Why Tarot Cards are Awesome

For someone who’s decidedly not into New Age* things, or into spending money on anything, ever, I own a lot of freakin’ tarot cards. Three-hundred and twelve, to be exact. Four decks. Why do I own so many tarot cards? Because they are awesome. Here’s why.

Tarot cards are like a right-brain pro-con list!

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Well, tarot cards, when you put it like that, I am NOT sorry for what I did, and I will NEVER apologize for eating the last of the chips.

Usually if I need to make a decision about something, I will make a pro-con list. And I don’t mean just for big decisions like: “should we take that apartment?” and “is it worth the money to buy a new computer?” and “face tattoo?” No, I will even make pro-con lists for things like: “brownies or cookies?” and “play KOTOR or read a Star Wars novel?” and  “draw sketch of face tattoo, or excise the thought from my mind?”

Usually, the pro-con list works for me. When things come out a little too even, sometimes tarot cards can help me make the decision. By throwing out a bunch of cards, all the different images and meanings can give me a new angle on whatever I’m mulling over. It’s like talking to a friend to get a new perspective, only you don’t need to have a friend.

In the same way, if I’m stuck on a piece of writing, tarot cards can throw some new angles into the mix.

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Three interpretations, one card. These are the Two of Swords from the Archeon Tarot, the Steampunk Tarot, and the Dragon Tarot.

A deck of tarot cards contains 78 miniatures pieces of artwork.

I like artwork, and also can’t afford artwork, aside from whatever I’m able to make myself. What fascinates me about collecting different decks is that every deck has the same cards, so it’s interesting to compare different artists’ interpretations. Or even multiple interpretations by the same artist.

Tarot cards are mystical!

Finally, on a good day, I can trick myself into thinking that tarot cards are actually mystical occult tools rather than mass-produced pieces of card stock. I’m a skeptic, but would rather live in a world where ghosts are real, and the mysterious forces of the universe can communicate with me though rectangles of tree pulp.

For maximum tricking, make sure to conduct all your tarot activities atop occult fabric.

 

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It’s ok if your “occult fabric” is actually just some scarf you bought at Target one time. Again, the Steampunk tarot.


 

*In  editing this post, I noticed the typo “Sew Age.”  If you are so inclined, I think this would make an appropriate title for a fanatical magazine on sewing, one that takes the view that the apocalypse is nigh and the age of sewing all our own clothes is upon us.  Features could include the column “Notions on Notions” which discusses the best way to stockpile zippers, and whether two-hole buttons or four-hole buttons are likely to become a valued currency.

Halloween Profanity–For Children!

What if you’re writing a book for children, but you want a character to swear profusely?

In my upcoming middle grade chapter book, Pumpkin Goblins, I have a goblin character fond of “swearing.” Like so:

“Right, right.” Hobkit clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll join you. Could use a break from all this chaos and malarkey, batdarnit.”

Hobkit has a bigger role in the revision than he did in the rough draft, and the more he speaks, the more time I spend trying to think up creative new phrases…

“Dagnabbit. Of all the bat-plagued, magic-cursed rotten timing!”

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Pumpkin, pumpkin, pumpkin.

…because using “bat” and “pumpkin” repeatedly was getting tiring. I wanted to come up with a bunch of options at once. So, inspired by The Terribleminds Profanity Generator, I made my own word lists to generate Halloweeny, child-safe invectives. Actually, I drew a lot of my own words from his lists, but I needed a certain number of Halloween words thrown in there also.

So get out your d20 (or your Online Dice Roller, for those that don’t have twenty-sided dice on them at the moment) and join me in some long-form, clean profanity. Which can be easily dirtied!

Noun list one:
  1. Geist
  2. Donkey
  3. Turnip
  4. Radish
  5. Rat
  6. Bucket
  7. Bag
  8. Wizard
  9. Witch
  10. Fruit
  11. Squirrel
  12. Ghoul
  13. Trowel
  14. Vampire
  15. Lackey
  16. Monster
  17. Ghost
  18. Bat
  19. Pumpkin
  20. Spook
Noun list two:
  1. Scum
  2. Barf
  3. Vulture
  4. Mold
  5. Mildew
  6. Elf
  7. Corn
  8. Human
  9. Crumb
  10. Gourd
  11. Jelly
  12. Soup
  13. Biscuit
  14. Thorn
  15. Widget
  16. Badger
  17. Grave
  18. Owl
  19. Broom
  20. Twig
Verbs, -ing
  1. Cursing
  2. Plaguing
  3. Gargling
  4. Nobbling
  5. Crying
  6. Chomping
  7. Crunching
  8. Roasting
  9. Creeping
  10. Beeping
  11. Snatching
  12. Cavorting
  13. Spooking
  14. Haunting
  15. Licking
  16. Rocking
  17. Boiling
  18. Clipping
  19. Mapping
  20. Gumming
Verbs, -ed
  1. Buried
  2. Tossed
  3. Nobbled
  4.  Kicked
  5. Tumbled
  6. Dangled
  7. Cursed
  8. Smacked
  9. Spackled
  10. Crackled
  11. Rustled
  12. Plagued
  13. Smoked
  14. Blighted
  15. Scrabbled
  16. Creeped
  17. Haunted
  18. Spooked
  19. Snatched
  20. Trotted

Using the formula (Noun list 1) + (Verb, -ing), (Noun list 2) + (Verb, -ed) I got:

Elf plaguing, twig-smacked

And

Turnip gumming, jelly-haunted

My goblin character tends to curse in adjective form, already having specific things in mind to rant about. Things like other goblins, wizards, elves, and pumpkin cars.

“You turnip gumming, jelly-haunted wizard! Are you trying to destroy Halloween?”

I could also do something like:

(Noun from either list) + (Verb, -ed) – ed

To create the compound expletive wizardspackle.

“Wizardspackle! Are you trying to kill us all?”

On the one hand, I’ve now saved time on curse creation.

On the other hand, I’m now likely to waste revision time by doing this. Gourdrustle!

Peanut Butter Rice Pudding and Pickiness

With all the constantly created recipes on food blogs, constantly cloned onto other food blogs, and constantly combined with other recipes to form mutated recipe-spawn, it shouldn’t be too hard to find a recipe. Yet once again, The Internet failed me. Actually, this happened twice in the past few weeks, but I just don’t feel that drive to write a blog post about the Fruit Dip Disappointment.

I had leftover rice, and I wanted to make it into rice pudding. But not the same two types of rice pudding I always make with leftover rice. I wanted the rice pudding version of my brother’s peanut butter cookies.

When I posted about the Banana Gingerbread Granola I made awhile back (by adapting another recipe), I referred to myself as a “granola curmudgeon.” That’s true, but it also implies that I have this one quirky thing where I’m super picky about granola, but pretty chill about other foods, and maybe other things in general.

If I were rich*, I might say things like, “Gracious! You mean to say your chef used those geese in the park who so haunt my morning constitutional? In the foie gras? How creative!” And then I would share a sidelong judgmental glance with my blonder-than-blonde lady friends.”

I’m picky. Not about vegetables, or trying new foods, but about quality. That’s how I was raised: no Hamburger Helper, no Shake ‘n’ Bake, and no freakin’ cake mix. Baloney was, and still is, an object of derision for my dad, an ersatz almost-food he pities others for eating because they don’t know any better. We didn’t eat anything fancy. My parents never ranted about how unheathy processed food is or talked about organics**. It was just an unquestioned fact that we had homemade cake on our birthdays. The cake was not a lie.

Learning to cook, after being raised in such an environment, only made me pickier. I developed the observational skills to taste things and complain about how little nutmeg they contained. I’ve even developed a reputation as a good cook, but the truth is that I’m an average cook who’s damn picky.

Did you want to see a picture of mushy, nut-tinged rice? Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re welcome.

So I knew precisely how peanut buttery, sweet, and tinged with cinnamon I wanted my rice pudding, and I rejected score after score, tab after tab, of online recipes. Well, I looked at seven or so, anyway. Any rice pudding recipe calling for uncooked rice failed immediately. Because making rice pudding by starting with uncooked rice should be an activity reserved for some circle of hell where poor souls are punished by stirring slowly-absorbed liquid until the implosion of time at the end of the universe.

That’s how long it takes to use uncooked rice. Eff that.

In the end, I don’t know why I bothered to check the internet for a recipe, since it took me all of two minutes to figure it out for myself.

Peanut Butter Rice Pudding

  • 1 cup leftover rice
  • 1 cup milk
  • 1/3 cup peanut butter
  • 3 tbsp brown sugar
  • 1 teaspoon cinnamon.
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla

To make, heat all ingredients except vanilla in a pot on the stove.  Use whatever heat your stove needs to be at to make this simmer and bubble, but not violently or in a volcanic manner which will result in lava rice exploding onto your face.

Stir very frequently, until it thickens, then add the vanilla.

It might not win the internet awards for best or fanciest, or Healthier than Thou, but it is the one my pickiness demanded.


 

*Ok, rich, verbose, and living at least one hundred years ago, in a place with parks. I live in the sticks. Everything is the park. And there are geese everywhere.

**It was the 90s. Few did.

The Storytime Blog Hop

bloghopIn a little over a month, on August 26th, the Storytime Blog Hop is coming.

What manner of Internet nonsense is a blog hop? I can hear you ask. Because I’m in your thoughts, thanks to the dark magic of internet cookies.

Remember the web rings of old? If not, pretend I never mentioned them. A blog hop kind of reminds me of that. Except, it’s also like a pub crawl, without the irritation of leaving your house. And without the alcohol, unless you provide that yourself.

What happens is that, on August 26th, I will post a short story, along with links to stories from other writers in the blog hop. None of them will be very long; some will even be flash fiction.

All the stories will be somewhere in the genre of speculative fiction—fantasy, sci fi, horror, or any crazy cocktail of those three. We could have anything from woodsprites to lasers, clockwork dragons to genetically engineered tentacle beasts. All of the above, even.  Stories in the blog hop will be somewhere in the realm of PG-rated.  No graphic sex or violence.

My own story will be about a powerless noble in the frigid city of Yauglesk, a place where an uneasy two-hundred year occupation is beginning to falter.

So, stay tuned for that. And also for the potpourri of upcoming blog posts, about things like pudding, typefaces, artwork, and monsters.

The Social Anxiety Flowchart

…for dealing with phone calls badly.  Because some phone calls are tougher than others.   Some phone calls loom before you like a wall of fire, and you just can’t get past them.

Grandma?  Ok, I’ll call Grandma.

Routine work matter?  Done.  Made the call like a champ.  Like a boss.  Like an emperor!

Health insurance issue with numerous complicated variables to go over, but only after you’ve been on hold for thirty minutes and now you have to pee?  And the call is probably being recorded?  And there’s this weird, sound-obscuring scratchiness on the other end, even though you called a land line?

Yeah, I’m a fan of e-mail.

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Sometimes, regular old introversion can veer into anxiety territory.  Lucky for me, I have a friend who understands this.  Together, we came up with a great solution for terrible phone calls.  And a great solution deserves a flowchart.

Tarantula costumes for dogs: a to-do list

People are dressing their dogs as other animals—like lions and spiders—and playing awesome pranks with them.

If I had a small dog, and an enormous tarantula costume, here are some things I would do:

  • Re-enact the part in Home Alone where Kevin throws the tarantula on Marv. This would involve finding a friend willing to have a small dog thrown at their face.
  • Leave it in the laundry room at 10:00 pm so my neighbors freak out if they try to do laundry after the 10:00 pm cut off.
  • Bring it to the post office. A friend from work gets away with bringing her little white dog into the post office all the time. Surely, an enormous spider canine is no different.
  • Go shopping with a dog in my purse, but the dog looks like a giant spider. I would first need to buy the type of purse people do this with, which would mean first going shopping with a faux-tarantula in my sweatshirt. I would especially like to do this at a high-end clothing store, but I dress too much like a vagrant to pull that off. They’d be eyeing me suspiciously the instant I walked in.
  • Drape it over my mom’s sewing machine, assuming the dog-spider can stay still. My mom always had awesomely grossed out reactions to my Creepy Crawlers when I was a kid, the kind of adult gross-out reaction that kids dream of when they bake up their rubbery little insects. I would like to see that again.
  • Bring it hiking. Many of the trails in my area are popular dog-walking spots. I wonder how it feels to see someone’s enormous, be-leashed arachnid pooping on the side of the trail?