Monday, January 5, 2015

I confess. I killed my Floofie!!!

There's nothing like starting a new year with the terrible realization that you are, in fact, a Serial Killer!!!  Now truthfully, to look at me, you don't automatically think "Oh God, call the FBI, this woman's a serial killer." At least I hope not, although if I'm not wearing makeup and haven't had my hair done in a couple of months you could be forgiven for the mistake . But the sad fact remains...I discovered this weekend, that I am...without question...a serial killer.

I killed my THIRD FLOOFIE IN A ROW!!!

Now in case you're not sure what a floofie is, it's this. I'm not even sure that's the correct name for it,
and I had no idea what to call it, until my writing Partner, the inimitable Scott Carpenter, wrote a scene in one of our stories and referred to the stuff a woman keeps in the shower. (I think his hero was playing with some of it. LOL) Anyway, I asked him what the hell a floofie was. And from that point on, these things were floofies. (Floofii? Not sure what the plural should be...grammar fiends please advise!)

Their construction is somewhat of a mystery to me. They must be fiber. Perhaps they're recycled soda bottles, which would be a good and green thing and I'd feel less embarrassed about the amount of soda I have imbibed over my lifetime. I reckon from here to Alpha Centauri ought to about cover that. Sigh.

Perhaps they are some kind of fabric. The kind that has a half life greater than plutonium and will surely linger on Earth long enough to choke the next iteration of dinosaurs to extinction. Who knows? Well, I guess floofie makers do. Google probably does as well, but thus far I haven't been sufficiently motivated to check it out.

However, this killing thing. Well, I enjoy a good floofie in the shower. (Shut up you pervs. LOL) And I had a favorite floofie that remained a staunch buddy for what seemed like a generation. Then, at the end of last summer, it finally passed on to its reward. It gently disintegrated into small loops, each sadder than the last, drifting in silent farewell to my shower floor.  I admit to a tear or two as I said a sorry goodbye, unable to restore it to anything resembling a floofie.

So, after a suitable period of mourning (about a day and a half) I immediately replaced my beloved with a brand new, breathtakingly pink, enthusiastic new floofie.  We scrubbed happily, and I looked forward to sharing more years with my new cheerful body buddie. Then, to my utter shock, within six weeks... it died!!!

Not only did it just die, it died horribly, becoming in its death throes something more akin to the offspring of an octopus and a band aid, wrapping itself around my slender naked limbs (okay, so I write fiction, live with it!) and attempting to take me with it to the Great Floofie Beyond.

So I did the "lather, rinse, repeat" again, new floofie (white this time) and what happened this weekend? Yep. Attempted Strangulation By Cleansing Accessory. Once again I had succeeded in killing a floofie. It looked something like this. Only white and a bit smaller. Like by a factor of a thousand.

I looked down at the pale lashings of whatever-that-stuff-is, as they firmly gripped whatever part of my body they could. I discovered that there are some parts you don't want floofies lashed to, by the way. The more I struggled to free myself, the more it clung to me...a bittersweet last gasp at the life it had known in my shower. But I, in my furious serial killer frenzy, was having none of it.

The battle was fierce but brief, and shortly thereafter yet another floofie was consigned to Floofie Heaven.  What's next? It would seem that I could risk killing another floofie and try a blue one, accepting that they now have a much shorter lifespan than I'd previously experienced, and ready for the attack-by-floofie whenever it strikes.

Or I could go out and buy the most luxurious spa-approved sea sponge and turn my back on floofies forever.

OR...does anyone know Tom Hiddleston's phone number? Since I'm now a serial killer, I figure a super-villian like Loki in my shower would work just fine! ;)

Cheers,
The "At Least You Know I'm Clean" Sahara

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

The Dawn of the Third Age -

Or Why Science Fiction has the Answer to Everything!!!!


"We began in chaos, too primitive to make our own decisions. Then we were manipulated from outside by forces that thought they knew what was best for us. And now - now we are finally standing on our own." Captain John Sheridan, Babylon 5 Station.

It's New Year's Eve. One of those days I totally loathe, since it's usually a reminder of everything I didn't accomplish in the year about to end, and then filled with people (like myself) desperately trying to cram all the fun they didn't have into one evening.

Which is why we stay home and usually sleep right through the whole damn thing.

However, this year... well, I remembered something from a favorite show of mine that sort of sums it up.

It was the year of fire.
The year of destruction.
The year we took back what was ours.
It was the year of rebirth,
the year of great sadness, 
the year of pain and the year of joy.
It was a new age, it was the end of history.
It was the year everything changed.


(Thanks to Babylon 5 and JM Straczynski)

These words ring so true for writing and publishing in 2014. Fires exploded in our world and so much of what we'd tried to believe in was destroyed. Trust evaporated, suspicion blew in to replace it and many of us spent months attempting to take back what was ours.

Our words were reborn and republished, but there were sadnesses a plenty, and the pain of fearing that one's work no longer had a home. There was joy, of course. For many there were successes both professional and personal. That's life...the original roller coaster ride.

But it really WAS the dawn of a new age, and it marked the end of history as far as traditional publishing was concerned.

You see, it really has been the year EVERYTHING CHANGED.

I have no clue what lies ahead. I wish I had a crystal ball or at the very least a Vorlon Ambassador to utter cryptic clues now and again.  But can 2015 be different? Better? Worse? Again...who knows.

I guess, starting tomorrow, we'll find out.

Happy New Year to all,

Sahara