was very successful. We (being, marilyn monroe and joe diMaggio) came in second in the costume contest to a pair of hardcore badminton players. Oh yes. Theoretically there will be trick or treaters tonight, as there have been none so far, and we have piles of candy and chocolate. maybe they were waiting for it to get dark earlier?

so i'm reading this new book, celestial harmonies. And originally it was going to be for the Mom only then i got it and sort of decided, well, it's very big and kind of heavy and has very small print, and it might be a better act of kindness to not give it to the mom. Amazon says it has eight hundred and sixty-four pages, which is more than harry potter had. so. i kept it instead of giving it to the mom. and i'm reading it, now, because even without having finished pynchon i didn't want to go in the bedroom (where the pynchon was) while the cable guy was here because the dogs were crated and they would have gone nuts with the barking, and really they were going mad enough already. After we gave them chewies. and i'm on, maybe, page fifteen. I'd maybe even give it twenty. One loses track. plus i read the introduction (which i never do, and i'm not entirely sure why i did, and it was a crumby introduction, so i'm sure i won't read another for quite a while - entirely too fawning, Oh mister esterhazy i love you i love you i love you and NOBODY CARES SHUT UP). so. And i'm wondering.

This is a hungarian author. it was published first in hungarian. and i'm wondering. does it read like the old folk tales from when i was a kid because it actually does and if it does, is that something deliberate on his part or does it just happen because he's hungarian? or does hungarian just have that distinct a sentence structure, or paragraph structure, or it was the same translator or it just comes through in the language? or does it just sound the same because they were hungarian and it's hungarian and something in my subconscious wants it to be the same? At what point does it so resemble my old books of folk tales? it could be anywhere, it could even be the subject matter. And the funny part is i think - i - this person, he - or in book one, anyway - and i'm flattering myself to think so. But he almost - or probably vice versa, that i almost sound like him, and is that real, or is that flattering myself, or do we just come out of some singular tradition? the hungarian school of thought? is there some particular way that We Are? and how is it so familiar to me, being only half anyway, and entirely removed by an ocean? what is it in my blood that is breathing this like drowning?

and can i substitute this for not having any grandparents left?

so, on page twenty or thereabouts, only i'm going back to pynchon now because the cable guys have left and i can finish him Finally (only i haven't read V yet, and besides, i'm neglecting Joyce, again) i'm loving it. and what kind of a snob am i, that i'm only reading these Huge Fucking Epic Novels? confession: i read Galapagos again two weeks ago. (Does it piss anyone else off that their mother read Slaugherhouse-5? that's Mine.) i was low, but not low enough for salinger.

and one almost has to wonder: do i want to ever read salinger again? can happy people read salinger? it couldn't work. one of those things. is that even allowed? and if i like salinger, as i remember it now, whether i want to read salinger again? because it couldn't possibly be the same. can a happy person read salinger and remain happy, and would i want to take the risk?

salinger wrote no Huge Fucking Epics. i'm safe. but. celestial harmonies. i think i am going to want to hear more about the Women. but i was expecting that. oh mister esterhazy ...

frigidaire is buying us a new fridge. Finally. After weeks of watching the thermometer we've carefully placed in the current, funky fridge go up and down. And buying new milk. And wondering if the food is going to still be good tomorrow. so.

in order to make stir fry and broccoly that m particularly likes: beef which has been sliced. stir fry in not very much very very hot veg oil. separate pot: boil water for udon noodles (which, tonight, were whole wheat and organic). back to wok: Decent spoon ful of garlic. Broccoly. put the lid on to steam broccoly. Mmm. broccly. mmm. Make noodles. Make sause: soy sauce, chinese rice cooking wine, random Szechuan from the spice people, corn starch. Add everything. stir. Give M all the beef. Keep all broccly for me.

Other things that would be good to add: Mushrooms. Peppers. Possibly a jalapeno. Onions. Leeks would work. Bok choy. Real ginger. Rice noodles. Boring spaghetti if all else fails.

maybe he was just hungry.

i find it interesting, and probably ironic, that the little brother has subtitled his blog "A proud member of the reality-based community" and i have subtitled my blog "Not very factual on motorcycles either." These are each quotes. We both contain links in our subtitles explaining exactly what we mean by them. Neither subtitle is a particularly new addition.

There are things that make this particularly interesting, but i've never been a fan of overdiagnosis. Or excessive labelling. There is something very wrong about calling some people neurotypical and some people not, and i am resistant to this. i resent it. it pisses me off, a bit. it makes all the -isms so much easier. it is the same thing that is wrong with saying women don't make good scientists or that if we aborted the black babies we'd have less crime. Everything that is human is on a continuum. artificially putting divisions in it helps nobody. And is subtly offensive.

a friend of ours is French. His brother is in an actual functional monastery and is very happy for what our friend says is the first time in his life. and you can't help but wonder. are there monasteries in New England?

so some friends of ours, down here, are about to bust out with a baby girl in a few months (early Feb, i believe). And it was terribly surprising when they announced that they were pregnant because we didn't really assume they'd be together for that long; they're so adorably different - they're the cutest couple EVER - and also because one automatically assumes that everyone we know uses lots and lots of birth control. Our friends reproducing is weird (though, well, it has happened before, and is happening more often as we all go on). Also it always seems like all the couples we know that got together after we got together have been dating for about five minutes. maybe ten. But certainly not long enough to be, oh, doing anything remotely serious, only so many of them are, which is weird. Time flies, i suppose. but everyone we know is suddenly in it for the long haul. The dogs would both be over two now, if i stopped to think about it, and one would be over three and a half.

Holy Shit. Three and a half. And we haven't fixed the fence in that entire time.

where do they get these names from, and are they really not at all multicultural, or are the boring ones just the only ones that hit the mainland US? will there ever be a hurricane LaShonda? hurricane Uday? hurricane Dae-jung? hell, hurricane Apple? (and why don't we hear about hawaii being swamped more often?) and, my Aunt is very nearby Wilma, and i have to call her and see where she's going, because i think they were supposed to evacuate. Which means, holy shit. and also, What's happening to that lovely house with the pool? and, I hope she got to bring the dogs. and, didn't her boyfriend have some faboo boat? um.

and: serenity is about as good a movie as one might assume, and i'm going to have to start using the phrase 'and they went all boogidy over it' more often. The thing i never liked about Buffy (et alia) and joss whedon in general is that he's so shiny. and this even while i like well-filled-out budgets and high production values in my entertainment, in general. but i never wanted to be Miss Trendy Person that actively likes things that other people keep going on about (and i could say 'go all boogidy over,' here, but i'm not sure that's quite the usage i'm hoping for). i think it was all the other people that liked it that made me not. And i'm sticking to that - i don't think i've ever watched an entire episode of any of poor joss's ouevre - but as firefly was cancelled, and nobody liked it at the time, and it is now a cult favorite? Cult favorites i can handle, and call as my own. Mass media slimefest orgies, not so much. anything with Very Special Episodes i'm comfortable with writing off as utter pop trash.

and even so, there are things that one wonders: why do reavers not eat each other, mostly, which is just one of those conceits that every scifi scary movie subscribes to - zombies don't attack zombies - but also how do they reproduce (and if they do not reproduce, could they not be wiped out far more easily?), and if they are so mindless, how can they pilot space ships and be, therefore, actual rocket scientists? i'm picky. i know.

and, i've googled the Best Present Ever for the collective dads, and i cannot find it. i've googled it a dozen different ways and looked on amazon and on ebay and on ebay canada. Nothing. This is gonna be tough. And probably the shipping is gonna cost ten times the actual presents.

excellent: the fireplace is, with the minor exception of staining the mantel and final reassembly, done. As in, done. And, it's spectacular. You can almost never tell that it was mauve. Pictures are well intended but won't be tonight, as we're going to a Mystery Party. Noone knows what the party is for; there are no incipient festivals, nothing of note has recently happened that anyone has heard about. Not everyone is invited.

i just hope the kool-aid isn't poisoned.

My least favorite part of the lion the witch and the wardrobe has always been the bit where aslan comes back to life. i was maybe six or seven the first time i read them - i only had the first three books for ages and then i had four, and then i had six, and then i finally had the last one, going through Exactly the same thing kids are doing now with the pottermania only all the books were already out and i just couldn't get my grubby paws on them fast enough. i had the first few memorized by the time i got the last one, i loved them so much. But this one moment. That is, apparently, what makes the whole series so damn Christian (no pun intended, heheh). In which Aslan is resurrected.

"The Witch knew the Deep Magic. But if she could have looked a little further back... she would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor's stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backwards."

See that? The lion is a dirty cheat. He had insider information. He wasn't playing fair. And while certainly the witch would press every advantage she had, the lion was supposed to be good and faithful and WHATEVER. Had the witch had this information, she wouldn't have fallen for it. It was a trap. And the good people should not have to resort to dirty tricks to beat the bad people and i (a) thoroughly resented aslan for having stooped to their level and (b) didn't respect him nearly as much. It felt so cheap.

On top of which, it doesn't make any sense. Willing victim, right? That means they get to die, and stay dead, because that is what makes it a choice and not an automatic loophole. you're dead. Do not pass go. Game over. When you pay for someone else's blood, the buyer gets to keep yours. it's not fair otherwise, and the good people are supposed to be playing fair, here.

but of course, the bible condones senseless and widespread violence, with similarly lacking reasoning, so i don't know what else i'd be expecting. the last Battle was even worse. i was heavily disappointed. and of course it's all still magickal and lovely and i'll see the movie, more than likely, but knowing aslan is always going to grow up to be a fucking con just sort of taints the whole thing.

And this one moment - along with some "deep magic" and "the traitor's soul is mine" BS by the witch - is what Time magazine is saying makes the entire thing Christian. i don't at all mind the one where the witch claims Ed's blood; that was perfectly just (well, when you hop into an obviously evil coach for some fudge ... ). But i had a very well-developed sense of What Was Fair when i was six or seven or whatever i was; i had a little brother. And this was Not Fair.

liz is ragingly susceptible to contact dermatitis. seeing as how i'm sure i got it from one or both dogs, since dogs are not susceptible to it, for whatever reason, which is why i haven't seen either of them scratching like i am. but still. it's not fair. i'm not the one that got in the poison ivy. Again.

mmm, benadryl. since my skin is all dry and scabby, now, thanks.

first, i knew it came, because i'd forgotten i'd sent them the email address and a little update (hello, i got married, and i live here now, kind of thing) and i got an email from a lovely old friend that also got married, but quicker, and now has three kids. (woot!) And so when i went to the mailbox today (which, yes, is sunday, because i didn't get the mail yesterday, because, well, it was that kind of day, and nobody wants to leave the house where the neighbors might see you in GARB, and when you get out of the GARB and take a shower, well, why get dressed. So. there it was. and the first thing you notice when you flip through, yeah, there i am, i think they summarized my little summary, but it's probably all there and i'm not too badly misrepresented. And then you see the reunion pictures for the various years that had their reunion, and the second thing you notice is the boy you used to have a crush on (well, one of severa ... er ... many) has gotten freaking FAT. to the point where you can still tell he's in there, somewhere, but this fat kid ate him. And how old they all look. And that they're only, what, two years older than you, and they look old. (And fat.) And the third thing you notice is that in the in memoriam column is one of the kids that you sort of knew just in passing and would probably barely recognize now, but was there nonetheless and overlapped just a little with you. in the in memoriam column. and the only thing you remember is that they were one of those tiny little middle schoolers, and that you vaguely think they were blond (you didn't interact much with the middle schoolers, really), and it says they died in february. february 14. as in, the tiny blond-headed kid died on valentines' day. And it says nothing about the circumstances. so. (a) sad in a general sort of way and (b) makes you wonder.

plus, at the ren faire, i live in fear of the day i will see one particular ex dressed in nothing but chain mail. There are people should wear chain mail (that girl with the incredible muscle tone, most notably of yesterday, it takes a hell of a derriere to pull that off, and so, Mad Props to you, Girl with Fantastic Derriere) and people that should not (which i hope i don't have to describe). And there are always people that should not. And i am terrified that someday this one particular person will be among them, dandruff and all. But i keep going nonetheless.

they have cancelled the airplane that was to return my husband.

bastards.

or, actually, maybe they haven't cancelled it. they're not sure. they're looking. they'll know soon. an airplane is not something you lose track of. it's not like a cell phone, a keyring. Hairbrush. Scissors. Things i am continually misplacing. No. airplanes are very big, and very expensive. they are not things about which one can be unsure. Other people's plane tickets, too, are things that are relatively pricey, and are not things you fuck around with, particularly not ones that you have already sold to your customers. Ahem. Cough cough. *pointed stare*

5:38 Parking ticket. For eight freaking minutes. Want to flip off the massive freaking HORDE of cops sitting in the fucking parking lot. FUCK OFF. Be annoyed at husband for not DETAILING that one can recieve a PARKING TICKET in the PARKING LOT that we PAY $200 EVERY SEMESTER TO PARK IN. this is the parking lot that WE PAY FOR. your football game is TOMORROW AFTERNOON. can i not have EIGHT FREAKING MINUTES? (husband is gone. i'm ... irritable.)
6:00 Lowes. Halloween costumes (Lowes has vinyl sticker letters that stick to fabric baseball shirts from Target and spell out D - i - m - a - g - g - i - o), real sea sponge, "raw umber" glaze. (Also price outdoor grills just a little bit. Forget to look at fridges.)
7:00 Arrive home. Deconstruct fireplace. Construct m's halloween getup, which consists of stickers. Feed dogs. Put on season 2 of sex and the city that i haven't given back to G yet. Paint fireplace.
Every twenty-some minutes thereafter. New episode.
Continue painting fireplace. Attempt to not get high on paint fumes.
8:30 Recieve phone call from Frenchman detailing trip tomorrow to Renaissance faire.
8:31 Sweep kitchen. They'll pick me up in the morning. Noone can see the pile of dog hair that is my kitchen floor. Clean kitchen. Stow camping gear in garage, finally. also the fireplace can dry, and i can stain glaze it later.
10:20 Occur to self that i was going to have a glass of wine while i was painting the fireplace.
10:30 Occur to self that i haven't had dinner yet. The hell? am i not hungry yet?
11:00 Off to supermarket. right? surely there will be something there i can eat. my fridge has been busted, i have no food. Plus, i need cash for the ren thing. What is my atm? The cashier. Woot. The real question - do i go to Walmart, or the real supermarket? is the real supermarket even open?

Expected rest of evening:
Shave legs.
Make ren faire external cleavage device fit properly after being turned inside out for halloween *last* year and not having been worn since. (honestly, though, what occasions do i have?)

it occurs to one, watching something like sex and the city, i oughtta blog some of this. this awful show. *snicker* why do i watch this crap? who lives like this? (ooh, they said something funny, just there.) are my single girlfriends going to live that? god, i hope they're more empowered if they do.

Notes on sex and the city:
jeez, miranda comes like right away, doesn't she? shit, they all do!
Wonder how N is keeping it samantha. Yay for real people keeping it samantha! (not that N. trust me.)
as long as i'm not charlotte i'll be okay.
if i was a twenty five year old virgin i'd ... oh, right, my little brother reads this.

Maybe i should just go to bed. i must be on paint fumes. i'm fucking hyper. i'm about to crash. i'm probably not safe to drive. i oughtta go to bed. i'm hungry. see? m goes away, i get a huge amount done (the fireplace, and the kitchen, and the costume, and very possibly the leg shaving), and i forget to eat. And i'm blogging funny.

so - will, almost absolutely certainly, be spending xmas itself (or at least a few days shortly thereafter) with the Old Immediate Fam. So. One must acquire presents for it. and i'm trying to think of things that might be helpful. so.

For the mom: Book on the TV show that makes people throw away their crap. Book on simplifying. Small, wuffly-nosed, young-adult dog. Book on "how to quit your job with panache." Book on "Retire without annoying the hell out of your kids." Giant box labeled "Salvation Army." Nice walking shoes. A more stylish hat. (Trust me, though, like my mother needs any more freaking shoes. where do you think i got this from? so strike that.) Shoe organizer. Yess! i am a geenniusss!

For the dad: Always the hard one to shop for. Nifty physics toy. Remote-controlled object. Weird random stuff from thinkgeek.com (and, in fact, i may have just found just the thing, and it is a funky pendulum - because the dad likes funky pendulums). However the dad is turning a bignumbered birthday as well, and this may have to be taken into consideration - i.e., i may have to acquire multiple presents.

For the bro: Book on "How to get off your butt and get a job already." Book on "Job finding for people who are not motivated." Book on "Interview better." Book on "Fifty bazillion reasons you need your own apartment." Book on ... but these are probably all things the parents are getting him, already. Poor little guy will have a library. Book on "Antisocial bastards who made it big - a biography of Bill Gates." apparently Feynman was something of a character, too. And while the bro might *like* something from thinkgeek.com - in fact i'm quite sure he would - it's ... i dunno. Weird. i feel like i oughta be the responsible one and get him something useful. book on "How to feel better about yourself without really trying." book on "You're not really that bad, seriously, stop beating yourself up already." book on "Get up and do something, already." book on "Chicken soup for the blackened, cynical, therapy-is-going-pretty-slow-so-fuck-off soul." this one is gonna be hard. Or - small, wuffly-nosed, young-adult dog.

i nominate this dog. or this dog.

in which M goes off to a conference until sunday. and while it's sorta nice to have the whole house to myself, this is only going to last until, maybe, lunchtime tomorrow or so, and it might last longer if i didn't have to stay home tomorrow to deal with the fridge being broken AGAIN. that's, AGAIN. and this time there was, again, a significant quantity of food that just didn't make it. but we did get to eat all the feta. but. so. because being home to deal with the fridge is having this big empty house to myself. and being home is worse. and it gets emptier as it goes on, so by the time he gets back (7 pm sunday, that is) it's going to suck.

On top of which, if i'm taking thursday off, i may be @ work on saturday. of course, i may not.

You Are French Food. Snobby yet ubiquitous, people act like they understand you more than they actually do. What Kind of Food Are You?

Labels: tests

as it turns out, we're marilyn monroe and joe dimaggio. Because baseball is easier to costume than a playwright.

in which it is impossible to live in college station, texas, for any length of time, without acquiring - through absolutely no decision to do so, or any particular desire to show any sort of spirit, and even despite a sort of, well, not exactly contempt, but when do i ever enjoy being part of the majority - items upon which one can see ... certain ... collegiate ... well. When the only umbrella the store even keeps in freaking stock says aTm on it, and you need an umbrella, ... this right after all the WOMEN at the BRIDAL SHOWER you went to were talking about the freaking FOOTBALL TEAM (and how much they suck this year) ... you wouldn't think, would you? But so it is. And so they were. And now i have a maroon umbrella. And now everyone who sees me with it is immediatly going to assume that (a) i am a student; that (b) i am not a two-percenter, but in fact purchase, with intent, maroon everything and school spirit and the yells and the traditions and all the bull; that (c) all the things that go along with being an aggie are going to apply to me. shit.

(but those poor u.t. kids, they have to wear orange. at least maroon, people have a shot at not looking ridiculous in. even if i still wish i could call it 'crimson.')

at what point does "natural disaster, natural disaster, natural disaster, thousands dead, again, natural disaster, everyone is sending money, nobody is sending helicopters, natural disaster, thousands dead, natural disaster, natural disaster" stop being news and start becoming yada, yada, yada? i don't even watch television, and i'm saturated. newsies should not make me numb to this, but they do. yes. yes, there are catastrophes everywhere, and look, what am i supposed to do this time? is there anyone not asking for my money, because they're the new favorite. and who's the most destitute, the tens of thousands in southeast asia, now, from the earthquake, or the mass graves in central america, or one guy getting beaten up by cops in louisiana? sorry, one guy in LA, you're losing out. No magnitude. oh, and, ashlee, get the FUCK off my front page. i oughta have to google you to know what trouble you're causing, just like any other talentless hack.

have they defined "media rage" yet? if there's air rage and car rage and all the rest of this bullshit.

not to mention, things to wear them to. First day since, like, February that it's failed to hit 70. i <3 october.

not that this will last. 77 tomorrow. 84 by monday again. but still.

now i have to pick my sweater. the red one, the gray one, the blue one, the other blue one, the other gray one, the black one, the other other gray one, ... mmmm. liz is bliss. it doesn't take much. this, and i can paint the fireplace while m is at his conference next week, not to mention it's friday, which makes anything better.

can't make it to emily's memorial. but? i will live. i will continue to hold her in the Light. i will reflect on the gift that is emily.

We have many devices to protect ourselves from sadness - naturally enough it is a distressing feeling... And yet sadness ... is a very noble feeling if we bear it with dignity and render it into a sacrament. To try to run away from the awareness of the pain of sadness is tantamount to thinking of light without shadow; or love without the anxiety of possible separation; or life without death.
Fortunato Castillo, 1978

The secret of finding joy after sorrow, or through sorrow, lies, I think, in the way we meet sorrow itself... What we must do ... is to accept sorrow as a friend, if possible. If not, as a companion with whom we will live for an indeterminate period, for whom we have to make room as one makes room for a guest in one's house, a companion of whom we shall always be aware, from whom we can learn and whose strength will become our strength. Together we will create beauty from ashes and find ourselves in the process.
Elizabeth Gray Vining, 1952

So, once, many years go, i was friends with Person F. (i don't have an F yet, do i? oh, let's just hope not and keep going.) A group including me and F and a few others go to a coffee shop. We get shitty service, but it's decent coffee, not to mention overpriced as hell, but it's one of two freaking coffee shops in town, so it's what you get. Whatever. We're done, we get the bill, F determines who pays what and we all toss over our cash and he goes up to the register (there's a line) and we finish up our coffee and sandwiches and whatever and eventually he comes back and he's being all weird, right, and he's like 'let's get outta here' and we do, and we took two cars and F and his girlfriend are running (which is something to see, 'cuz F isn't - or wasn't at the time, and i wouldn't know about now - exactly small, in a horizontal-area kinda way. On the jiggly side). And F and his girl jet off. Nobody has a cell phone at this point, this was ages ago. And me and two other kids who came in the other car, are meandering out towards the car, and the people come out from the coffee shop and ask Were we planning on paying the bill? and we said Didn't F pay it? and they said No, and we all went back in the store (oh, we were having a shitty, shitty time on the Group W bench) and scrounged enough cash to pay the bill (since F had all our fucking money and had run-offt with it) and everyone was very angry and said, Maybe you shouldn't come back. And at the time, you know, whatever, i don't live here anyway. And we all leave and go back and meet up with F and his girl again and we say, What the Fuck, asshole? and he says, Oh, we were getting shitty service, whatever.

He still owes me twenty bucks, and i haven't seen him or tried to contact him since. Years, mind you. Lived across the street from him for years. Was - was - a great guy. as in, usedta be. so i haven't called or written or sent e-mail or anything, and i do not consider it a loss. This was a cumulative, breaking-straw type thing. so.

assuming we're going north for xmas. assuming we're participating in First Night. assuming it's gonna be asswhoopin cold and windy. assuming we're going to want a cup of coffee and to get into a heated area at some point. assuming this coffee shop (a) still exists and (b) will be open. (note that there may be other coffee shops in the area by now, the way starbucks is entropying out all over the place.) assuming i go in. assuming they recognize me (which, i think, is a negligible risk, by now. it's been years, after all.) do i

(a) play off resemblence. ma'am, i jist have that kind a face, i live in th great state a texas, up heah visitin familee. i don belieeve i've evah been in yaouh caffee shap befoah.

(b) ... na. no way. denial ain't just a river no more.

is it a problem when someone at your work says, liz, you're talking to a dead mouse, and you look around, and hey, god-damn, you are talking to a dead mouse. Only you ask your fellow scientists about it later at the pub and they all talk to their experiments, too.

zowie.

why go through all the trouble of being pregnant and waddly and vomitrocious and not being able to sleep on your back if you're only going to leave the poor thing in a trash can? is killing a live baby not as bad as an abortion? planned parenthood has scaled pricing, you know. It's not like people can't tell you're PG, either. and then what? "Oh, what'd you do with your belly? weren't you ready to pop five minutes ago?" "shit, where was the last place i saw it? oh, right, i must have left it to asphyxiate at some race track in texas." "wow, suck." At least leave it in the sink or something, where people could, you know, see it. Maybe take it by a hospital or some nuns or something. at least it could be raised by wolves? (what? is there something wrong with wolves?)

i have antibacterial spray and a band-aid.

Admittedly, it was a double paper cut, once last night, and once again this morning.

And admittedly, it was on just the begginning end of my fingernail, in that tender little crescent.

But still.

because: ok. i cannot imagine world sans, for instance, emily. (For those of you not keeping track, not my dog, and for those of you keeping really good track, i've been getting better at this every time it happens, since the first time it happened and i was FIVE.) A world minus emily cannot exist. It is not possible. I cannot believe that emily is gone (or a whole host of other people, but i'm talking about geekdom here, and emily is the most recent, monochronologically speaking, reason for grief). This makes me re-question my beliefs on (and this is where a normal, i.e. non-geek, person would say the afterlife or reincarnation or god or theism or the immortality of the soul or religion of some sort, but where a geek with a grounding in superstring theory and the origin(s) of the universe(s) says) time. (Or it did once. Not so much by now.)

so it's a gorgeous day, yesterday, sunny, low 90s, a little bit of a breeze, maybe some fluffy white clouds. So we go canoeing. it's october. so you think, it's october, i won't get a sunburn, it's freaking october. i'm in the water. i'm in the shade. it's october. Right? riiiiight.

My skin hurts. i am moisturizing like a madman.

we're all, now, used to unqualified cronies being picked for jobs. (never been a judge? his personal attorney? maybe a bit much?) However. i have the perfect job for harriet miers.

she is a dead ringer for dolores umbridge. And they're still making harry potter flicks.

*not very factual on motorcycles either

:anmut: :annika: :chin: :dooce: :ewok mama: :food: :little frog school: :lj: :longform: :low odysseys: :natalya: :rich: :salon: :slate: :this is how: :unique yn:



archived: labels
09.03 10.03 11.03 12.03 01.04 02.04 03.04 04.04 05.04 06.04 07.04 08.04 09.04 10.04 11.04 12.04 01.05 02.05 03.05 04.05 05.05 06.05 07.05 08.05 09.05 10.05 11.05 12.05 01.06 02.06 03.06 04.06 05.06 06.06 07.06 08.06 09.06 10.06 11.06 12.06 01.07 02.07 03.07 04.07 05.07 06.07 07.07 08.07 09.07 10.07 11.07 12.07 01.08 02.08 03.08 04.08 05.08 06.08 07.08 08.08 09.08 10.08 11.08 12.08 01.09 02.09 03.09 04.09 05.09 06.09 07.09 08.09 09.09 10.09 11.09 12.09 01.10 02.10 03.10 04.10 05.10 06.10 07.10 08.10 09.10 10.10 11.10 12.10 01.11 02.11 03.11 04.11 05.11 06.11 07.11 08.11 09.11 10.11 11.11 12.11 01.12 02.12 03.12 04.12 05.12 06.12 07.12 08.12 09.12 10.12 11.12 12.12 01.13 02.13 03.13 04.13 05.13 06.13 07.13 08.13 09.13 10.13 11.13 12.13 01.14 02.14 03.14 04.14 05.14 06.14 07.14 08.14 09.14 10.14 11.14 12.14 01.15 02.15 03.15 04.15  







5821321