The Forgotten English Word of the Day is “melsh-dick”: A sylvan goblin, the protector of hazel-nuts from the depredations of mischievous boys. (1855) Oh. I like that. Although, why would mischievous boys need to attack and plunder hazel nuts? And from whom are they stealing the nuts? (From the melsh-dicks, I suppose.) There’s a story in here. Jack o’ the Green protecting his domain from adolescent witless morons. Magickal hazel nuts. And a girl. There’s gotta be a beautiful girl.

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Somewhere outside, I can faintly hear Journey’s “Only the Young”. I’m instantly transported back to my late teens. Sarah and I have been talking about feeling old (Tommy Shaw of Styx just turned 50, and we remember when he turned 30 and we thought that was impossibly old). I really don’t feel old, though, most of the time. I’m constantly surprised when people ask my age and I hear the number coming out of my mouth. It’s like it’s not me talking. (“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing with my adulthood?”)

Heather Shaw recently wrote a journal entry about being a grown-up. http://www.JournalScape.com/heather/2003-09-07-11:45
What I meant to say (but which I never got around to putting in her comments section, so I’ll put here), was that the only time I hate being a grown-up is when I shatter glass. Particularly when the glass had something in it (like a jar of spaghetti sauce) and the contents splatter up a wall higher than I can reach. (How does it _do_ that?!) That’s the point in time when I want Someone Else (e.g., Mommy) to deal with it. I’m convinced I’ll never find every shard of glass, and I’ll step on that lone shard, or, far worse, one of the cats will. It just makes me want to weep with despair, it does, every time.

I realise, however, that I was wrong. There’s one other time I hate being a grown-up.

Tommy turned 50 on 11 September, and Sarah e-mailed me this morning and said she was depressed this year not because of Tommy turning 50, but because last year, she took me to the airport on 11 September and I flew back home after my last visit with her.

I hate being a grown-up because Sarah and I will never live near each other (or, at least, not until maybe when we’re very, very old), and it’s by choice.

Sarah and I met in 7th grade, and she and her family moved to Germany in the middle of 8th grade. They eventually moved back and settled in VA, and we rejoiced that she was at least back in the US. Our friendship grew through letters, and the occasional, rare phone call (thanks, Ma!). But the separation was something completely out of our hands, and thus we had to accept it. We couldn’t control where our parents lived. We couldn’t make them move us closer. We dealt. And we dreamed of graduating from college and getting an apartment together in some never-discussed place.

That, of course, never happened. We got married; our lives diverged.

Now, Sarah has a darling daughter, and won’t take Fiona from Virginia where her grandparents are. I respect that and agree with it—kids should know their grandparents, and vice versa. Ken and I, on the other hand, could never, ever live in Virginia. It’s too hot and muggy in the summer, too cold in the winter (for Ken, at least—it wouldn’t bother me), and there’s no way I’d survive in the Bible Belt—I would simply open my mouth and get myself lynched. Either that or I would give myself an aneurism trying to keep my mouth shut and seething over the ignorance. Death, no matter how you look at it.

So, as adults, as grown-ups, we’re actually choosing not to live near each other. These outside factors—which we can control, and their not nearly so uncontrollable as parents—keep us apart.

And it sucks. It sucks major moose wanger. It sucks in ways there aren’t words to describe it.

Gods but I’m in a foul mood now.

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Today the mail brought a rejection from Space & Time for “Hidden Talents”—it “made it to the final batch for consideration” before being bounced. I wrote this story in 1994 and it’s been to 20 magazines. It sold once, but the magazine folded before publication. It’s been “close” at least 3 other times; 11 places didn’t comment at all. The remaining negative comments are all different, so it’s not as though I can see a way to “fix” the story. (If I rewrote it now, about the only thing I’d do is beef up the setting, really.) So, now I have to see if I can find another market I haven’t bothered with it yet…

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Given a certain nickname from my adolescence, I really, really think I need a button that says “Aloof, unattainable elf princess”.

http://www.fluidartist.com/Design/vsdbuttons.html

Of course, where/when would I wear it? I have a box of buttons from the 80s that I never wear. I mean, “Everyone is watching YOU look at my chest” only comes out for Pirate Tourney…

http://www.wingedrabbit.com/event/picde.asp?event=106&picid=17739&thumb=17532&page=0&month=-1&year=-1

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My Eddie Izzard Night was something of a success. Only 4 of the 20 or so people I invited showed up; I never heard from 6 (3 couples) and there were several maybes outstanding. But we all had fun, and laughed a lot, and I remembered that Definite Article wasn’t his best tape.

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I didn’t get nearly enough copy editing done today. Nothing more will be done tonight, obviously. I really should just go to bed and set the alarm early. I have no idea when Tani and I are leaving for the Styx concert (at the LA County Fair), but it should be early afternoon. I guess I’m just feeling a little maudlin and want to watch 80s videos or something. But I’m in the midst of a Barbara Hambly book, and her siren call is a seductive one.

Damn, now I copied the Word of the Day idea into my story file, and got fired up to write. I just don’t have the energy, but I have too many ideas. I suspect I won’t actually sleep well tonight…

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Oh, this is good.

http://www.markfiore.com/animation/twoyear.html

Sorry for all the links today. I’ll stop. Honest.

I did not do “lots and lots of copy editing” today, which is kind of scary.