Random Thursday: Already?

I’d swear I did a Random Thursday about three days ago . . . is it just me, or is time speeding up?

I mean, unless one’s Internet connection goes down just as one hits the Publish button—and doesn’t come up again for three hours. 

Which is my way of apologing for the late post.  Sorry!


After the in-service yesterday, I scooted over to Borders to enjoy some child-free time before heading over to Jane’s school.

I didn’t go near the children’s area or read a single book out loud.  I dwelled for ten whole minutes in the mysteries and I passed by the various toy displays without once telling someone to look with their eyes and not their hands.  And I didn’t feel the need to tell anyone but myself that we weren’t going to buy that today, put it on your birthday list, how much of your own money did you bring today?*

I tried out all the  pens for weight and comfort and bought one,** then spent half an hour scribbling in my pink cupcake notebook, brainstorming plugs for a small plot hole that recently opened up because I changed—okay, fine, corrected—one little thing.

Had a smoothie, too.

I must do this again, sometime.  Soon.


Speaking of random, at the In-Service, during a pause between speakers, my friend Grace leaned over and said, “Want to go to the shooting range with me and take a beginner’s class?”

Do I!?  Is it Christmas?

I know a few things about guns—a very few, according to my Gun Expert— though most of those things are  important, like which end is dangerous. *** But since two Pigeon characters are experts and a third is learning, it’s past time I learn the basics with the real thing—and experience recoil.

I fully expect to stink at it, but I also fully expect to have, no pun intended, a blast.

Matt MacNish has it right:  there’s nothing like experience!


Will someone please tell me why it’s always pouring down rain when my children need poster board for an assignment due tomorrow—except they forgot until after dinner, sorry, Mom?

Jut asking.


It wouldn’t be a Thursday without the report of a brand new (to me) Time Suck.  This week, you can blame my husband, who sent me the link to  Space Base 8, a terrific webcomic by the talented David Scott Smith.

It’s only a temporary Time Suck—it’s relatively new, and I’m almost through the archives—but SB8 is compulsively readable.

It features—among other cast members both animal and mineral—an Everysimian crash test monkey, a smart and green-complexioned clerk who isn’t his girlfriend (“Why?  Did he mention me?”), and the cutest little ancient lighthouse robot in the universe:

You’ll have to check it out to see the adorable robot.  And you know you want to.


There’s been a sort of theme around here, lately, an examination of what it means, or can mean, when one attains a certain age that isn’t, for lack of a better word, young.

I believe the general consensus was, “Anything we damn well please.  Who knew?”

In one of those odd coincidences, a (an?) historical romance crossed my desk day before yesterday that also deals with the themes of age, self-worth, and for a bonus, body-shame:   Pleasure Me by Monica Burns.

Lady Ruth is a 41-year old professional mistress whose latest protector has dumped her for a younger woman.  If that wasn’t enough, he has also reneged on his promise to support her.   Retirement is inevitable and due to her own generosity, she doesn’t have much of a financial cushion.  She has no real options for improving her situation.

Worse, she believes no one will ever desire her again.

But then handsome, rich, and  younger Garrick Stratfield makes her an offer . . . but not exactly the kind Ruth expects.  Assuming it was made out of pity, she refuses.

When she discovers the real reason Garrick needs her, and exactly how shamefully young he is . . . everything changes.

And that’s before they fall in love.


And, to close this most random of random posts:  my latest earworm, courtesy of Kev the Earworm King, who has been bombarding me with every YouTube vid in which Benedict Cumberbatch appears. I think he even threw in one about cummerbunds.^ 

But this one song stuck.  I’ve been humming it for three days and finally broke down and added it to my playlist.  You’ll have to click through to hear it—for good or ill, it’s one of Sony’s:

There.  Now maybe I won’t be the only one.


*As you might suspect, this didn’t go over any better with me than with the kids, but at least my whining and rationalizing was internal, and didn’t appear to disturb the other customers.


***The answer is both.  Two other things I know:  all firearms should always be treated as if they’re loaded, even if you think you know otherwise; and outside of a range, you do not point one (or even unholster it) unless you’re prepared to kill.

^I’d say he needs a hobby, but apparently, he has one.