, so I revised and redid this short piece and turned it into the Prologue for the book.)
As a warning, all of the "Razor" series contains sequences of graphic violence, sex, and extreme language. It's unquestionably rated "R", so don't say I didn't warn you. :)
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Short Story: Pale
PALE
Blades of sunlight cut through the branches. My feet make only the slightest sound as I tread the leafy ground off the path.
She is alone.
The light makes her hair shine.
I see sweat caress her bare thighs.
I move around ahead of her. Her breasts tremble as she walks.
Her eyes grow wide when I step onto the path ahead of her. Her grip tightens on the basket. Her dress, which I think is made of cotton, has fringes at the waist and is loose around her stomach. Strands of thick red hair arch the sides of her face.
"Afternoon," I say.
"Afternoon..." She looks surprised, like she's done something wrong.
"Where are you off to on this fine day?"
"It isn't so fine," she says. Her voice is smooth and deep. "Too hot."
"It is hot, isn't it?"
She nods, and allows herself a small smile. I smile back, and try not to show the teeth that aren’t quite fangs.
"Would you like company? I hate to walk alone in the woods...there are frightening things in the forest."
She stares at me. I stare back. I could live in her eyes.
"I...I'm not supposed to talk to anyone."
"Says who?"
"My grandmother."
"So you're on your way to her house, then?"
"Yes," she says, reluctantly. "Who are you?"
"Elias. I’m a hunter."
"Of what?"
"It depends."
Not yet. I seize one of her hands, and though she tries to draw it back I hold, turn it downward, and kiss. Her sweat melts in my mouth. And then I am off.
The trees fly past me. Birds whistle, near and far. A startled deer bolts from my path. Little Pale is just out of sight. I smell you.
An hour passes, maybe less. I know the path she has taken. I have been here before. I’m faster than she is. I leave her as an image that dissolves in the stuffy heat.
Grandmother has made a church into her house. The well has been rebuilt with new bricks and a shiny metal bucket. There is a garden with yellow flowers and menstrual roses. There is a white dog on a chain; he growls, and then barks. I growl back, and a plump, silver-haired face appears at the window, smiling.
The old woman comes out of the house. She is round and short, like a turkey in a blue dress. I feel the sun sink, as if it were food in my stomach. Listen for her. The grandmother says something. My eyes widen into oval pools. Vision becomes a tunnel, with her at its end. She isn’t smiling any more. My hands stretch. Without realizing it, I have shed my clothes, and coarse grey fur sprouts from my pores. I reach a hand out, and there is blood in my eyes.
I hear the grandmother scream. She is paper, torn and shredded.
The dog is afraid. It smells me, and I smell it. We are brothers. He knows I wouldn’t harm him. The chain snaps, and he is gone. Returned to the woods.
I move inside and shut the door. There is a bright kitchen, yellow and white. Spotless. In the bedroom is a four-poster bed and white flowered drapes. There is a music box and a picture of a young, handsome man. There is a wedding dress on a mannequin. The bed is scarlet, lovingly made, with large and fluffy pillows.
I melt into the shadows, near the dress.
She knows something is wrong. The door opens. I can see in the dark, and she can't.
Come to me.
I can’t see when I hunt. Everything just happens. This is what I am. I hear her screams.
Little Pale is at the door, petrified with fear. I thought that she wouldn't be afraid. She is so lovely. I see nothing for a time, and when I see again she is in my arms. Dead? No...her chest heaves with unconscious breathing, her lips are parted, and I kiss her, smearing blood on her face.
Pale is on the bed. I have removed the blankets and placed her on white sheets smeared with blood. Her breathing is slow, and she is so cold. The window is open. A cool breeze rustles her silken hair, which is spread out like a cape around her beautiful head. I long to touch her, but as I reach out my hands I see my talons, and I know that she can never love me.
© 2007 Steven Montano
Blades of sunlight cut through the branches. My feet make only the slightest sound as I tread the leafy ground off the path.
She is alone.
The light makes her hair shine.
I see sweat caress her bare thighs.
I move around ahead of her. Her breasts tremble as she walks.
Her eyes grow wide when I step onto the path ahead of her. Her grip tightens on the basket. Her dress, which I think is made of cotton, has fringes at the waist and is loose around her stomach. Strands of thick red hair arch the sides of her face.
"Afternoon," I say.
"Afternoon..." She looks surprised, like she's done something wrong.
"Where are you off to on this fine day?"
"It isn't so fine," she says. Her voice is smooth and deep. "Too hot."
"It is hot, isn't it?"
She nods, and allows herself a small smile. I smile back, and try not to show the teeth that aren’t quite fangs.
"Would you like company? I hate to walk alone in the woods...there are frightening things in the forest."
She stares at me. I stare back. I could live in her eyes.
"I...I'm not supposed to talk to anyone."
"Says who?"
"My grandmother."
"So you're on your way to her house, then?"
"Yes," she says, reluctantly. "Who are you?"
"Elias. I’m a hunter."
"Of what?"
"It depends."
Not yet. I seize one of her hands, and though she tries to draw it back I hold, turn it downward, and kiss. Her sweat melts in my mouth. And then I am off.
The trees fly past me. Birds whistle, near and far. A startled deer bolts from my path. Little Pale is just out of sight. I smell you.
An hour passes, maybe less. I know the path she has taken. I have been here before. I’m faster than she is. I leave her as an image that dissolves in the stuffy heat.
Grandmother has made a church into her house. The well has been rebuilt with new bricks and a shiny metal bucket. There is a garden with yellow flowers and menstrual roses. There is a white dog on a chain; he growls, and then barks. I growl back, and a plump, silver-haired face appears at the window, smiling.
The old woman comes out of the house. She is round and short, like a turkey in a blue dress. I feel the sun sink, as if it were food in my stomach. Listen for her. The grandmother says something. My eyes widen into oval pools. Vision becomes a tunnel, with her at its end. She isn’t smiling any more. My hands stretch. Without realizing it, I have shed my clothes, and coarse grey fur sprouts from my pores. I reach a hand out, and there is blood in my eyes.
I hear the grandmother scream. She is paper, torn and shredded.
The dog is afraid. It smells me, and I smell it. We are brothers. He knows I wouldn’t harm him. The chain snaps, and he is gone. Returned to the woods.
I move inside and shut the door. There is a bright kitchen, yellow and white. Spotless. In the bedroom is a four-poster bed and white flowered drapes. There is a music box and a picture of a young, handsome man. There is a wedding dress on a mannequin. The bed is scarlet, lovingly made, with large and fluffy pillows.
I melt into the shadows, near the dress.
She knows something is wrong. The door opens. I can see in the dark, and she can't.
Come to me.
I can’t see when I hunt. Everything just happens. This is what I am. I hear her screams.
Little Pale is at the door, petrified with fear. I thought that she wouldn't be afraid. She is so lovely. I see nothing for a time, and when I see again she is in my arms. Dead? No...her chest heaves with unconscious breathing, her lips are parted, and I kiss her, smearing blood on her face.
Pale is on the bed. I have removed the blankets and placed her on white sheets smeared with blood. Her breathing is slow, and she is so cold. The window is open. A cool breeze rustles her silken hair, which is spread out like a cape around her beautiful head. I long to touch her, but as I reach out my hands I see my talons, and I know that she can never love me.
© 2007 Steven Montano
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
(Non-Writing) Tagged
Nourgihan tagged me. "You have to list some things about yourself using each letter of your middle name."
Ok, here it goes:
A is for Accountant. A cheap one, I know, but for better or for worse, it's my profession, that which keeps bread and butter on the table, and that which occupies roughly 98% of my waking hours.
L is for Lovable, because I'm so darned cute. (If I had a D in my middle name, it would be Desireable, which would sound better and wound pump up my otherwise fragile ego even more, but I'll settle for Lovable.)
A is for is also for Anachronistic. I do believe that I was born at least 6 centuries too late, and that instead of living the jet-set lifestyle of an Accountant and freelance writer I was supposed to be living the jet-set lifestyle of a bookkeeper or a freelance poet.
N is for Nerdy. Yes, Nerdy. I'm a movie buff, hardcore fantasy/sci-fi fan, DM, DDMer, MST3K fanatic, and I spend enough time online that I should probably just have a wireless modem attached to my brain. (Again, another word would have been better -- in this case "Geek", since the word "Nerdy" does imply the existence of a level of intelligence and technical capability that, frankly, I don't possess -- but I'll settle with what I've got.)
Ok, here it goes:
A is for Accountant. A cheap one, I know, but for better or for worse, it's my profession, that which keeps bread and butter on the table, and that which occupies roughly 98% of my waking hours.
L is for Lovable, because I'm so darned cute. (If I had a D in my middle name, it would be Desireable, which would sound better and wound pump up my otherwise fragile ego even more, but I'll settle for Lovable.)
A is for is also for Anachronistic. I do believe that I was born at least 6 centuries too late, and that instead of living the jet-set lifestyle of an Accountant and freelance writer I was supposed to be living the jet-set lifestyle of a bookkeeper or a freelance poet.
N is for Nerdy. Yes, Nerdy. I'm a movie buff, hardcore fantasy/sci-fi fan, DM, DDMer, MST3K fanatic, and I spend enough time online that I should probably just have a wireless modem attached to my brain. (Again, another word would have been better -- in this case "Geek", since the word "Nerdy" does imply the existence of a level of intelligence and technical capability that, frankly, I don't possess -- but I'll settle with what I've got.)
(Non-Writing) A Productive Phone Call
I spent an hour on the half on the phone with a certain VP of a certain department at a certain parent corporation yesterday (no names mentioned, but let's just say that the acronym for the department in question is "IA"), trying to get clarification on (what I thought) was a simple matter. This VP saw it differently. Actually...I'm not sure what he saw. Perhaps colored lights, or pretty sparkles. In any case, 1 hour and 25 minutes of that phone conversation was spent explaining/focusing/trying to get him to stay on topic. The actual productive part of the phone call came at the very end, and took about 5 minutes. I was pretty much ready to law down on a table saw at that point.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
(Non-Writing) Super Wifemom!!!!
Ok, so while I've been here at work preparing the Trial Balance and doing account reconciliations for Month End close, my wife has a) gotten both of the kids off to school (quite a Herculian task when you consider that my DD generally only stirs for earthquakes and meteor storms, and even then only with monetary incentive), b) gone shopping to stock up our low supply of sacklunch materials, c) cleaned the house (twice), d) corresponded with her own place of work regarding some invoices she put into the system last night (because she works nights in addition to taking care of 3....er, 2....kids all day), and e) drove out and changed the oil in my dilapidated van because I'm too much of an idiot to figure out how to do it myself.
Even if she did get paid for being a wife and mom, I'm sure it wouldn't be enough.
We love you, Hon -- thank you for everything! :)
Even if she did get paid for being a wife and mom, I'm sure it wouldn't be enough.
We love you, Hon -- thank you for everything! :)
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