Sigyn asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year. What we all want, love, is an end to the plague and a good, long vacation someplace that isn’t here. I know, I know–I can teleport. There’s no need for me to be stuck here. But everything is closed! London wouldn’t be fun without new exhibits in the museums, and so forth.
Happily, I am easily appeased when it comes to my sweetie, so instead, I have opted for take-out from the one decent Indian restaurant in this town. AKA, the only Indian restaurant in this town.
This little bag smells so good–I can’t wait to get in there!
Mmm. Papadum, nice and crisp, just the way I like them.
Here are the sauces that go with them.
That’s right, dearest. You want to stick to the tamarind because, if I remember correctly, this green stuff has quite a kick.
Mmm. Lamb biryani. This is also spicy!
That means I won’t have to share with the human female.
If the biryani gets to be too much for you, Sigyn, the white one’s a raita and will cool your mouth down.
It’s a bit pedestrian, but I like it and it’s my birthday, so food snobs can just shut it.
Ah–here’s the best birthday bit!
Ras malai. Sweet spoonfuls of creamy curds with milk and cardamom and rosewater, garnished with pistachios. MMMM. Come to Loki…
Urrp! That was dee-licious! Truly a meal fit for a maharaja Norse god.
January 1 is a liminal space, somehow not really part of the old or the new year. It’s now that we get down to the nitty-gritty of dealing with a new calendar, dreary winter weather, pandemics, and the dim-witted mortal tendency to write the wrong year on everything until March at least.
That up there is the human female’s pathetic journal from last year. (It is nowhere near as fascinating as this chronicle of mischief!) In it she records the trivial details of her humdrum existence. What she did and ate, how many cases of plague there are, what’s blooming, and, apparently rounding out 2020 by aspersions upon my sterling character! Wench, you have just earned yourself another year of mischief!
She filled up that desk calendar, so now she has a new journal.
Silly, the human belief that a new journal, with crisp blank pages and an unstained cover, will somehow make her healthy, organized, and sane for the next 365 days. Might as well just go ahead and write “Delusions of Adequacy” where it says, “SUBJECT.”
This does seem to be a rather Useful Object, however. It isn’t divided into days–it has ruled pages so that the pathetic details of her life can be moaned about at length and so that there is sufficient room to record my cunning efforts to make her life more miserable and/or surreal.
There is a handy time zone map, in case I want to make mischief for the human female’s relatives in the Mountain and non-conforming Arizona time zones.
This book can be used as a “bullet journal,” which I was saddened to learn has nothing to do with ammunition and shooting things. There is a rather nifty stencil bookmark included.
Sigyn is looking forward to helping the human female stencil little hearts and stars on the good days. Very clever, my love. Is there a wee skull-and-crossbones stencil for noting days on which I have been especially creative?
She is even more excited about the tiny flower stickers the human male presented as a Yule gift.
There aren’t three hundred and sixty-five of them, so I suspect more will be joining the household at some point. They’ll end up on everything stationery/stationary, where they will be twee but harmless, and no doubt on the felines, which will be funny as hell.
Of course, a new blank book requires the perfect writing implement with which to transcribe all the mortal flotsam which will be consigned to its pristine pages.
I wish I could say that was *all* of them–fountain pens, permanent markers, colored ball-points, gel pens, pencils, etc., etc.—but it most definitely is not.
Green. The human female is thinking of using green in this journal. I approve.
There are green gel pens, including one that develops a gold sheen as it dries. There are at least three green ball-points. Sigyn has suggested the use of a fountain pen filled with the human female’s favorite “Bamboo” ink.
Yes! She has just made her first entry. And just to give her something mischiefy to record, I saw to it that the journal’s paper is not conducive to fountain-pen writing (not smooth enough). She’ll have to switch to something else, thus spoiling the look of the very first page! Ehehehe! She’ll have to use the multipen with the super-slick gel ink.
It has the advantage, with its floral barrel, of sort of matching the stickers, but the refills run out very quickly, so it will be annoying all year long.
Sometimes people ask me if the human female is good for anything. “You talk her down a lot, Loki,” they say. “Surely she must have some talent.” To which I invariably reply, “Of course! She is is an absolute champ at deluding herself.“
She had the crazy idea that if she worked hard at it during the year before she retired, getting everything clean and sorted and repaired in the house and all her occupational and spiritual waterfowl linearly configured, she could retire into pleasant, organized calm, with nothing to do except enjoy her leisure.
Snort! It’s like she doesn’t even know me.
I filled the past year with so much other mischief that she never had time, and all the projects she wanted to tackle are facing her now. Nothing for it but to tackle them all one by one.
Must. Accomplish. All. The. Things!
Ah. It appears that today she is sorting paper. Yes, more paper. You see, she has a very magpie brain, always seizing on shiny bits of wisdom or inspiring quotes. She hears about a book she wants to read. She writes it down. She sees two words in juxtaposition that make a funny band name. She writes it down. She hears a piece of music she wants to remember. She writes it down. She finds a new sort of thread with pretty colors and decides which are her favorites. She writes it down. And despite the fact that she owns her weight in cunning little notebooks, she always writes things down on scraps of paper or sticky notes or napkins or the backs of important documents. Every desk she’s ever had looks like an autumn landscape, but with bits of paper instead of drifts of leaves.
A giant stack of such flotsam came home from the campus with her. Dealing with it is her self-appointed Functional Adult Task today. And, yes, she is using her usual method:
Select scrap of paper. Decipher scrawl. Transcribe to cunning notebook. Drop on floor. Select scrap of paper. Wonder why the scrawl was important. Drop on floor. Select scrap of paper. Recall that she has already read the book. Drop on floor. Etc., etc., ad locavit effultum foliis seorsum iacuit super terram.
I agree with you, Taffy. Dealing with one mess by making another is hardly productive.
She has spent a good portion of the day out at the herbarium, carving out for herself a little office where she can keep the botany books she brought from her office (nobody wanted them), her dissecting tools, her giant bean pod–mustn’t forget the giant bean pod!–and her favorite of the cloth posters she drew back when she was teaching botany a million years ago.
Much sorting and shelving and sweeping up of old mouse poo later:
The human female is slowly adjusting to life as a washed-upretired person. She says it feels like a “stay-cation” (stoopid Midgardian word) or like a succession of Saturdays.
She had the Bio department HR person submit the application for her retiree ID card the other day. Then she submitted a very spur-of-the-moment and VERY unflattering photo and sat back and waited. Today, she is going up on campus to pick up the coveted card.
I must say I adore the ID card office. The clerks all sit high on a raised portion of the floor, so anyone seeking a card has to look up at them in humble supplication. “Please, sir, may I have a card?” Will they grant your request… or not? It always feels as if “not” might be a possibility. (And then when the cards come, the photos are always vile, even if one is not as abjectly unphotogenic as the human female.)
Norns’ nighties! This doesn’t look good. The human female handed them her old staff ID (which I hid for four days and she thought she’d lost, until she found it where she had already looked) and her driver’s license. The clerk has compared the two to the new ID card and is making a frowny face. Eehehehe! Looks like “not” IS a possibility!
The human female thought I was done using the Biology Department to make her life more interesting. What she doesn’t know is that I saw to it that the information that the departmental HR person submitted had the human female as retiring from the Law School! As if! No way is she smart enough to be a lawyer!
The human female has stepped aside and is having to wait for a new card to be made. They should make her wear a “I am a problem customer” sign around her neck while she waits.
And here is the new card!
You can thank me–under that blackout bar and the mustache, she’s got a sort of manic look in her eye and those i-had-braces-for-three-years-and-they’re-still-crooked teeth are on full display. You wouldn’t exactly turn to stone, seeing her face, but it’d be a close call…
It’s awful, but it’ll do. So now she can check out books at the library, and get the parking pass that will let her park free in certain spots, along with other perks and provisos.
I’m pretty sure that since most humans are too busy to keep track of such things–and that some (like the human female) can’t count that high–none of the minions who read this ongoing record of my exploits have realized that, sometime in the last week, my journal has passed
TWO THOUSAND ENTRIES.
Granted, some of them were brief announcements (often of the nature of “I didn’t do it” with a chuckle at some poor mortal’s misfortune), but I still feel this calls for some sort of recognition.
Gather, my adoring masses! My ears await your paeans of praise! Where are the armies marching in review? Where are the fireworks? Where is my parade already?
Ah, well. At least there’s cake.
Feel free to express your adulation in the comments! Don’t leave me here with only the noise of Thor chewing.