Caren Gussoff writer. geek. bon vivant. dot com

Of all the states I have ever lived in, Washington may be the most kind-hearted—and the most misguided.
One of the first bills to hit the docket in the 2010 state’s legislature was a proposal by the honorable Democratic State Sen. Rosa Franklin of Tacoma to change the language the state uses when referring to at-risk youth…to “at hope” youth.
Seriously. Read about it here:
“Democratic State Sen. Rosa Franklin, South Tacoma, says negative labels are hurting kids’ chances for success and she’s not a bit concerned that people will be confused by her proposed rewrite of the 54 places in state law where words like “at risk” and “disadvantaged” are used.”
OK, fine. We play nice. We change the wording in 54 places throughout state documents to the tune of $3500.
$3500.
This made me rant and rave and scream for a bit. Then my palms started sweating. In my mind, this nice, kind-hearted lady wants, truly, to help these kids. I know that her intentions are kind. But in my mind, rather than waste legislature time (which costs money) and waste $3500 on changing wording in documents no one ever reads—take that 3500, purchase 10 rebuilt computers from rePC or another local reseller, and start up a computer program at a community center, teaching kids the computer skills they would need to go to college or become more competitive in the workplace. 10 rebuilt computers in a community center open for 4 hours after school 5 days a week could serve ~10 – 30 students per session, up to 150 students per week.
I dare someone to tell me that this would not do more for assisting at risk, disadvantaged youth more than talking about them in sweet innuendos.
Help people by HELPING people. Get the resources into the community, not the dusty documents that refer to the community—which will do nothing other that maybe earn this nice, kindly older lady another term representing Tacoma.
I was at risk, disadvantaged. I didn’t care what you called me, what the state called me. If I was even AWARE of what they called me, that is—which I pretty am well sure I had no clue. I cared what my mentors called me and I cared when my parents were involved and encouraging. I cared when someone took the time to help me build my skills and my self esteem. That’s what got me through high school, to college, then even into graduate school. Then, ultimately, into a life where this seems SO OBVIOUS.

On Monday, John Howell posted an excellent article about the ridiculousness of the SFF “ghetto”:

“For a genre that produces some of the most intelligent, thought provoking, creatively challenging works imaginable, it’s hard to understand how they could be overlooked so aggressively and consistently for so long.”

Especially interesting to me is that this continues, considering that the top-grossing films of the past several years are all, you know, SFF.

Also interesting: to read that Brian Aldiss was informed (when he was on Desert Island Disks) “…that SF readers were nerds who were poor and could not ‘get a woman’.” Rea-lly.

If a = flea infestation
b = walking
c = writing 5000 words on my newest story
d = watching low brow comedies while knitting a hat
e = positive attitude
f = exhaustion

then

- e [(a + b + c)  + (- a - c) + 10000000b + d] / f

= my week

The fair and lovely Eden Robins recently reminded me that I have a horrible habit—one that springs forth from a good place, but is nonetheless a horrible habit—of saying yes to things before I fully think through whether I can logistically and sanely handle one more thing on my plate.
Lots and lots of my friends have mentioned this to me over the years–Jamie, Suzanne, my husband–and I fully acknowledge that I do it, completely swear to watch the tendency, clear my decks–then slowly, surely fill it all up again.

I know why I do it. It’s partly joie de vivre, partly not wanting to disappoint anyone, partly an insatiable curiosity about everything, and partly a fear of dying unsuccessful and unfulfilled. However, I am turning 36 (insert interrobang here) in 4 days and I have to be an adult about it sometime.

So, hear this, world and loved ones. I can juggle 4 balls well, 5 balls without dropping too often, 6 is pushing it. 3 is bliss while 7 is a dirty lie.

I now have all the balls I can handle (heh): writing, Brain Harvest, working on 4Emphasis (job), looking for a steadier job (me and everyone else), occasionally freelancing, and now the start of the EDGE program*. You’ll have to go sell crazy somewhere else. I’m all filled up for now. See me again in 6 months.

* which means other things have to fall (or be “flensed,” to semi-misquote Cory Doctorow) away. These apparently include a bunch of crits I’ve promised to do, anything vaguely resembling a social life, volunteering at 826 Seattle (which I do want to do sometime), learning German, keeping up with online people as much as I’d like, returning phone calls in a timely fashion (although I will try harder at that. Really.).

There’s this allegory popular among the fibromyagia set that involves “spoons” when trying to describe what FMS feels like to “normies” (heh), and I have to admit, as fashionable as the allegory is, it’s never quite fit my experience with FMS. I never feel like I have a metaphorical budget of spoons that I have to divvy up across a day–for me, I’m usually fine, maybe more easily tired out than others, maybe needing more sleep than others…fine. But when I flare, fuck spoons. When I flare, I usually flare hardcore, old school.

Going through a day feels like a hero’s journey: “A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.” (Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces).

I will often flare in the early afternoon after having what starts as a relatively normal day. Life then descends into pain, soreness, complete mental fogginess and other such sinister phenomenon: energy-sucking vortexes beyond my control that I can only battle via a bath, an Ambien, and getting directly into bed. The battle between flare and non-flare can last several hours or several days, and when I emerge, I am so freaking pleased to feel better that I try and be three times as productive as any sane human being (boons on my fellow man?).

What I hate most are the less-common meh flares. Rather than the dramatic mêlée described above, my meh flares come on slow, tread lightly, and stick around–rendering me just well enough to move around, talk to people, cook food, and attempt to be productive, but are like the Noid of output–after about 30 minutes of any particular activity, I start to get tired. Dumb. And ruined.

I’ve been having a meh now for a few days. In fact, this entry will start to peter out here any second. Point is, no matter how bad I feel, using a small hairless dog as a living heating pad just seems wrong. Wrong, as in, I think I have now reached the end of the universe, looked over, seen everything, and now am on my way back.

Really? Really? Yup, dogs as heating pads.

I’ve really never had any holiday traditions. What we did, when I was growing up, to celebrate any particular holiday really depended on how much extra cash and time my parents had—which were both, usually, pretty scarce. We always had a tree (fake, silver) and gifts (wrapped in aluminum foil, I assume to match the tree). Aside from that, comme ci comme ça.

This year, we’re ignoring the holidays. I’ve never done that before. No cards, no gifts, no tree (not even the 6 inch fake silver one I have in homage to the one in my childhood).

I think I’ll make some gingerbread tonight, and if I’m still awake, try and beg Chris into a midnight mass at the Catholic church up the street—not because I am feeling particularly Catholic or go-Jesus-go, but some ritual and incense are always nice.  I’ll also make some truffles* to bring to the in-laws tomorrow—we are not being allowed to squirm out of coming for dinner (unless we get a storm that dumps another giant snow turd across Puget Sound).

Otherwise, my eve looks like work, work, and maybe some writing.

So, to all of you not ignoring the holidays—I hope your Chanukah (pronounced Cha-noo-kah, if you are privy to that story from my college years), Christmas, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, etc etc etc etc, are appropriately warm and full of love, gingerbread and truffles of your own.

*Gingerbread and truffles? Yep. Somewhere in my late 20s, I developed some Martha Stewarty tendencies that are both creepy and delicious.

1. I spent Veteran’s Day at the Seattle VA Hospital. My 78-year old father had a thoracic aneurism correction last Monday, and has been having trouble recovering enough to go into short-term rehab or back home.  So, things have been worrisome in the Gussoff-Sumption household*.
Anyway, spending Veteran’s Day at a veteran’s hospital surrounded by a lot of ill and/or disabled veterans adds a whole new perspective on the holiday.
Thank you, all soldiers, past/current/future, for having the guts to do what I never could and most days don’t have the stomach to even think about.
1a. Having a 78-year old father in the hospital, especially since my mother and sisters are gone now, is, well, interesting. I’ve caught myself saying sentences I never thought I’d say in any context—like, upon removal of his Foley catheter** today, I said the following sentence to my father as he tried to pee on his own for the first time in a week: “I believe in your prostrate!”
2. NaNoWriMo has been subjugated in the light of the rest of things. I refuse to feel the least bit guilty about it, either. However, I am one scene shy of finishing a story that I have been rewriting since last May, and am almost happy with it. Almost.
3. It’s dark and gloomy here, just how I like it. I just need to make myself some more coffee and it’s a perfect afternoon to finish that last scene.
3a. The best thing about writing SF is that I can consider watching reruns on the sci-fi channel as being “career specific directed activity.”
4. My hair has reached the looking-stupid-while-growing-out stage. Why hasn’t technology tackled this very real problem? I don’t consider “hats” to be a technological solution.
5. I’ve been eating crap, because much of my eating has been on the fly or in the too-tired-to-cook stage. Frozen pizza, fast food burgers. I think the closest to anything green I’ve eaten has been in a green wrapper.  And I wonder why I’ve been fighting off a massive headache all day?  I really wish there was a salad delivery service right now. That also brought pints of ice cream.

*In fact, things have actually been worrisome actively since June, when life has gone: me unemployed-apartment fire-drunk driver totals our car-Chris unemployed-my dad sick-his dad sick-us broke-WTF. Actually, come to think of it, aside from Clarion West this summer, 2008 can just go suck it.
**Google that if you don’t know what it is. Prepare to suck in your breath a little bit.