Rack Une

In which our Hero can’t quite put the question of Jeff out of his mind

Every once in a while Nocturne finds that whatever show we’ve watched before bed wasn’t quite right to soothe her mind and asks me to talk to her till she falls asleep. So sometimes I talk about my day, though that seems to engage her too much, or I talk about things we should do. And once in a while, sometimes by request, I tell her a story.

Now, I’ve always had a weird relationship with stories. For one, I am not entirely good at turning off my own personal sensibilities which is why they (used to) frequently end with tabloid headlines and a lot of dead characters. But for another, when someone asks me to tell them a story, I’m not really sure how one does that so rather than actually plan, I kind of just start with a character and go from there. And, again, following the ready-fire-aim methodology, I discover challenges with the character I have invented almost immediately, but by that time I’m committed, having started to speak.

One of the recent creations has been really bothering me. I can’t remember entirely why, but somehow I concocted a cow that had to get a bus ticket to get to a place, and this led to the major character arc of the story, wherein the cow had to find a raccoon because it would take an animal with thumbs to figure out how to get the money things that you needed to have to get bus tickets. And I can’t stop chewing over this one because I cannot for the life of me figure out why my cow was a boy.

I mean, it passes child-level logic, because a cow is an animal and you don’t really think about the genderness of it right away, but I think it was the second or third sentence where it suddenly hit me that I was telling my love a story about a boy-cow named Jeff. And while, again, the nature of Jeff’s plumbing did not materially alter the story, nor did Nocturne see fit to object, but… it’s been a week and I’m still trying to figure out just what happened to get me there.

Well also, this story never ended, so I admit, I’m a little troubled that Jeff never actually made it to the raccoon. Come to think of it, I’m also troubled that my story included cogitative pauses for Jeff to move cud between stomachs. But mostly… Jeff? For a cow? What was I thinking?!

On the other hand, checking with Nocturne during a later waking cycle, my stories are generally coherent enough to be gently entertaining while she loses consciousness. So don’t sweat it, Jeff, my gender-confused cow. You don’t need to define your sexual identity for the masses. Be the cow!

Okay, in the course of my regular business operations, I have an income stream from a client who pays me with a stack of post-dated checks for the year. And before the anniversary of that agreement, he gave me the next year’s checks, which I realized, “ah ha! I must put these somewhere safe, so I do not lose them.”

That’s been my mistake. If I’d just put them where I put everything else business related, I’d have them now. I have stacks of receipts, sorted into “unscanned” and “scanned-so-you-can-throw-them-out-now” (yes, I know, I haven’t yet been emotionally comfortably throwing them away. But I *can*!) I have invoices, and statements and all kinds of whats-and-sundries.

What I don’t have is an envelope full of checks. It’s not the worst problem in the world, but it’s really embarrassing that I’ve outsmarted myself. So now I’m systematically just going through my things for an inventory. Figure it’s a chance to get rid of some old business. (Maybe even a chance to throw out some already scanned receipts!) But maybe, also, I’ll figure out where those checks are before I have to stoop to asking for a new set.

It’s renewal season. My contract is up at the end of the year, as usual, and just as much as usual, I have heard nothing from the client about what their plans are for the next year. I promised myself I wouldn’t deign to notice this year, but the itch has set under the skin and it’s nagging at me.

The problem, as always, is that between me and my client who I’d like to strong-arm a little, is my agent, a former colleague from my former employer who, quite frankly, is a pleasure to deal with. Add to that the little wrinkle the client tried to add saying that we have to take x weeks of vacation. Hey client, we’re contractors, vacation isn’t a thing. So what you’re saying is that my contract has a cap on the nubmer of days I can work, and that means that my last day of contracted work will be…. the beginning of December. Which in turn means that the 30 days notice period starts even earlier.

Ugh. I’m going to bed.