Carapace Versus the Orange Gourds of Doooom

Time to bust out my ethnocentrism and wish everybody a Happy Thanksgiving! Even if you don't live in the US. Happy..um..late November? Or you could join us in eating ourselves sick on big plates of food; it's really one of the easiest holidays to play along with. I'll join in yours!

I mean it. I love the holidays. Any holidays. All Arbor's Day of the Chrimukwanukah Solstivus Eve, whatever you got, I'll take it. Every Thanksgiving I can lay my hands on (did you know the first American Thanksgiving was actually in Texas? No? It's true!), Halloween and Day of the Dead, I don't care. Any excuse for strange foods and rituals is a good one!

But there is an element of the latter-month holidays that fills me with dread, one nasty nigh-inescapable blight on this shiniest of seasons. One nasty ORANGE blight.

See, I'm allergic to orange foods. It's not that I dislike them. I *dislike* canned peas. Canned peas do not make me throw the heck up, or break out in hives, or have trouble breathing. But pumpkin, sweet potatoes, even humble carrots, when cooked...they bring the doom upon me. And most of the year, they are easy to avoid. But today, on this festive holiday occasion, they are everywhere. And so I have learned earlier than most to cook my own holiday dinner, and hold Thanksgiving only with those close companions who have shown an understanding of concepts like "anaphylactic shock" and "next time the mess goes in YOUR shoes".

So today, armed with turkey and pecan pie, I go once more to brave the trials of Family Fun. I'm grateful to be able to go to a fairly safe place; and I'll be even more grateful to return home, if I can sneak by the well meaning relatives and stealth pies once again.

May your Thanksgivings be fun, and less full of danger!

Impossible Time

There is an old pendulum wall clock in our living room that has never, in my twelve years of residence, ticked, tocked, or struck. There is a good reason for this; it's broken. Like, seriously broken. Pieces are missing; springs are spring. It is pining for the fjords. It is an ex-clock.

And then yesterday, I ran into it with my elbow. It swung wild for a minute on the wall. I caught it, steadied it, set it back not quite straight.

And then, with a great ratcheting whirring noise of gears, the clock started to tick. The pendulum began to swing.

And an hour later, it rang time.

A full day later, it's still going.

Now, the clock is not accurate; it rings whatever hour it darn well feels like, when it feels like it; and the pendulum loses and gains time arbitrarily; and the hands seem to regress and advance at whim. That is not the point. This clock shouldn't be working at all. It is not possible for this clock to even simulate function. And yet it is doing so.

Much as I'd like to maintain my rationality, here, a lifetime of fiction addiction and subsequent genre awareness prevents me. Clearly, this is a portent of some great sort. I choose to believe it signals that this is the time to achieve impossible things-- write a novel! Win the lottery! Clean all the dishes and have a clean sink for an entire day!

And, of course, pack a bag for traveling in an alternate universe. Because if this baby strikes thirteen, it's go time. I've read the books.

***


Seriously, it's weird. Tell me of weirdness in your world! Or what impossible things you want to do! A very nosy person wants to know!

A Farewell to a Mug

Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to honor a good friend,and a true morning companion: my green mug.

While many such go their way and are forgotten, the green mug was worthy of recognition for its rare near-perfection. It was nigh-spherical and short,fighting off the spills inherent in serving a spastic dope like me. It was lightweight, even when carrying a full complement of liquid. Its wide mouth made it perfect for drinks which took much of their charm from aroma. Its curved sides fit just so into the palm of the hand which owned it. And of course, it was green. Not a solid mass produced green, but a soft melting green that spread across the iridescent surface of the mug like a watercolor wash on a wet page.

Sadly, it betrayed its years of loyal service when, for no apparent reason, it sort of exploded on me while I was adding water for tea.

Only in trying to find a replacement do I realize just how much it will be missed.

Dang it.