Beyond cannon fodder

I've recently become interested in a show called Two Men In A Trench. It follows two battlefield archeologists as they investigate sites. Fascinating stuff.

The hosts are passionate about history, and they have that gift for making it come alive; some of my favourite bits have to be the endings where the hosts are sitting in their tent at dusk, having a beer, yakking about their findings and arguing about points of history with a bit of a glow on.

The show's BBC website has a transcript of a live chat with them. One of the hosts {Dr. Tony Pollard} mentions that when they started this gig, they assumed that human remains ought to be easy to find on the site of a battlefield where thousands had died; "we both know now as archaeologists," he says, "that there is a long and complicated story between people dying and them being buried. " He makes a few other points, and then goes on to say:

"At Waterloo for instance, when more than 50,000 men died on the same day, their bones were ploughed and a lot of their remains were removed and collected as bonemeal, and transported back to England as bonemeal and fertilizer."*

You can read here another brief but interesting interview with the other host, Neil Oliver.

~ ~ ~

* That image deserves to be incorporated into a poem somewhere... something about how we are all grist to the mill, with hints of mad cow & Soylent Green...

Incidentally... found this while surfing for links: Archeology is Rubbish: A Beginner's Guide :)

Granted, they don't fondue as well, but still...

Went to the grocery store expecting to be able to pick up strawberries. Last week I'd seen an eight~foot wide by four~foot high stack of jewel cases full of strawberries, presumably stocked up for Valentine's day if the heart~shaped chocolate fondue kits next to it were any indication.

So Boyfriend & I go grocery shopping the day after Valentine's, and the strawberries are gone. What's in their place? Boxes of Krispy Kremes, replete with wide plastic windows for the viewing of the goods {apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks doughnuts are romantic}.

On the sight of them, Boyfriend's first words were, that is so wrong, and as near as I can figure, he meant that he was ethically opposed to buying doughnuts second~hand. For my part, I was disappointed that they were sold by the identical dozen; I'd had my heart set on an assortment, but I hadn't the nerve to open up all the boxes and create my own.

Suppose I'll just have to settle for the boxer shorts.

Mmmm... doughnuts...

Learn something wrong every day:

Quantum bogodynamics.

Argument from Ignorance.

Okay, so that's two things.

Evidently, my learning curve is unusually steep within these parameters.

A Wee Cuppa...

Had a dream last night that I had to fill out a government form:

The Ministry of Employment, together with StatsCan, was gathering information on workers & workplaces across Canada; so I had to fill in this form with my vital statistics, as it were...

...you see, there was this one page where I was asked to tick a box to indicate my bra cup size. It was explained on the form that the Gov't was going to correlate hiring/firing data with bra sizes to determine whether smaller~breasted women were indeed at a disadvantage in the job market.*

Now, the form had been asking some very personal questions up to this point, and I'd felt a bit sqeamish about the idea of the government knowing so much about me; and this question in particular gave me pause. It would be illegal for a prospective employer to ask me such things; is it okay for the Government to ask me this, even if it is supposedly for the better good?

Resigned, I picked up my stubby pencil to answer the question; and then realized that my cup size wasn't even an option. In true Gov't fashion {i.e., counter~intuitive}, the multiple choice answers were:

[A] D [B] C [C] B [D] Other (explain) _____________

~ ~ ~

* Cathy Jones, of This Hour fame, had a bit about this disadvantage in one of her gigs at the Just For Laughs festival; it went something to the effect of:

Apparently, breast implants are becoming more popular as a graduation gift for girls from their parents. And the parents are justifying it by saying, it's no different than a nose job; it's very competitive out in the job market these days, less attractive girls have a difficult time of it, so they need all the help they can get to gain the edge. Well... that's no justification, unless you're planning on your daughter being a live packing crate, or you want to get her a job preventing boats from hitting the pier...

Completely Flocked.

We've been Flamingoed!

{image thanks to GardenWeb}

That is to say, one of our co~workers has had a birthday, and a well~wisher has thoughtfully hired a the services of a company who covered our front grounds with a quaint little flock of pink plastic flamingos.

Wonder if anyone has ever been Gnomed?

Ah, yes; indeed. Saint-Die in the Vosges, for one...

Eyegazing

Had my usual yearly visit to the Optometrist for new contact lenses; and since I am getting old & grey, and since diabetes runs in my family, it made sense to get checked for glaucoma & other ocular nasties.

The test for glaucoma involved gauging the pressure within the eyeball; so the Optometrist forwarned me that he would anesthetize my eyes with eyedrops and then touch them with a tonometer.* The next step was to check for other diseases using the slit-lamp examination, in which the Optometrist dilated my pupils with yet more drops and then shone a beam of light into my eyes in order to peer around inside.

Couldn't help but think how much it was like a dental appointment, in the sense of {1} he kept saying, can you open wider, please? when I thought I was at my limit, and {2} it was like that old Cosby routine ** ~~ everybody knows you're not supposed to put things in your eyes or stare into lasers & suchlike, and here I am, thingys being pinged off my eyeballs and gazillions of photons being rammed down the thoats of my peepers.

As it turns out, my eyes are fine. But the Optometrist warned me that due to the eyedrops I might have some trouble reading for some time afterwards, a warning which I did not take to heart {see footnote #1}; and I'm sure I looked a right fool in the grocery store an hour later, holding out packages far and near and far again, trying to figure out what was written on the labels and the price tags. :)

Can't wait for the new contact lenses to show up; it feels like I'm wearing day~old worn~out underwear on my eyes...

~ ~ ~

* I was suprised to discover that one's eyes can be anesthetized, but ~ forehead slap ~ of course, they are of muscle & tissue like the rest of the body.

This is an example of when learning makes you feel stupid; i.e., when you realise you ought to have known it all along, so instead of feeling just a wee bit smarter for having made a new synaptic connection you're suddenly painfully aware of how excruciatingly dense your grey matter is on a normal day.

** "DENTISTS. [pause] Will tell you. NOT. To SCRAPE. Your teeth. With any. Sharp... Metal... Object... [pause] And then you get into their chair. And the first thing they go for. Is an Iron Hook."

PostScript:

"blI hopebl thblat blyou are blsatblisblied..."

{narrative} links

In lieu of content, please find below a whack of links that, at one point or another, I found more or less interesting...

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Have you just arrived in New France? Maybe you'd like to build a house of stone? Then check out the Maison Saint-Gabriel online tour, The Mark of Time, to give yourself some idea of how it's done.

Your house is now complete, and you want to throw an informal little housewarming dinner, just a few guests. Perhaps you're thinking of having a glass of wine with the Borgias? Impress them with your horticultural knowledge! Courtesy of Killer Plants: Plants That Changed History.

So now your garden is well~stocked; but your groundskeeper is nowhere to be found. How odd. Oh well. Must devise some sort of structure to shade your guests from the sun, something DIY... ah! You can build your very own Stonehenge. Wally Wallington will show you how.*

Clearly, keeping good staff is becoming more difficult nowadays, so you may wish to consult a list of butler schools worldwide to avail yourself of the perfect accessory to your little black dress. Sometime a proper old~fashioned butler is simply indispensable...

Don't know your upstairs from your dowstairs? Swot up with a review of Manor House from PBS; and refine your manners with a lesson in etiquette from Ms. Emily Post.

And when it's time for a quick getaway, do so in retro style with Scootart.

~ ~ ~

* Wally's work was profiled by The Daily Planet {link via EXN/Discovery Channel}. Two names in the running for the completed stone circle are "WallyHenge" and "Stonehenge Reloaded". :)

Lost Weekend of Serendip

Boyfriend missed his exit and took a different route home, whereupon he discovered this little ruin on Gouin St., up in Ahuntsic.

So on the weekend, he surprised me with a little impromptu sightseeing jaunt down Gouin.

Gouin runs along the top edge of the island of Montreal; many of the lots on the north side of the street are waterfront properties, and the lots on the south side* have commanding views. Consequently, quite a few of the houses along Gouin are very old, very stately & very expensive.

Boyfriend had told me he was taking me somewhere interesting, but he didn't specify any further; and I thought he'd meant to show me all these upscale homes. So we had fun pointing out this, that & the other house, saying what we liked & didn't like, garnering architectural ideas, guesstimating property values.

And then he pulled in by the Loisirs (L'École?) Sophie~Barat, and there it was.

Some reconstruction company had clearly made a go at it; whether the renovation had been abandoned or intended only as stopgap structural stabilization, it was impossible to tell. Some bits were obviously done to keep people out, people who just as obviously wanted to get in.

We snagged a few photos & promised ourselves we'd come back with more memory, more daylight, fully charged digitals, mechanical cameras, tripods, etc.

Continued on Gouin until it became a one~way~the~wrong~way street; so we stopped to get a bite to eat. And, quite by accident, we discovered this little jewel of a spot. Touristy~ish, purely by virtue of being a site of historical interest; but not at all tourist trap.

Most visitors usually go to downtown Montreal and the Vieux~Port where the main tourist attractions are within reasonable proximity of each other, and visitors can get the most bang out of their buck; they might even venture as far up the island to Mont~Royal and the Oratory, or even as far afield as the Casino. But here, at the "top" of the island, the visitors at the Site des Moulins seemed to be native Quebecers who had come not for the thrill of being in a foreign country but for learning a little more about their own history.

There were quite a few locals enjoying the spot as well, which is a good indication that the rest of the park {Parc~nature de l'Île~de~la Visitation} is worth exploring.

You see, most other historical sites are usually subject to strict physical & narrative controls & protocols; and I inevitably feel like I'm a part of that unpredictable, living element which they're trying to keep at bay, which leaves me with the impression that I'm fundamentally unwelcome. And I get the sense of being dismembered from history rather than being a member of it.

But this historical site seems integrated into the social sphere of the neighborhood; while it's certainly no longer used the way it once was, it's still lived in. And that helps puts things in historical perspective for me ~ I can see that era as contiguous with my era, as opposed to seeing it preserved in a sort of chronological vacuum under a bell jar.

I think that's why I'm so delighted that we discovered it. Well, that, and it provides one with the opportunity for a lovely romantic {yet inexpensive} light dinner in a casual {yet cultured} atmosphere, with optional {photographic} promenade. Just in time for the Autumn colours, too.

Wonder what it will be like in the winter?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

* Including Bordeaux prison {picture courtesy of this lovely historical album from the Bibliothèque nationale du Québec}.

The Cost of Carving Myself a Hole

Am hoping to take a soapstone carving course at my local cultural center; am hoping there will be enough time, space & money when the date for registration arrives.

If I go to a stonecarving course in the upscale neigborhood, the cost is approximately $500ish ~~ but then, you get to keep the stone you've carved.

If I go to this stonecarving course in my neigborhood, the cost is approximately $100ish ~~ but then, you're only loaned a stone on which to practice your carving.

So now I go shopping for soapstone.

A local Omer DeSerres will sell me soapstone ~~ it'll cost me $42, about $50 after taxes, for a 4x4x6 block.

Or, I can buy the exact same size for $25 from Sandy Cline in Lakefield, Ontario. After tax & FedEx, it'll come out to about $37.

But Mr. Cline sources his soapstone from a quarry, Les Pierres Stéatites, which is not too far from here {by vehicle, understood}.

I think it's reasonable to assume that Mr. Cline would sell his soapstone at a markup from what it costs him from the quarry; and I've heard that one can guestimate a 100% markup between source & outlet. If that's true, then:

1) Les Pierres Stéatites provides relatively inexpensive soapstone; and

2) Omer DeSerres is selling soapstone at approximately a 350% markup. Evil, nasty retailer.

However, any plan to get it directly from the quarry presumes I'm able to

[i] foot the bill for vehical rental, gas & expenses,

[ii] convince Boyfriend to drive, and

[iii] mentally & fiscally write it off as either a wee vacationette for two, or a really really really long distance to travel for our traditional weekend breakfast*

...and I can't guarantee that any of these are within my power.

So I'll probably order it from Mr. Cline.

~ ~ ~

* Coffee up front w/ cream & sugar, two eggs over easy w/ sausage & hash browns, and toast ~ white bread for him & brown bread for me.

I wonder if it's worth seeing whether they do it any differently in Saint~Pierre~de~Broughton?

Wolverines, Post~BigbuildingBaboom

When the bigbuildings went baboom, nearly two years ago now, I bought a current edition of The SAS Survival Handbook to help me stave off the panic; a decade earlier I'd skimmed through a copy, and at the time it seemed like quite a useful book. But instead of reassuring me, it bummed me out.

I was let down mostly by my own inordinate expectations; for one, I had to accept that were I in fact ever in the kind of survival situation which this Handbook addresses, I'd be ~~ well, currently, my favourite euphemism is, "in a state or condition inconsistent with life". This kind of stuff is best taught by first~hand experience, and I've bupkas.

Also, I think this Handbook is geared more towards temporary survival, i.e., dying slowly enough to gain time for your buddies to find you and take you back to civilization ~~ whereas what I'd been hoping for was a survival guide that told you how to survive once civilization becomes history.

You see, ever since the bigbuilding baboom, I'd been trying to figure out how my job skills could be applicable in a post~apocalyptic society; and I'd concluded none of my skills would be transferable. So, I'd've been much more reassured by, say, a book called, What Terror Colour Code Is Your Parachute? Economic Survival in a Post~Apocalyptic World. I think that was what I really wanted; and now I feel compelled to go write it.

But mostly, I was bummed because the part I'd liked best about the Handbook, the part I'd bought the book hoping to see, the part that had cheered me with its memory over the last decade, that part had been rewritten:

Now, I am reconstructing this from memory, as I have neither the earlier edition nor the current edition on hand; but as I recall, it went something like this:

There was, and still is, a chapter in the SAS Survival Handbook which deals with animals, both prey & predator ~~ their tracks, their habits, how best to kill/prepare/eat them, and, as an added bonus, the utilitarian applications of their leftovers.

Lions & tigers & bears, oh my ~~ No Problemo! But, in the copy I'd originally come across, right next to the entry title "Wolverine" there was a caveat written in big black bold lettering:

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO KILL
Even if you are armed!

... and it went on to discuss the complete and utter nastiness of wolverines.

Of course, the Handbook was probably targeted at your average survivalist who wouldn't be up to the standards kept by the SAS... still, it had always tickled me to imagine that a disciplined SAS type toting firepower was no match for a determined wolverine.

And it heartened me to think that, unlike so many humans, there was still one beast left on the planet who could not be tamed by the application of a gun.

So when I bought the current copy, the entry on Wolverines was the first thing I went looking for.

And it had been rewritten. The caveat was gone.

Okay, the entry did warn that one had to Proceed With Extreme Caution when intending to tango with a wolverine; and it was Not be attempted Unless you were armed.

But... {sigh} ...that. is just. not. the same.

.

Either guns have gotten better...

.

...or wolverines have gone soft.

.

Either way...

...there's not an animal left on the planet that can stand up to a gun. Not that I know of...

.

{utter hopelessness}

.

.

{coping mechanisms kick in}

.

.

{resigned shrug}

.

Ah, well...

A little less hope, a little more room for gallows humour.

If you'll please excuse me... I believe there's a book on Post~Apocalyptic Economics that I ought to be writing.

Coffees: 2 {av.} Glasses of water: 0 {n.g.}

This came to me well~recommended.

Initially, I was doubtful ~~ books that have been turned into movies usually don't rate as Intellectually Forbidding on my internal Pretentious~o~meter, thus my Amazingly Incredible Biblio~Vision tends to overlook them.*

But I devoured nearly all of it in one night. The only reason I stopped was, well, it was getting very late, so late it was practically very early; plus, I wanted to savour the ending.

So thank~you. It was well enjoyed.

~

*because I am High~Brow Man! pretentious superhero: bane of pop culture villans everywhere; leaping to conclusions in a single bound; saving me from myself.

My Pet Narrator

Speaking on the phone with customers always puts me in a light trance.

I interface with the public under rather limited parameters; so there are certain phrases which are necessarily and unthinkingly repeated; and over the years, those phrases have become chants which trigger a state of neural quiescence.

Yesterday, in the middle of a phone call, while my fore~brain was on autopilot doing its routine tasks, I had the sudden and distinct impression that a third~person narrator had raised its head in the back of my head.

And, after a few seconds of observation, the narrator said,

She's turning into her mother.

I think I'll name it Tacitus.

~ ~ ~

You see, I'd been told by Boss to slow down the rip~roaring speed at which I speak over the phone. A schism of dissonance was created between mindless habit and conscious effort; and that schism gave birth to two voices. The voice in which I spoke to clients ~

that very. same. slow. soothing. singsong. speaking. voice. with which. my mum. used. to read. me. to sleep.

~ and Tacitus.

~ ~ ~

Just so we're clear, I don't hear voices, and Tacitus is a literary device.

I don't know yet if Tacitus will develop into a recurring character of any kind.

But I hope it will be fun to play with.

Survivor: Cabane au Sucre

Began re-reading James Herriot's Cat Stories, on the sunny front balcony with a sugary cuppa Prince of Wales tea; and when the tea was done, finished re-reading Cat Stories in the sun with a jar of Duo Penotti hazelnut~vanilla spread and a spoon. Because there's nothing in the house to eat.

Must go grocery shopping, or hope to survive off the remaining La Paila Dulce de Leche caramel spread. There's a lovely little grocery import shop down the road that sells marzipan, poppyseed paste and filbert mousse, all in easy-squirt tubes...

Mind you, there's a still honey bear in the pantry, and a box of blackstrap molasses in the fridge... Now I just need more James Herriot, and Bob's~yer~Uncle, everything's all right with the world.

Precipitate

Motes preserved by layers of memory, almost a decade later:

With the back tip of a spoon handle, I chivied irritating flecks of grounds out from the sugar~silted dregs of my coffee.

He polished off his balsamic~anointed oysters & vinegar~steeped fries, and artlessly sucked the salt~sour off his fingers to round out the meal, ingenuously apologising for such a base lack of etiquette.

To sit out on the terrace we'd had to wipe the table and chairs dry; the air had smelt brackish. Now, the sun had just set, and nacreous clouds gently scudded against the breeze into the maw of a night sky.

The formality of a first date had been shucked away; and baroqueness of conversation had dissolved into idly chatting about the other people we'd dated.

I had come off badly by comparison, in terms of sheer quantity of stories to tell. My date was a people~person; I am a people~pauper.

Outgoing & affable, charming & witty, he thought nothing of diving bare~chested into the sea of humanity to hunt for pearls.

I'm a thin~skinned, ascetic~humoured, vinegar~faced fishwife; so I muck about on the shore looking for the interesting bits of shell that have washed up, allowing The Drink to wet only my feet.

So we played the get~to~know~you game of what do you have in your pockets? And as he held my secondhand leather coat, he ran his palm over the nubs where buttons were missing, and brushed the worn enamel buttons left dangling by threads; and he asked why.

And I explained that, when it comes to buttons, while I can look at them and physically see them, I don't in fact actually see them because they simply don't register as a problem. And if I don't see a problem with something, it doesn't occur to me how other people might.

"Ah! well," said he, "well, there we are, then."

"I'm like that with my relationships when things start to go wrong. I can see the threads unraveling; but I just can't be bothered to fix it."

He plunked a sugar cube into his cola & we listened to it foam; the sound grew into mizzles of rain, each short~lived; in~between each mizzle, the faint smell of a burnt-out match.

White noise dropped to a meditative lull; the darkness took on a moon~splashed sheen, a magistery of pearl.

And I thought: how interesting an interpretation. I didn't think that was quite what I meant.

A rather interesting bit of shell, that one.

Bulwer~Lytton Entry ~ Deadline: June 30th

Go ahead, ask me about the weather.

~ ~ ~

This morning, blue~grey rainclouds were crouched like gargoyles, sitting low & towering high; sunshine, feigning twilight, had snuck in at the horizon; dandelion parachutes swirled, mimicking flakes of snow as prey apes predator.

By noon, the clouds had broken and scattered, and the sun was itself again; a few dandelion seed tufts had remained aloft, hovering and wafting like impossibly exotic, charmed & strange minuscule albino hummingbirds.

Later, the clouds closed ranks; light was slowly sucked out of the room as the day prematurely waned. Once buoyant downy pappi now trundled & sidled along the ground like tumbleweeds, forshadowing trouble for some Liliputian wrangler in a snail-sized ghost town.

The escargot herd was restless, on the verge of bolting, as the rustlers crept ever forward.

This week's moment of serendipity:

... brought to you by The Woods Next Door

A rather large chartreuse~yellow & burnt~toast~brown stripey SNAIL (Cepaea Nemoralis?) bravely clings to the outside of the kitchen window at the office.

As a co-worker said, Like a large aquarium, but turned inside~out.

Speeding faster than gossip in a small town...

Surreal moment: I just glanced up to see, through my window, passing by on the street, a truck; on the side of that truck, two words.

The words? Urban Myth.

Today I saw upon the road
Un petit camion d'haute mode...
It said I didn't see what I saw
Despite conclusions I might draw.

Il n'apporte pas d'haute couture
Ou dépêche mode de la Cote d'Azure;
Instead, as every young boy knows,
It brings the Emperor his Clothes.

CopyRight Here, Right Now

...doubt this would hold up in a court of law; but it would save me a snail-mail stamp:

I hereby declare this to be my idea, I lay claim to it, no-one else can have it, I came up with it first, if you steal it I will sue.

There. That ought to bring the world to its knees.

If ever have the opportunity to incorporate myself as a business entity, my company shall be made manifest as:

Gambol & Frolic

I've looked; no-one else seems to have it.

Perhaps I ought to change the name of my blog to Gambol & Frolic just to drive the point home...

...though, in the end, I suppose it would mean being constantly confused with being a toy & game company... or a sheep co-operative... or a dance troupe... amongst other things...

Gambol & Frolic Co.
Gambol & Frolic Corp.
Gambol & Frolic, Inc.
Gambol & Frolic, LLC
Gambol & Frolic, Ltd.

and my favourite,
Gambol & Frolic, ULC

I just love the idea of being able to introduce myself as:

Mousehat: Edgar Mousehat, Gambol & Frolic.

My card:
Gambol & Frolic, Unlimited
Edgar Mousehat, Sole Proprietor

I've got the name; now what the hell will I do for a living?

This week's moment of Serendipity:

Next door to the office is a wooded lot...

Trilliums!

That's Why It's the Language of Love

They say language is mostly contextural.

You just asked me either for a whale*, or a broom**.

I'm going with broom.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

*balleine

**balai

Why, I oughta...

"... there's a great gap between a gallous story and a dirty deed."

If empathy is something one must make a concerted effort to feel, then is it genuine?

Other people, having better instincts for human empathy, would, upon reading this article, think of the welfare of the people involved; or ponder the ramifications; or question the truth of the article.

I, on the other hand, must admit my first thought was: what, are all the good code names taken?

Second thoughts are for second guessing oneself; and so normally a second thought ought to steer one into morally calmer waters where one can reflect upon one's inital reactions, and upon how that in turn reflects upon oneself. And then one can choose an ethical, and more empathetic, course of thought.

My second thought was: ...because, evidently, nobody at MI5 would have been able to spell "Sabatier".

I'm not trying to be sarcastic about the depth of seriousness of the situation; I'm commenting on my emotional shallowness: I'm appalled at myself, because, intellectually, I know I ought to be.

It is, as they say, a dirty little war with many dirty little secrets. And I'm appalled. Because I know I ought to be.

Perhaps I oughtn't to feel guilty for not being empathetic; but, then again, I don't, really. It doesn't involve me, so I'm not involved.

So why does this feel unresolved?

Clothing for Mousehat provided by Icarus of West End

I haven't been to church in ages, and my wardrobe reflects that.

So there was a quandry about what to wear for the baptism.

~

Warning: interminably long post ahead.

I'm not kidding.

~

Boyfriend was photographing the christening as a favour to his cousin whose newborn daughter was the star of the show; I was happily tagging along as auxilliary shutter~bug.

Though I enjoy photography immensely, I am not in any way a professional. So I was apprehensive about being there.

Normally I would bow out of a situation where my discomfort level is high ~ but I so much wanted to be there taking pictures that I was determined to go through with it.

To ease my discomfort, I wanted to blend into the background. The right outfit was essential: it would be my cloak of invisibility/chameleon skin/psychological armour/security blanket.

So I *had* to find something non-descript & appropriate to wear in church.

Now, in my tradition, one does not wear black to a baptism. One does not reveal shoulders, knees, or cleavage of any kind in church. One does not wear flashy clothing, and one definitely does not wear anything resembling evening wear. But heaven forfend one should wear anything scruffy.

My entire wardrobe would have been completely unacceptable.

I dragged Boyfriend with me to go shopping. Boyfriend has excellent taste, and a good eye for flattering clothing with classic and lasting appeal.

All I wanted was a dress. That was all I wanted.

Boyfriend tactfully tried to suggest a two piece ensemble, but I was stubborn.

Two malls I dragged the poor dear patient man through, from the high-end retail outlets to the bargain basements. There was not a single dress to be found in my age range that could qualify as church wear.

Plenty of summery spaghetti~strap dresses, shimmery cocktail dresses, gaily-patterned peasant dresses, boldy-coloured look-at-me dresses, but nothing one could wear into church without being awarded a scarlet letter.

Exasperated, we'd show each other the offenders & ask: Church, yes/no?

Florid~flowery~flimsy~flowy~frilly thang: Church?

1980's~revival pale~khaki diagonally~structured creation with mesh/grommets/zippers/shoelacing & side~train: Church?

Tube~top floor~length black~lace number: Church! I said. ~Yes, Boyfriend said, but Church of What?

Why did it surprise me to discover that church isn't uppermost in the minds of fashion designers and executive stock purchasers? I could have saved us a few hours, two frayed tempers and four sore feet.

So I wore one of the suits I have for the office. Hemline's above the knee, but it's oyster~coloured & fairly respectable.

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

We got to church early and found that appointments for christenings are tightly booked. They had stacked up babies for baptism like air traffic controllers stack planes for landing.

There was a group ahead and a group after our group, and it took a few minutes to sort out whose people were whose.

And nearly everybody's in black. Tasteful black, tacky black, spare black, spangley black.

They're your relatives, I hissed, feeling like twat in oyster, you should have known what they would wear.

He shrugged. In addition to allowing me to drag him through two malls the day before, he'd also voluntarily gone out of his way that morning to pick me up two pairs of nylons. He knew he'd already held up his end.

{Later he was to claim that this was not "traditional black" i.e., what is worn to church by spinsters & widows, but "transitional black" i.e., what is worn to church when going somewhere fancy afterwards; neither of these are in the same class as "normal black" i.e., what I have in my wardrobe, so I still would have felt out of place.}

So during the baptism before ours, we surreptitiously nodded towards offenders, whispering to each other: Church?

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

Stupidity is its own reward.

It wasn't until just before our baptism began that I realized a little forethought, a little planning, a little attention would have gone a long way toward making me feel more secure. A little black dress only goes so far.

First of all, the ceremony was unfamiliar to me.

In my tradition, christening is simple sacrement. In Boyfriend's tradition, christening is a stage~managed event involving costume~changes, promenading, hoisting on high of babies and other venerated objects, floor~spitting, holy~book~kissing, dunking, oiling and a hair~cut.

If you're trying to document the event for posterity, there are a lot of important points to cover. The baptism before ours had provided a wonderful opportunity to take notes. And I blew it. I spent it looking at what everybody else was wearing. And now I was going to have to wing it as it went along.

Secondly, I had opted to use a camera that was unfamiliar to me.

It was a professional~quality digital {*drool*} belonging to Boyfriend which he originally planned to use as a subsidiary camera; at the last minute he'd decided to leave it behind, so I asked if I might take it in place of my regular digital. He obligingly set it on Idiot~Proof, and off we went.

But even set on Idiot~Proof, a professional~quality digital is more complicated and sensitive than a normal digital. If you're trying to catch moments as they happen ~ moments that pass only once and will never happen again ~ then you ought to know the capabilities of your camera inside out. And now I was going to have to learn on the fly.

Thirdly, behaving and thinking as a professional photographer was unfamiliar to me.

I didn't dare tell people to look at me and smile please, or, can you stand not there but over there please, or, step aside please, or, can you move that please. At what point is snapping a picture desireable, and when is it being intrusive? I was suddenly painfully aware just how much my normal photography depends on still life or unsuspecting participants.

Classic example: At the reception, the parents and baby posed for pictures in front of the pink&white baptismal cake. By that time the sun was very low in the sky, and it cut a hot spot across their faces and the white frosting. Five minutes after we'd finished taking pictures, the sun had sunk past the buildings and left us bathed in diffuse golden glow of nascent twilight. I could've kicked myself.

If I'd just had the brains to think to wait five minutes, and the balls to tell the frazzled parents to wait five minutes, we'd've all had some damn nice pictures.

That one goes in the chalk~it~up~to~experience box, along with the sun~melted wax & salt~water~soaked feathers.

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

I actually had a private fit of nerves akin to stage fright before the event began.

Boyfriend said, Just keep snapping pictures.

I think I took about 240. I think, when we looked at them afterwards, that about five of them were good.

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

About halfway through the service it occurred to me that I hadn't seen boyfriend changing rolls of film.

Nightmares have moments like these; wild irrational moments when it suddenly clicks that you're up the creek without so much as a deflated waterwing, because the jampot is on the floor and therefore they're going to confiscate your house and send you to Peru in a paper airplane made out of a calendar which has dates circled on it for appointments that you've missed and now your mother hates you so you'll never get out of Peru because she's the only one who would've helped you get out and now you're screwed because you can't do anything about it and yet everyone's looking at you like you're still expected to fix it. And then you find you're onstage and can't remember your lines.

This illogical and terrifying thought seized me: somehow he was unable to change film, and the responsibility for documenting this once~in~a~lifetime never~to~be~repeated event to the satisfaction of first~time parents rested solely on me.

erg...

whimper, curl up in a ball

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

I asked him about it later; he said yes, he did change film during the ceremony, and yes, he missed an opportunity; but when we downloaded the digital at home, it turned out I'd captured the shot.

score...

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

Technically, I had no official responsibilities other than as back~up camera to someone who was good enough at his job that he didn't really require back~up.

But if I had to do this again, I would:

> ask to visit the church at least a week before, so as to to makes notes on the layout, the lighting, and the progession of events in the sacrement.

> ask to visit with the parents so as to discuss their expectations. What specific shots they might want of the service and the family? When are photographs permissible and not permissible?

> ask to borrow the camera so as to understand what it will & won't do.

~

And I would wear black.

~

& } > ~ * ~ < { &

~~ it's a concept ~~

Can I pay for your intellectual property with the sound of my money?

Unfortunately, my money is also just a concept: what is the sound of one coin rubbing together?

In the spirit of keeping an eye on things*, I ought to investigate how to post a line graph or thermometer chart which monitors the relative water level of my bank accounts versus the plimsoll of my cost of living. I'd call it "The Hand~To~Mouth Index" and use it to inspire myself to do better...

.

* yakka, yakka, yakka.

* wakka, wakka, wakka.

Between Easters

The non~orthodox paschal weekend was spent messing around the home & garden, which is to say, I made as much mess as I tidied ~ so while I haven't entirely fallen behind in the ever-present struggle against household entropy, I haven't gotten at all ahead either.

Though, according to the Four Laws {count 'em: 0, 1, 2 & 3} of Thermodynamics ~~

~~ {0} I: {1} can't win, {2} can't break even, & {3} can't get out of the game.

So: mess is inevitable; tidying, futile; & just when I'm dead and think that's the end of it, this "fortuitous concourse of atoms" will, having shed any pretension to coherence, spend the afterlife as an ungodly mess {at least from my posthumous perspective}.

Spring cleaning will only stave off the ultimate heat death of the universe by infinitesimal dribs & drabs {worth mentioning if only because it makes the current state of my kitchen seem reasonable & decent by comparison}.

Now I've got a ditty stuck in my head:

I got algorythym,
I got physics,
I got pascal,
Who could postulate anything more?

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

The ~orthodox paschal feast I hope to spend with the common~law in~laws. I'm looking forward to it; they are always pleasant company.

}~{ }~{ }~{

Hmmm.... I'm a bit link-happy today...

Mesopotamian Woman, Got Away From Me

Ages upon ages ago, I devoted a small portion of my education to studying Mesopotamia. I couldn't win a multiple~choice quiz show with what little I remember of it now; but it was an utterly enjoyable experience.

When I heard of the art museum looting, I could appreciate the loss on an academic level; but it didn't touch me on a gut level.

It hit me this morning, when a human face was put on it.

This morning I checked out the only detailed catalogue of the museum online, provided by The Art Newspaper.

(If you choose to peruse it, be aware that as of this posting some of the descriptions and images have been mismatched; it seems as if two columns of text on a page are occasionally switched here & there.)

She is the first image of the Sumerian section of the catalogue. She was the first image projected upon the screen in the first class wherein I studied Eastern Art.

It was impressed upon us, when first we saw her, that she was the most important one to remember, and that everything else would be anti-climactic. She would most definitely, we were told, be on the slide-recognition test of final exam; and so she was. She was the first slide, in fact.

"White marble head of a Sumerian woman, considered to be one of the finest works of ancient sculpture, from Warka, datable to 3000 BC ."

I would have very much liked to have gone to see her; but alas... she has been liberated.

I'm still going through the online catalogue; but appears that the bulk of the examples cited either in textbooks or by my professor were housed in that museum. So most of the things I have studied are gone, or have at least dropped out of sight 'semi-permanently'.

The closest I will ever get to them will be the closest I remain to them:

A group* of us studying Museum Curation went on a few field trips to various cities. At the University of Chicago we visited the Oriental Institute Museum, which specializes in eastern antiquities.**

I saw this lamassu there, who is a companion to their lamassu; wonder whether anyone managed to cart that one away.

The original is still in the Louvre; but I saw a reasonable facsimile of their reasonable facsimile there.

There were other things, but sadly, the memory needs to be jogged more often these days. Exercise, exercise, exercise.

I will have to go over old notes and try to remember what I have lost.

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

* What is the collective noun for a group of art historians? A smattering? A dabble? ~~ that would be more appropriate for artists, as in "a dabble of Sunday painters". An appreciation, or an appraisal, perhaps? Or better yet ~ a footnote?

**The translated bits of preserved writings were especially fascinating. I haven't been able to find the one that was my favourite at the time; either I am looking in the wrong collection, or it was part of a temporary exhibition, or it's since been proved a fake. It was a letter from a student to his parents, guilting them for more money: "Fred's parents give him loads of nice things, even though he's only adopted, they love him more than you love me!" or words to that effect.

Lesser Known Quasimodos

I don't know how we got on the subject, but somehow we melded the worlds of "I Love Lucy" with "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" and got:

Looocy! Sanctuary!

Riiiickyyy! *sob* I wanna ring the bells...

It ends up with Ethel & Lucy trying to prove they can ring the bells,
and pulling the usual slapstick schtick with the bell ropes.

Loooocy... you got some ecumenical 'splainin' to do...

WMD 404

Error message.

Virtual ER: Feline Triage

Only you can save Tigger & Fluffy!

... not so easy being a vet now is it?

It's actually harder to become a vet than a doctor. It requires at least as many years of training; it requires one to be conversant with several species; and since the scant few institutions which teach veterinary medicine have a higher proportion of applicants than the numerous institutions which teach human medicine, it requires one to to be more academically competitive.

... but if you want to swot up, you can find info on feline health at:

~~ the mother of all feline-health link pages: Cat Fanciers Website, Feline Veterinary Links.

~~ not to be confused with CFA (Cat Fancier's Association) Caring for Cats page: Feline Health Articles and Research Progress Reports.

~~ the FAB (Feline Advisory Bureau): Information Sheets.

~~ Cornell University, Veterinary Medicine Dep't: Client Information Brochures.

~~ Pawprints and Purrs: Cat Health Information by Condition or Disease.

~~ VetInfo: Encyclopedia of Feline Veterinary Medical Information.

~~ if you prefer an holistic approach, there is also AltVetMed.

**In no way are the above links meant to replace a visit to your vet. If you are concerned about the health of your cat, please consult a professional at once.**

Oh ~ and let's not forget to mention, It shouldn't Happen To A Vet ~ because everybody who ever mulled over becoming a vet got a copy of James Herriot's books, so why shouldn't you? Did you know he has an official museum, and was awarded an OBE? Services to Veterinary Literature, I suppose...

Holy Mother of Bombast!

... did a search for my own website and read myself quoted out of context...

Apparently my impulse to write is suscitated by some inane demiurge who revels in the purple gore of slaughted prose and gloats over the sacrifice of my human dignity.

*harrumphs like a victorian spinster*

Shocked and appalled, I am, just shocked and appalled.

Can't get enough of my narcissism? Read onwards!

I've always been neurotic about writing -- must have exactly the right word in the right place, can't trust that a scrap of a paragraph can illuminate a world of thought so must write five words where one, or none, will do; and then I moil and toil through Sisyphean rewrites, so the whole damn thing stretches on to take up all of forever.

How embarassing to discover I've foisted this onto the world when this self-concious, self-absorbed phase ought instead to be quietly smothered between the sheets of private journals.

They say it's a phase that every writer goes through... emphasis on "through" in the "and out the other side" sense.

I don't want to go through it, in the double sense of the word "through": I don't want to have to suffer it in the first place; and yet, paradoxical soul that I am, I don't want to move on from it.

There's something very security-blanket-like about a very tightly woven paragraph baffled with words and stuffed with fluff. It provides the comforting illusion of substance when I'm grasping at the intangibles of reality-at-large.

(Why couldn't it be like thumbsucking? At least thumbsucking has mythological precedent.)

I know I've got to make the effort to leave it behind someday, I just don't want it to be now... not yet... not while I'm still having fun writing this turgid crap.

You poor dears. You're just going to have to suffer a bit longer.

Reality Snooze Alarm

I feel as if I should catch up on some old posts...

...actually, I'm really trying to put off doing some nasty work. A rather unpleasant customer has to be informed of bad news - and the buck was passed to me. :)

After having worked here for so long, I've built up an immunity to the guilt of passing on a passed buck. But I can't find it in my heart to wish this one on anyone else; and, to be fair, this particular assignment does fall within my job parameters, so I can't honestly justify not doing it.

So I will consider it a booster shoot of sorts, bite the bullet and make the call... in a minute... or two... just give me a second... I'm getting my nerve up...

*sigh* put the world on snooze alarm, just let me blog for five more minutes...

~ {&} ~ {&} ~ {&} ~

The bosoms I wanted for Xmas have been acquired; it is so marvelous to be able to put on a fresh new pair of tastefully bodacious tatas in the morning before going to the office and then to be able to unload them after getting home from work... it's almost like having corrective contact lenses for your breasts.

I finally succumbed to the promise of spring, and started preparing for a garden this year. With the help of some small fluorescents, some mylar and a timer, I'm adapting a pair of bookshelves into a plant nursery.

If it works, then I will also have a place to keep my kitchen herbs. Last year, I began a flowerbox herb garden on the back balcony; it ended a day later when I realized that birds perching on the balcony above were not only perfectly positioned for both precision- and carpet-pooping, but that they further augmented their target practice with fly-by poop-strafing runs over the potted plants.

And then there were the squirrels who methodically dug up every plant by yanking out the glass pebbles used as pot supports and burying them back in the pots, as if glass pebbles grow into Tiffany lamps.

Between the birds and the squirrels, I've come to appreciate that coldframes & hothouses aren't just all about temperature. But S.O. & I can't yet agree on how (or even whether) to enclose the balcony; so mylar-lined bookshelves it is.

~ {&} ~ {&} ~ {&} ~

And this procrastination has done some good; after letting the situation percolate in the back of my mind, it occurred to me that I'd seen an email address for the client somewhere; all I had to do was find it, and then relay our standard impersonal form letter for bad news.

It doesn't really let me off the hook, as our standard impersonal form letter for bad news includes my name and phone number; so the client can still call to give me an earful.

And it's an earful I'm dreading. I don't have any authority to change anything on his behalf, I'm just the cog that turns the wheel that relays the standard impersonal form letter for bad news.

But me taking the earful means that the ears of authority don't have to suffer. So I'm taking the earful on their behalf. I'm taking an earful for the company. I'm taking an earful so that others may live, and so that their ears might ring only with the deafening silence that is the sound of Freedom...

I'm hoping he won't call.

~ snooze ~

Manifest Destiny Syrup for your Freedom Toast?

"The French Embassy in Washington had no immediate comment, except to say that french fries actually come from Belgium."

"These are tactics we've worked out over the course of hundreds of years, and if carried on long enough, they will bring France to its knees. I'm English. I know these things."

Bispeken

I've seen Spoken Word performances before, and didn't care much for them; though I heavily flatter myself to be an intellectual person and therefore wholeheartedly approve of and endorse it as an artistic form, secretly in my heart of hearts I never actually liked it, and didn't think I'd ever see a piece that would touch me.

... until I saw Shane Koyczan.

I saw him perform "People Are Getting Better" on late-night TV - a CBC Canadian content vehicle called ZeD. I wasn't expecting anything special; I was just expecting to while away some insomnia.

His text beautifully bespoke what I had hoped someone would say, what I had hoped I'd someday find the emotional and mental clarity to say. It's the first poem in a long time that I'm desperate to memorize and carry with me, as if it was an amulet.

So, does anybody know where I can find the text? Sadly, I have no means of playing the video file. :(

This is a nifty little site.

This is a nifty little site I found, thanks to a link off a link provided by a nurturing someone who wants to see me blossom and thrive. (Call me crazy, but somehow I find that terribly endearing.) :)

By the way, you, I keep meaning to tell you -- because every time I look at it, it strikes me anew -- I keep meaning to tell you not just how much I like that picture you snapped of me, but also precisely why. Not in any particular order, and possibly repetitive:

1) you can't see my face. :)

2) most photos are judged "good" if they portray the sitter as an aethetically pleasing person to regard; but this is of me being engaged in actively doing something, not just of me being a passive face to be admired (or not, as the case may be)

3) I'm focused elsewhere, not mugging for the camera

4) it's of me, but I'm not the center of attention in the shot

5) it's about me, but not all about me; it's also about what's about me, and yet what's about me is somehow about me -- while you may claim that is serendipitous, I think it is instinctively clever of you

6) the "about" is eclectic -- altogether Victorian and Techno, Gothic and Provincial; flowers and metal, sunshine and dirt, pane glass and focused lenses; mechanical and natural, relaxation and aspiration, earthbound and heavenwards (do I have enough?)

7) there's just enough of a faint wisp of a delicate hint of the barest soupcon of the wee-est dram of spirituality, so that it doesn't overwhelm or offend as being overly religious yet still could possibly have metaphysicality read into it if the viewer wanted to play with the idea of such interpretations

8) it implies, subtly, almost accidentally, a search for an elevated state of grace... well, okay, I guess technically it's completely accidental, but I like that it combines the concepts of "accident" & "state of grace" (it's the arch echoed by the arching that does it for me) ...perhaps I may even dare to call it "An Accidental State of Grace?" (sorry about that link, sometimes my education comes back to haunt me...)

9) call me sentimental -- my boyfriend is behind me, though mostly unseen... I think I'd feel lonely if it was just me in there [wry smile]

10) it made me realize that nearly everyone I've seriously dated has either been a photographer, or had photography as a serious hobby

So I really like that snap, I like it well enough to mull it over as to why I say to myself, "Egad, that is an excellent photo of me!" every time I see it. You should feel proud of yourself for having been able to make a picture of me that I love; & I hope you do, because it is no small feat.

I doubt that the above qualifies as a bloggin' loverfest admiration essay, as it was mostly about me and how pleased I am with you & your photo. And it's a day late. But I must reiterate: you were talented & skilled & alert & intuitive enough to snap a pic of me that I love. That's bloody incredible.

I haven't counted to see whether that was 1500 words, but if it runneth over, you can use the extra words to make haiku.

Thanks for the pic, it remains an excellent gift.
Ed

And the cat did unspeakable things to my homework, too

Had a brilliant blog with a billion links going, and then my buggy old bugger of a computer decided to restart itself as it is wont to do; so the blog is all lost, gone, evaporated into the mists of ancient memory. Must remember to post without publishing every so often to avoid such accidents.

A birthday toast:

A birthday toast: The Professor. Happy 111st.

No. I have opted to live a small and rather uneventful life

Harley Davidson advertisement

Yes, it has been weeks since blogging -- I'm feeling like it's garbage day, and I've forgotten to take out the trash.

Boyfriend finished the job, and did receive a paycheque, before Xmas. Even with this pre-Xmas influx of moula, I was looking forward to simple gifts, as I figured he'd have other bills to catch up on. I'd dropped a few pointed hints about the delectability of home-burnt CDs full of comedy MP3s.

I'd had an influx myself, in the form of a tax rebate. Though money is always good, it put me on the horns of a wee dilemma: first, I had no idea what to get him; and second, whatever it was had to be appropriately expensive (considering my means) but not embarassingly so (considering his feelings).

A year ago, I was sent to our branch office in the States and I'd asked him if there was anything he wanted me to bring back. He gave me the name of a particular light meter now out of production but top of the line in its day and still very good; he'd found one here, but even used it was still more money than he was willing or able to pay. I called every photography shop listed, but there were none to be found.

A year and one Xmas later, having done a bit of research looking for the manual, I realise now I should have been phoning the antique shops. It is probably expensive due to its vintage as well as its utility.

But the week before Xmas, I was so very pleased with myself to have remembered the request, and doubly delighted that I managed to dredge up the name of the light meter from the silt of my memory, and trebly thrilled that the photography store where he mooned over it still had it in stock, that I did not research it at all; I ran out and bought it. I also got him some film, and a block of time in a darkroom so he could have a place to develop all the pics he took with his brand-new/used light meter.

And I figured, this is perfect -- it's expensive, but not obviously so; half of it is used, and the other half of it is intangible. It's something he's expressed a desire to have and to do, and it will provide fun beyond Xmas.

And then for Xmas he gets me this.

I'll tell you what I want

I'll tell you what I want! I want a last supper with one Christ, twelve disciples, no kangaroos, no trampoline acts, by Thursday lunch, or you don't get paid!

Pooped

Boyfriend came home in a poopy mood last night and was uncharacteristically untalkative... his boss has decreed that until the current project is completed, and is paid for by the client, no paycheque for Boyfriend is forthcoming.

I can imagine that, if Boyfriend reads this blog, he would have therefore interpreted my "consolation prize" quip not as the purely self-depricating remark that it was solely intended to be, but as a reflection on himself: either a direct slam or an accidental truth about his personal worth. Please don't take it either way, honey.

Wish I could stop you from kicking yourself when you're down. There are already plenty of people out there in the world who would do that to anyone for free, and without much prompting. Therefore, in my extremely humble and self-depricating opinion, kicking oneself is not a self-disciplinary technique one needs to bother having in one's arsenal of coping skills. Please don't do it.

And if it was me you were hoping to punish by silence, well, Hah! I like the silent treatment. But it does make me worry about you. And it does make me go into the kitchen and do uncharacteristic things myself, like doing dishes, because I can't stand being in a room with a high poopyhead quotient. :) The Old Man being a feline poopyhead is bad enough.

What we need is to start a BossWatch -- a community blogsite where people can share their Stupid Boss Stories, blow off some steam and have a laugh. Maybe even at best such a site could even allay stress by helping to understand, if not condone, where Stupid Boss is coming from.

It should include links to gov't, legal, and psychiatric resources, as well as the HRDC job banks...

There's a song I have yet to be able to find online; it was done as a part of a CBC comedy show for Labour Day. It's titled, "My Boss is Stupid" and the lyric that keeps running around my head is:

In the dictionary under the word "stupid"
there's a picture of you
and a map to your house
and an impassioned plea to kill you.

If anyone happens to find the whole of it, please let me know. I think CBC funny guy and producer Al Rae was part of the group that sang it.

So, Honey Pie, for Xmas I don't want to exchange presents. I'd like to just pack a hot lunch and go on a winter picnic: drive on ghostly white deserted highways, where skittering snow shifts crossways like sidewinding sand across the inroads into the Sahara; photograph far away snowy places...

Hey, we can get some new thermoses out of the deal. Maybe that will encourage us to start bringing lunches to work. :)

Take care,
Ed

Booby Prize On my Xmas

Booby Prize

On my Xmas list is a pair of "enhancers" from La Senza.

I've had my current pair for well over a year now. Originally I'd bought them just for a special occasion, and I had intended only to wear them once in a while; but how was I to know that having breasts would be so addictive?

I've worn them almost every day, every time I leave the house, even just to run out to the dep. I don't usually bother with makeup, and heck, with my current (read: nonexistant) clothing budget, I can't get fussy about what I wear. But I daren't be seen now without a bosom.

The old girls have become cracked & leaky, so the semi-gel from the inside adheres to my skin; every day after work I have to peel them off like little flat suckery octopi. So I'd like a new pair, please.

I can just imagine it now... when it comes time for apres-Xmas office small talk, trying to explain how my boyfriend is not a dink for giving me something like that. "...but that's what I asked for!"

pout ...if I was a trophy wife, nobody would bat an eyelash about being given breasts for Christmas.

sigh Not so much trophy wife as consolation prize girlfriend. That's why I get the Acme Peel-Off-Press-On Breasts. :)

Mote

Sunshine in my stomach.
Attack of the Vicious Killer Nostalgia, Genesis Three Sides Live.

Something's gone off

Thematically I have gone off, waaaaay off my originally proposed garbage... :) ...spirit, willing; trash, weak.

And this "not blogging at work" thing is a drag. Every day after work I penitently devote myself to my medieval ritual of cupping and leeching (i.e., a couch that adheres and TV that sucks) and after such self-medication I find myself too drained to blog.

Not that I'm excusing, I'm simply explaining. But I should shut my mouth; last night TV reminded me that drag is also thing of excellence. If I ever have the chance to see men on pointe, I'd drop everything and go.

Tunnelling, spoon by spoon, into the halls of Fame:

Mike needs to be famous... and fast.

...dang!

This is even useful...

Formidable!