May. 22nd, 2006

So cold.
Today my task, which I suppose is an enviable one, is to make my house presentable for my parents' visit. Much has already been done; Z was very good over the weekend, and his bedroom and the yard are both lovely.

It is such a tiny house. I don't know how I can let it get ahead of me. But these things happen. I just need to clean my room, and the living room, really. The rest, the tidying has been done, and it just needs cleaning now-- dusting, sweeping, mopping, washing. That's the easy part, the satisfying part. The tidying is hard, and that is almost done.
It is a lovely little house, that we have. We are fortunate to live here. I was paying bills yesterday, and remarked that it was just so nice to be able to get a bill and pay it right away from whatever account was closest to hand, without having to go and check the balance or shift money around. We are lucky people, both of us.

I am tired, sleepy and tired, and cold. My laptop, for some reason, is unable to connect to the Internet, although it has no problem connecting to the house network. So I am out on the porch where my desktop is set up. It seems to have overheard my tirade of last night, so it turned right on for me this morning, but I am still mad at it.

Z is probably working late tonight, helping set up for an awards ceremony his magazine is hosting. The Sabres are playing tonight, apparently without Numminen. I am too nervous about that to watch the game-- and also, I'd have to go out somewhere to watch it, so, I probably won't.

Thanks to everyone for costuming advice for this upcoming event-- I have to ponder it some more. Brr, it is too cold to sit here.

god

May. 22nd, 2006 10:18 am
All right. My parents are coming next weekend. I can't get Sunday off. So now Mom's cutting the visit short. They're just coming Monday and Tuesday. Which means Dave won't be home, because he has to work. Which means we can't do any of the home improvement projects I've been stuck on for months and wanted Dad's help with. Which means my snowblower will never be reassembled, that walkway will never be laid, the gutter on the back porch won't be replaced, and I'll never actually manage to install a power outlet in my attic.
Because work won't give me Sunday off. They'll let other people have that day off without replacements, but not me.

It is thoroughly pathetic that I am twenty-six years old and sitting on my couch actually sobbing because I can't have a day off from work.


Maybe I can just put a pot on top of the pile of bricks in my front yard and say it's a planter and looks like that on purpose.
And now, for something completely different.

(aside: Livejournal, give me back my plain text update! Stop with this cutesy word processing! Let me type my own angle brackets, you creeps!)


Foam Finger Astronaut
I saw this on Astronomy Picture of the Day, and immediately had to Photoshop it.
Foam Finger Astronaut

I haven't had a good posting binge in a while. Time to rack up the posts today, it seems.

I am sad that nobody thinks my astronaut is funny. I thought I was funny.
I'm getting really excited about the Sabres game tonight, which is bad, as I have no way of getting out to see it. Z has the car and I don't really want to go to either of the bars on my street, as one fired me and the other is a geriatric ward. I'll stay home and wait for Z; he'll be late tonight, but maybe he'll have some idea?

If anyone else is watching the game tonight, keep an eye out for the animated Sabres logo-- it's blue and gold and spins around. One of Z's coworkers made that. It's on his demo reel. I'd link to it, but the server's down. Oh dear. (I just pinged an IM at Z to ask him what was up but his screenname vanished at the same time, which suggests dire things about their Internet status. I despair of having him home this evening.)

And now, the meat of the post.
It came to me, as I was lying in bed under all my blankets being an idle sloven (why, yes, I have been useless today, why do you ask?), that the relationships my characters have in fiction are very different than the relationships I have in real life. I was composing a sex scene, in my head-- while that sounds dirty, it will eventually be a pivotal scene in the book, and yes I usually compose the first drafts of such scenes in bed in my head.
I was working out the basic content of the scene-- not so much who puts what where, as who says what and reponds how. And it crossed my mind how unlike real life the whole thing was. My sex scenes are realistic, I flatter myself: they aren't all blissful, airbrushed climax-fests with seamless choreography and perfectly-timed, er, punctuation. I'm not exactly Ms. Hyperreality, but I do try at least to make what my characters are having recognizably sex, as opposed to the odd alien physical mind-meld some romance novels call "making love".
(A subject for another post, or perhaps for a comment thread, would be to debate how much realism is good in sex scenes. Should characters fake orgasms, or fall asleep mid-act, or accidentally knee their partner in the balls, etc? Should bellies make embarrassing slapping noises against each other, and knees slip off beds, and breasts be uncomfortably squashed? Or do those things detract from the scene too much, and distract from the story? How much humanity and realism is really beneficial?)

But it's the emotions that really throw me. I can't keep my characters from being gooshy. I mean really, in real life, how much of the time while you are actually having sex do you spend thinking, "I love so and so! My heart is full with love!"
But writing about a character in mid-act who is not thinking along those lines always comes across as... not unrealistic, but much colder than the story can usually support. I have written a few sex scenes wherein the POV character is distracted, most recently a male whose attention is increasingly taken up by how much their position is hurting his arms, but even that is kept to a minimum.
Would you enjoy a sex scene where the inner monologue was more realistic? Ooh, that's nice. Shit, I just knocked something over. Was it the vase Mom gave me? Shit, she'll kill me. I wonder if he'd notice if I looked. Ow. "Oh yes, yes, baby, like that. Give it to me." Shit, I bet it was the vase. Ow. A little more to the left-- oh, don't bite my ear. Not the biting. "Ooh." Turn your head. Yes. Like that. That's better. I wonder if I should tell him that biting my ear is gross. Shit, it was the vase. She's going to-- oh fuck, I didn't call her for mother's day, did I? She's probably pissed. I'd better-- Oh! Oh hey-- I like that-- yes I do. Oh yes I do. "Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah!" Oh-- no, wait, not yet! Dammit.

I dunno. The answer, as with most things, is probably somewhere in the middle. Actual human sex with reasonably real people is nice, but not bad sex between crude slobs with short attention spans and no positive emotions.

But what's sort of funny about it all is that I think I'm much more likely to have porno sex than romance novel sex. Porno sex is fun. Romance novel sex--- I wouldn't know where to start.

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