Stick a Lemon on It

I am one distracted chickadee. Send me food, fluffy clouds and kitten videos, please.


Ooh, wait. Maybe I should make myself cookies? You see, this is how I end up baking so much. Sometimes, cooking is the only thing structured enough to distract me from my distractions. Of course, when I’m really ditzy, pointy objects and fire are probably not the best things to point me towards, but I’ve been making cookies long enough that even at my worst I can’t mess them up too badly.

I also have a lemon tree absolutely chock full o’lemons, so maybe they can be my own facsimile of those lemon cooler cookies, but without the lemony chips. What do you do with all these lemons anyway, when you love them too much to give bagfuls of them away? I do love them, you know. It is a greedy love. They’re so pretty and they smell nice, and so every salad has lemon juice and every glass of water a lemon slice.

I will eat them all. And the ginger snaps, too.

This Christmas I made candied lemon and orange peels, and the lemon ones were the first to disappear. I was burping up lemony oil burps for days. Every beer I’ve had (save Guinness, because that would be so gross– a Guinness with a lemon in it!) has had a wedge stuffed into the bottleneck, or floating about in the glass.

But look at all of them. I can’t save them all, as much as I would like.

No wimpy little Meyers these. These lemons actually have acid.

Well, on to other things. I’ll update the page post-cookietastrophe.

Just prior to this post, I spent a good half hour revising something I’d apparently forgotten I’d already revised. And I’d done it better the first time! Ugh. As I said, I’m awfully distracted. My mother, who is on the one hand a tenacious little terrier of a person, and on the other hand a conglomerate of illnesses and afflictions, needs to have another surgery. I don’t function very well when I’m worried about her. In most other areas of my life I can compartmentalize– but not here. I’m going to be a little crazypants for a while. Correction: a little more crazypants.

So, I’m chalking today off as far as writing goes. I set my notebook aside and pressed save on the old invis-o-blog, and have set some butter out to soften on the kitchen counter while I take a bath.

And tonight will drink several beers with lemon wedges in them! That’ll do the trick. I mean, how do you slow your brain down? I’m a smallish person, so it only takes one or two to slow my brain a bit and give me the warm fuzzies. Three make me burp, and after four I’m singing Lotte Lenya songs and insisting I’m not drunk.


I am still reading Jo Nesbø’s Nemesis, because I keep falling asleep. It is not the fault of the book. By the time the day is done and I’ve just read The Babyhead a chapter of How to Speak Dragonese, then told her two Marvelous Monster stories (about her and her friends at school), then have sung two lullabies, then tell her a fairy story– well, Jesus H. Christ, I’m ready to go to bed, you know? She’s easy to put down, and I don’t really know how that big huge ritual got started. I actually like spending that quality time with her to be honest. Perhaps she’ll remember those stories I made up for her and all the things we read together when she is a teenager and having a tough time of it. Perhaps when she’s really royally pissed off at me, she will look back and remember how Mommy spent so much loving time with her and soften her stance a bit.

I am totally guessing here, because my mother and I did not have a rift until after I moved out and got married. I suspect my own daughter and I will follow a more traditional teenage trajectory. Then again, she is my daughter, so maybe not.

Anyway, I keep not finishing the book. And when I crack it open every night, I forget for a moment that this is a pre-Snowman and pre-Leopard Harry Hole, and he seems so much more carefree. Actually “carefree” is pretty laughable, because at this point in the timeline he is currently tormented by the idea that he cheated on his erstwhile girlfriend with a woman who ended up dead, in the process tossing everybody into a great big mess of danger. Still– compared to the latter two books, he is a little less scarred.

And then I think again about how he will probably perish horribly and fade to white in the last book, and then I get melancholy and then sleepy, and then I have very odd dreams. Sometimes about Hole himself. Why do I have such mundane dreams, even though I’m grinding my teeth from stress and waking up at three or four in the morning? I was at Iron Bird Cafe, and we had coffee. That was it. No mystery, no death, no nothing. Not even a croissant.

All the while, I am not finishing Nemesis. At this rate it will take me forever. Perhaps that’s okay, though, because who knows when the next one will get translated and sent over here? And there are earlier ones, too, but I’m not sure if they’re translated yet. Waiting is agony, and I need to be saved from mundane dreams.



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