Three o'clock Saturday morning. It's so peaceful. I fell asleep at eight thirty, pleasantly tired and wanting to curl up under my new quilt. Keiko joined me, needing some comfort after being attacked by a dog. She'd somehow slipped outside when we came home from the store; we were juggling dog and cat food, grocery bags, backpacks, and trying to herd Jasper into the house. Keiko wasn't hurt, just terribly shaken up with her fur so fluffed out in fear that John actually didn't recognise her on the front porch, although he'd seen the attack. He called me over to ask if this could be our cat. She did look twice her normal size. So I fed her a treat of canned cat food and we went to bed where I cuddled her and conked out.
At midnight John woke me by pulling my toe. I was very confused because it was dark out and he was doing sit-ups on the floor at the end of the bed. "What time is it," I asked blearily.
"Midnight," he answered, puffing a little. The need to take the dog on his last walk gradually filtered through as I realized it wasn't morning and time to get up but rather time to stop napping. Keiko purred and purred.
"Don't exercise at night, it will keep you up," I warned as I rolled out of bed. He scoffed, and of course he went right to sleep afterwards. So much for my words of wisdom.
I looked with great interest at the moon as I walked Jasper. It was a warm gold tonight. Last night, though, it was deep red while still high in the sky, one of the strangest things I've ever seen. The forest fires in the hills, we decided, were causing a haze, but what we saw would have made an earlier civilization foretell doom and death. I wished I could photograph it, the color was so astonishing. Red, not orange, a bloody apparition in a starless sky.
Now I am quietly typing, answering email and checking websites. I note with much glee that the Journalcon attendee list has swelled to forty three, not including the committee of six, and I'm sure more will sign up in the next month and a half. It's going to be such a kick-ass con. We've worked hard to provide a great structure for people to meet and have fun, we're actively moderating the few panels we're offering, and the site is ideal. We'll have some of the finest writers in the field present, some better known outside diary fandom than others, with plenty of the Old School represented which pleases me.
I'm especially happy at the number of people from the midwest and east coast making the effort to attend. As a committee member my worst fear was that we would put on a fantastic convention and no one would come. I'm like this with parties, too, and I have yet to organize a party or a convention that was less than packed to the rafters with wonderful, interesting people, so there's no logic to it. Must be my latent Stepford Wife syndrome and the need to be the perfect hostess.
Natasha has come to paw me, claws catching in my sweatpants a little, which is her signal that she would like me to go to bed. She is firm on this, not approving of staying up late with one small lamp on. It is late, and tomorrow there are errands to run before I go out for post-birthday chocolate martinis with Jen. I bend to my cat's will. Goodnight.
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