Apr. 25th, 2006

I am not the broody sort, really ever-- even now as I slide down the far side of my twenties I'm still thinking of kids as one of those lifestyle choices I'd like to be the sort of person who would make-- sort of akin to being a discerning wine drinker, which I admit I sort of am not-- but Dooce just posted a video of her daughter's impression of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star that is the sort of precious that actually appeals to me, in that it's slightly sarcastic and the kid is a noodge.

I also spent much of last night clicking through the Daily Oliver and its affiliated blogs. Oliver is a Wiemariner who lives with his brother Hugo in the South of France, and one of his owners is a translator with a blog that sort of reminds me that once upon a time my dream was to be a translator.

I have, of late, been getting stuck into things sort of obsessively, and it's been keeping me from writing. I am on the long boring downhill part of the novel, and want to be done with it. Almost all the good scenes I wanted to write have been written. I am getting a little tired of it-- not that I am tired of the character, but more perhaps that I don't want to say goodbye to him.
Also, the blog I referred to above had an entry where the translator, a woman, was ruminating that she'd never read a novel with a male first-person narrator written credibly by a female author, and it suddenly struck me that I am doing just that and am probably not believable. Urgh.

Still no idea what to do with work. I will probably go to full time and loathe myself for doing it. I urgently need to talk to everyone else and find out what they're doing. There are two or three people senior to me whose choices I am not entirely sure of, and that dictates which of about three choices I am going to go for. There are two full-time shifts I could get, and three part-time-- two more senior people will probably choose part-time, meaning I'll get third choice on the part-time bids, meaning I'll be stuck with the Pain In The Ass shifts I don't want. But ... Eh, this is exceedingly boring, I realize. I have been at this job over six months more than I have ever stayed at any other job consecutively (my college workstudy doesn't count because I had summers off), which is saying something, and that something is that yes, despite my complaints, this is the least loathsome job I've worked, and also the most lucrative. Change is risky and scary. And I am feeling very stuck because of course it is all in service to my (dare I breathe the words?) Dream of Becoming A Real Author, which is faintly ridiculous even when I am trying very hard, as almost nobody Becomes A Real Author, and if I don't finish this fucking book, God help me.

Sigh. Anyhow.

Oh, [livejournal.com profile] mother2012 came over yesterday to retrieve some of my excess seedlings for the garden, with her very earnest and astonishingly pretty daughter who may someday rule the world. It was good to finally meet her-- I have spoken to her on the phone, and emailed, and lj'd for over a year, all whilst living less than five miles apart. I had expected her earlier in the day, and had sort of forgotten she was coming, and was in my own world, baking cookies, and so I don't recall whether I exhibited any manners to speak of, but I did at least find out how to pronounce her daughter's name.

I do not make much sense today. I am trying to finish the damn novel. I should go do that.
Tonight Z and I are going out to the Century Grill for this Dining Out For Life event, and I am psyched because I have been craving Century's wings, and also because a lot of Elmwood Strip-ers will be there (maybe?), which will be nice-- again, real human interaction!-- but I am grumpy because for the last week now I've had a lot of intestinal rumbling sort of stuff and it is back today, and I could not tell you what the friggin' deal is with that. I hope I feel better in time to eat wings because I really want wings.
I never liked the Talking Heads.
Z likes them.
Now I listen to them and think, "Yeah, all right." And listen to them again.

My tastes are mutable. I've never really had defined tastes of my own. I am better at helping other people describe their own tastes and thoughts than expressing my own.

Either that makes me a good writer or it doesn't. I used to write excellent advice for other people. I used to joke I should be an advice columnist. But it's a tough market to break into.

I've had a bit to drink tonight. I won't order froufrou drinks in a busy bar, so when we showed up to the Century tonight, I just had a beer, but the crowd left while we were there, so I switched to Sidecars. Which are pre-froufrou, but involve multiple steps, and thus are froufrou enough.
A "sidecar" sometimes means a shot served along with a beer, but long ago it was a drink unto itself. Named for a gentleman who drove a motorcycle with a sidecar, it was a drink that later (with changing fads) was transformed into the margarita, which in turn inspired the wildly-popular Cosmopolitan. (The kamikaze also inspired it, but the sidecar, as you will see, was an important precedent.)

When I asked for it, Doppelcracker (the bartender at the Century, whose name, we confirmed tonight, is Adam), narrowed his eyes and looked thoughtful.
"Think of a margarita," I said. I know he must make those all the time.
"Right," he said.
"Tequila, Cointreau, sweet-and-sour, maybe some lime," I said.
"Right," he said.
"Now instead of tequila, you use brandy," I said.
"Brandy," he said, looking surprised. It's not much called-for in a bar, nowadays.
"And instead of lime, you use lemon."
"Lemon." He got out a rocks glass, but didn't start pouring, instead looking at me questioningly. We've been going there about once a month for some time now, so he knows us, and he knows I tend bar, and he also knows I tip like a bartender, so it behooves him to treat us like Good People, and we like him a lot, so we wouldn't lead him astray.
"It can be served on the rocks," I said, "and would be pretty good, but it's among the precursors to the froufrou martini-wannabes that people drank in up glasses."
"Up," he said, and got out the shaker, looking more pleased. "That might be good."
"It is," I said. "I promise."
I meant to buy him one. He comped us one instead. I am not good at buying bartenders drinks-- I just give them money instead, because where I work, we can't drink.

Official recipe:
1.5 oz brandy
.5 oz Cointreau
1 oz sweet-and-sour (sour mix, sours mix, or half-and-half lemon and lime juice)
squeeze of fresh lemon (optional but recommended; or use bottled lemon juice, .25 oz)
slice of fresh lemon (optional)

For anyone in a place not using ounces, "an ounce" is "a shot", so go with however big a shot is where you drink. I've no idea what they use for "shots" in Europe. Do share, if you know. It's probably a round number of milliliters. The point of a shot is that it's easily doubled or halved. Please do measure, however-- as with most drinks, if you have no idea of the proportions you're putting in, it tastes like ass. (Have I gone off on this topic before? 90% of "Making A Good Drink" is getting your proportions right. Overstrength drinks taste like ass unless you do it right. Follow the damn recipe, people. You can always add more later as the ice melts.)

Then I came home and drank some Johnny Black on the rocks and I have to say, the novel is going swimmingly now, and my fingers are terribly cold but I sort of don't care, which is key.



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