I really intended to walk Emma Dog today. Even though I walked four miles last night with her Uncle Joe – which I’m pretty sure is the farthest I’ve walked since I got sprung. I felt up for it. Would’ve made it three days in a row, and eight miles in three days. Definite progress.
And then … stuff happened.
First, and best: we’ve finalized the Seekrit Projekt and the contracts are on their way. I know nothing is ever real until the check clears the bank. So total celebration would be premature.
And I’m not sure yet what I can divulge.
That said … a qualified … YAY!
I also made good rewriting progress. In fact, I was so seized with inspiration I was late for dinner with some of the SF bunch before our monthly ASFS meeting.
After dinner we reconvened down at whatever they’re currently calling the hotel where Bubonicon 42 will be in a mere six weeks. It was time for the club’s annual bout of Science Fiction Outburst, which is a trivia game concerning … well, work it out.
At first I was going to sit out. But I felt like participating somehow, and when I learned there was no audience participation, and they called for one more volunteer for each side, I stepped up. I like to do my part for the club. Plus I’m a total ham. There’s that.
I was immediately commandeered by the team on my left. Which I only then realized consisted entirely of women: Kathy Kubica-Kelly, Jessica Coyle, Roslee Orndorff, and Harriet Engle. Hey, gotta like that ratio.
They promptly, and to my amusement (and flattery) dubbed themselves Vic’s Vixens. The other team opted, more simply if more enigmatically, for Bob.
At first blush we’d seem to enjoy an unfair advantage. First off, most of the ladies are trivia whizzes. And my personal brain is stuffed like a sofa with useless information, which I believe is what they call trivia.
The problem is, my memory is not working so well these days. I don’t think it’s shot, since I continue to recover mental function as well as physical things. I can hope, anyway. The key thing is, I’m not cracking out the answers at the rate I used to.
Which turned out to be okay. At the half we trailed by two points – a pleasant surprise, actually, since I had the distinct impression Bob was kicking our butts.
Because we were … vociferous … MC Craig Chrissinger and judge Kevin Hewett dubbed us “Vic’s Bitching Vixens.” (The other judge, Joe Lane, is a gentleman, and cast no such vile aspersions. Also, he’s the only one.) Which my feisty teammates promptly transmuted into Vic’s Bitchin’ Vixens. I’m glad they were on my side.
In spite of all, we somehow resurged in the second half to win. Go, Vic’s Vixens!
We’re supposed to celebrate every win, right? Plus, I mean, Vic’s Vixens. Hell, yeah.
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