Learned an important lesson on Labor Day: just because one was hot sh– at something when she was twelve doesn’t mean she will be at…well…older than that.
In the smallish town where I grew up, there really wasn’t much to do. Teenagers went to the roller rink or smoked behind the mall. I was a roller rink girl, and I don’t mind saying, I was pretty darn good.
Imagine the joy when, just a few weeks ago, I discovered a roller rink nearby. It was exactly as I remembered, right down to the cheesy snack bar and dodgy rest rooms. One might even argue that it was better, as a lot of the teenagers who should have been skating were at home playing video games or checking their facebooks while driving.
On Labor Day I went with a handful of Small People. I was showing off–pride coming before a fall, quite literally–and fell on my @$$. Rather, fell onto my left wrist, which, though thankfully not broken, is still in a splint two weeks later and hurting like heck.
It’s given me time to catch up on editing for the anthology, going over the first ten chapters of Turnbull House, and some reviewing duties, true. But I can’t help feeling the loss of the incredible forward momentum with which Turnbull House began. Two-handed typing really isn’t feasible for more than a few minutes at a time.
But I did have a birthday. Never mind which one. And I bought myself a present. It’s a little recent to have been one that Ira Adler would have used (1921), but it is a Remmie, and it works well. I’m looking forward to getting to know it better.
Also pictured: my antique specs with prescription lenses, and a copy of Lost London, the memoirs of an East End copper during Victoria’s reign–a gift from my sweetie.
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