Can’t Talk. Back Later.

I learned this week:

1. Thinking about washing the car, followed by recognizing that it needs new wiper blades, will result in rain.

2. The less interested I am in a show, following a period of intense interest, the more likely my brain will suddenly think of fic that will inevitably start quite innocently then spiral into a series of shorts, novellas, and novels, as the grey matter attempts to rescue the show from its own dwindling quality.

3. My Inner Child is alive and well, and able to spring forth at a whim when confronted with charming lil’ urchins in need of better mental health. How I’m going to manage a session note for an hour of drawing crayon pictures with a cute little girl, I’m not certain. I think I may have found the long-dormant vestigial maternal instinct I thought I didn’t have.

4. I am apparently having a fannish affair with Mandy Patinkin that has more staying power than expected. I loved him in Princess Bride, fell for him again in Dead Like Me, and I’ve discovered Criminal Minds and now return to it again and again in order to view his weathered, kind face and hear his reassuring baritone. Which, since he does not have a British accent, is odd, as I’m usually drawn to That Deep Cultured Voice more than anything else, as evidenced by my yen for Sean Connery and Patrick Stewart.

5. As Christmas approach the Bah Humbug sets in. I think it’s the Year of the Gift Certificate.

Off to the housecleaning and the library. The latter to feed my unending yearning for decent fiction.