Her: You haven’t posted for awhile. November 21.
Me: What? Certainly not. I’ve posted more since then.
Her: November 21. I check frequently.
Me: Huh. But…but…the Year End Video counts!
It didn’t quite go that way. Mostly it went that way. Because yes, I did the opposite of Hollidailies, it seems. And also, I suck.
January is already kicking my ass, is what.
So, some things: I’m going back to graduate school this semester. Oh settle down, inner crazy monologue, it’s not necessarily going to stick or anything, I just had this longing to take another writing workshop and it seemed like a really good idea last fall when I was under the delusion that I’d have all this fucking free time in January. You see, I have good intentions, especially during these darkest months, the raw truth of the matter is that I pretend that I’ll have all of this awesome free time once the craziness of fall subsides and then the holidays, which are also crazy, and then New Year, which is (say it with me) crazy, but really, I’m just kidding myself. I hate January. In spring, my nostalgia colors January as though it is one unending evening spent dreading the next day, which is essentially what it feels like, except that really, I’m fucking knackered this month and I just figured it out why. Because I am stupid.
So, there’s the writing workshop, which has eleven million books to read, which apparently I think I’m going to flip right through since it’s on writing creative non-fiction and hello, four point eight million words written on a fucking blog much? And also, I swore that I’d resume taking Ave to obedience training once I started working again, and like an asshole, I didn’t sign up for the last session on time and thus, had to wait, and now we’re going to do six weeks of quality time on Saturday mornings, which is when I normally do all of the things that hold my life together, things like grocery shopping and laundry and marital bliss-related activities (we have refined the art of going to Starbucks). And on Sundays, I’m apparently permanently going to need to go over to my Aunt Drusilla’s house to help her understand how her PC works, all because I gave her a damned MP3 player last year and she doesn’t understand how her CD collection could possibly fit on something the size of a pack of gum.
And I really really wanted to do another session of pottery. I heartily love pottery. I love pottery more than I rightfully should, quite honestly. I get on the wheel, make my pottery type stuff, and for a beautiful three hours, I am completely not thinking about anything other than making my hands work in ways they don’t understand. You can mesmerize yourself with the tactile feeling of a lump of gushy porcelain clay spin spin spinning between your palms. And the smell, the dusty talcy smell! It’s a grounding force, that smell. And as much as I hate glazing (boy howdy, do I hate it), it’s really all worth it for the Saturdays spent hunched over a wheel, giving oneself chapped hands while shaping mud that’s cold like it was stolen straight from the grave.
The other awesome thing is that it’s a stress reliever. The stress of my job is something I am having a hard time getting around, and I can tell when it’s building up because I start biting my nails in my sleep. I did it again two nights ago, bit my left forefinger to the quick until it bled, all while dreaming of something I’m probably glad I can’t remember. Pottery is good. Very good.
And then there’s Weetacon. Weetacon! The best most amazing time of the year. Last year, when the Badness was going on, I wasn’t sure that there would ever be another Weetacon, particularly when the economy seemed so foul and the amount of energy expended seemed so ridiculous. And now, it is so. We’re having Weetacon in less than two months. Weetacon, which absorbs way more of my spare braincells than I’d like to admit. Sure, I pretend like it ain’t nothing but a thing, except that really, I agonize for hours over little details like scheduling decisions and venues and color schemes. For as OCD as I am, every year, I’m kind of stunned that this thing turns out at all, much less that people want to come back year after year.
And here’s the incredible thing: it sold out last week.
This is my sixth year throwing this thing and we’ve never sold out two months in advance. We usually sell out two weeks in advance, or have one or two spots left, depending on where I set that high water mark, but this year… oy vey, 8 weeks on the dot and the mofo sold out. And then there was a waiting list, two of the three of which were veterans who had been to the first two Weetacons, and one (Trance Jen) who had never missed a Weetacon yet, not even when she was nearing death’s door with some kind of pre-H1N1 Hanta virus thing that knocked her flat all weekend. Waiting listed!
I talked to Esteban. I talked to the bus company about renting their biggest bus. We took a deep breath and then said “Fuck it. Let’s do this shit.” Ok, Esteban didn’t say that. I did. Under my breath. And then we raised the cap, to the highest possible point we can raise it, no kidding, that’s as big as this thing can get. And then we got another bunch of registrations. LIKE THAT. Wham bam thank you ma’am.
Everyone’s coming. Weetacon veterans that missed the last one, two, or three are coming back. It’s the second highest incidence of new folks (since the second year. We don’t count the first year, because everyone was new.) People who have been telling me for years that they wanted to come to a Weetacon are booking flights. Veterans are bringing their spouses. There’s a whole lotta love, baby, so much that the Bad Bar just may turn Good for one night only.
Because of this, something had to go. It was either the day job or pottery, because I’m certainly not going to slack on Weetacon. Not this year. Not these people. Can’t do it. Nope. Not going to do it.
It probably doesn’t hurt that the pots I make look like they were crafted by chimpanzees. You know, the smart ones that use sign language, but still. Chimpanzees.
If you’re interested, there’s still three spots left in the Bigger, Better, Uncut Weetacon. Seriously, look at this roster. It’s insane! Everyone who is anyone. Everyone that I love. All in one place. And still room for you, baby doll.
We’re waiting for you.