Calling on Portlanders who love root beer!

Are you a friend of mine who loves root beer? Are you in Portland? Pete -webtron gadfly- has made some delicious root beer cupcakes. He saw the recipe on Boing Boing and when he saw how much root beer schnapps it used, he was sold. So now we have 20 or so root beer cupcakes that we can't eat because we drank so much damn Henry's Delicious Amazing And Perfect Root Beer last night, we're sick of the stuff. So if you like delicious cupcakes and root beer, give us a call: there's one with your name on it!

Addendum: Why We Own Root Beer Schnapps
Yes, it's as disgusting as it sounds (not in baked goods, but in anything else). No, we did not buy it because that sounded "awesome." My brother and a coworker of his were comparing mixed drink recipes (or maybe just weird crap they'd mixed together and drunk; I forget how they got on this topic) and his coworker suggested a Root Beer Float: vanilla vodka, root beer schnapps and cream/half & half. Aren thought this sounded awesome (or at least interesting) and so procured the necessary liquors. The verdict? I didn't have one as it smelled like pure, vile alcohol, but Aren said that it tasted like liquor with an aftertaste of flat root beer. Yum. Turns out this was just a hypothetical drink and his coworker had never tried it before. So we were left with most of a bottle of root beer schnapps and the knowledge that no one would ever drink it. To our surprise, a couple jacks and jiggers have been siphoned off at various times in the name of curiosity. I think Stormy had a jigger over ice, but that kid is both brave and adventurous. After the cupcake caper, we only have about a quarter of the bottle left. So if you are a friend of mine or Pete's, you are in Portland and you want to try some root beer schnapps: come on down! We have at least a jigger with your name on it!

Am I in the southern hemisphere?

The date: August 11. The time: 11:30pm. The place: Portland, OR. The temperature: 59 fawking degrees! I'm not kidding: I'm wearing a hoodie, jeans and tennis shoes, and we haven't taken the comforter off the bed more than three times this summer. Or whatever you call this season. Maybe "The Sunny Season" to differentiate it from the prior "Gray And A Little Rainy But Fresh Season." After "The Sunny Season" comes the "Gray And A Little Rainy But Everything Dies Season." And then finally the "Cold And Gray Season."

I shouldn't complain. I hate heat and humidity. This is just shocking, that's all. And that's all I have to say on that for two reason: 1) There is a spider on the ceiling and I must get Pete to do something about it; 2) The overhead light is flickering irritatingly (and suddenly!) and it's quite maddening.

Oh, but before I go: I went to the Portland IKEA yesterday and today. It is really weird to go into a place I associate with Europe and the east coast and see it filled with local yokels. Not to put too fine (or judgmental) a point on it, but that place was just loaded with morbidly obese Oregonians today. It was depressing. Like a Future Stroke And Diabetes parade. If I were ever going to hand out nutrition information leaflets, I think I would start at IKEA. Not that I'm the picture of health or anything myself; my BMI sets me comfortably in the Overweight range and if I get any more sedentary I think I might qualify as a pet rock. BUT... it was bad. It made me worry about Oregon and the health of her citizens. How is it possible that we're so fat as a state when we're living in one of the greatest places on earth for sport (where it's 59 degrees at night in the goddamned summer!)?

Trying To Care About Baseball

Pete told me about a very interesting point John Lovitz made about the whole Bonds/Aaron/Doping thing. He said that Lovitz said that a friend of his in the MLB said years ago that there were thousands of players doping. The quote, as Pete recounted it, was "If I knew, how could the commissioner not know?" On the other hand, he continued, if thousands of guys are doping, why aren't they all hitting home runs like Bonds?

I'm trying to care about this, but it's not easy. It seems like there's a principle here and that maybe it's related to something bigger and more important, something about lax morals in our modern age or what have you. I don't know much about Hank Aaron as a person, but he's always seemed like a nice guy. I think the difference is in what it meant for Aaron to break and then hold the record versus what it means for Bonds to do so. When Hank Aaron neared Babe Ruth's record, he received death threats, yet he was voted into the Hall of Fame with like 98% of the vote (or however the Baseball Hall of Fame works). The man played in a segregated league on a team called the Clowns, for crying out loud! Barry Bonds' record, on the other hand, does not represent a major step in the battle against racism. It's my understanding that there's some question as to whether or not he'll even be allowed into the Baseball Hall of Fame, and he certainly won't receive 98% of the vote. And I have no sense that he represents what's best about baseball, the way Hank Aaron continues to do today. On the other hand, no one is willing to take Bonds to task over the steroid accusations, I assume either over lack of evidence or lack of will to really carry out the witch hunt that would instigate. The question of his Hall of Fame eligibility is certainly less clear than Pete Rose betting on baseball. And maybe Bonds does represent a milestone in the civil rights movement: a record-approacher whose death threats have nothing to do with his race but rather with his supposed drug use.

The thing is: baseball is boring. ..::B O R I N G::.. It takes forever, the stats are arcane, you can't understand what in the hell the announcers are talking about, and the players don't seem to have any of the joie de jouer that earlier players had (or that you see all the time in basketball and even pretty often in football). It might as well be test cricket for all the interest it holds for me. And I think other people can feel that too, the ennui that makes it seem strange to see the excitement and pageantry at Japanese baseball games. I mean, it's our national pastime, right? Then why are our stands half-empty and morose when the Japanese stands are full and almost riotous? Watching Tony Bourdain at a Hanshin Tigers game on "No Reservations" made me think, "hey, maybe baseball games could be fun." But then I remembered what going to an actual game is like (Mariners, Father's Day, 1991 maybe?) and wondered why I couldn't remember taking the Crazy Pills whose effects I was so clearly feeling.

So I don't really care, is what it comes down to. Bonds' victory is ambiguous. Maybe he's the best slugger out of all the dopers, but that would still make him a doper. He's no Hank Aaron, but he's not really a Pete Rose either. One could argue that he rather nicely represents the state of baseball today.

Ian McEwan Writes The Books I Wish I Wrote

I just finished On Chesil Beach and it is really beautiful. I wrote a review on Facebook and I'm too lazy to copy it here. But there is something I left out of the review because it was without context. A couple months ago when I read The Historian I complained that no one can write a decent sex scene. They're usually awkward, embarrassing and definitely not sexy. Mostly I feel like they miss the whole point of sex, focusing on the erotic as though it is mutually exclusive from love or kindness or friendship. Now that I put that in words, it seems really clichéd, which isn't how I meant it at all. It is just to say that most sex scenes in books seem to be detached from the overall narrative, these intense moments of passion, gratification and sometimes joy, when in reality sex is (in my opinion) rarely all that separate from one's general narrative. But maybe I'm missing the point. I'll grant that could be the case. Ian McEwan, though, never misses the point. On Chesil Beach contains the most beautifully written sex scene I have ever read. And it's awkward virgin sex! The whole scene is built up to as part of the character construction as the plot centers around the wedding night of the two protagonists, Edward and Florence. The sex (which is rather graphically detailed - on a scale from "Pride & Prejudice" to "The Mammoth Hunters," it rates above a "Lady Chatterley's Lover" but maybe just below a "Mists of Avalon" because he doesn't euphemise) is never removed from the context of the characters' relationship. Florence is disgusted by the whole idea of physical intimacy, but is horrified at the idea that she might disappoint this man she loves so dearly. Edward has mistaken her fear and revulsion for coyness and is looking forward to finally consummating the relationship, which has him worried about poor performance. McEwan weaves all of their respective anxieties into the narrative of the experience. And although it is a cringingly awkward and shameful experience for the protagonists (as the loss of virginity is for any member of any rather closed society, as postwar England is painted in this novel), it was somehow still beautiful to read.

I finished this book yesterday and I feel lighter and somehow happier today for having read it. It's short - less than 200 pages, I think - and didn't take long to read. But it made me re-evaluate why we fall in love and when and how it happens. At some point in the book Edward realizes that though he is already in love with Florence, he feels a wave of additional fondness wash over him and realizes that the joy of truly loving someone isn't something that sits with you always at the same level, but is rather something that comes in waves. The message I took away from it is that one can fall in love with the same person again and again without ever falling out of love with them. And I think that's true (I know it's true for me). So read this book! Or anything by Ian McEwan, really. But if you're looking for something short and brilliant and beautiful, pick this one.

Cap'n Ferret Fancier

Nothing can make you mean like watching a documentary on people who "show" ferrets. Like a dog show. But with ferrets. Pete and I went from kind, caring, gentle shows, to the meanest, most judgmental jerks in about five minutes flat. It was the horrible ferret song sung by one of the ferret ladies. Seriously, though: if there is a real cross-section of America that "shows" ferrets, this show (on OPB) did not give it fair representation. But if the OPB show is representative, ferret people are almost universally obese 60+-year old women who either had children who have grown up and moved away, or who never married and never had children. They're weird. They like country-style furnishings and those tapestry pillows with scenes of rabbits and flowers. And tie-dye. And turquoise. I'm not kidding: even if you only have one mean bone in your body, ferret ladies will turn you into a trash talking ass hole.

Pete said at one point, "I bet there's one ribbon per ferret at that show." Here's how OBP ended the program. "327 ferrets entered the show. [pause-wait for it...] 400 ribbons were awarded."

Harry Potter again - don't worry! No spoilers!

Hey, all you writers out there! You with series-es! Yeah, you lot - come over here. That's good, okay, now you can all hear. Look, you have to start plotting out the series from soup to nuts from day one. If Rowling has taught us anything, it is that the most satisfying final book is one that ties everything together without tying everything up. If that makes any sense. Okay, okay, mystery-series-writers, you're right, you probably are exceptions. Sure sure, if a series is intrinsically episodic, then planning from A to Z is maybe not necessary from day one. But if there's a plot to follow, a story arc, a character whose journey one is meant to care about, please please PLEASE sit down and plot it out - all of it! - at the beginning. And don't bring characters back from the dead after the final blow just because everyone is clamoring for them. Get used to it! We readers are a rowdy noisy lot and also we're very demanding and unreasonable. But be firm! Be steadfast! And over time we'll come to appreciate the finite nature of your canon. Maybe we'll feel like we do about Nirvana, happy that we never had to suffer through a slow and synth-filled death.

Harry Potter

Hooray!

Sydney sleep now

Wedding planning...
Student loan payments...
Inadequate salary...
Wedding planning...
Need shoes for dress...
Training nurses to use Excel...
Allergies...
ALLERGIES...
ALLERGIES!!!

Splitting headache.

Left frontal lobe wants out.
Preferably through eye socket.

Sleep. Must sleep. For Saturday there is:
Harry Potter!
HOORAY!

Lightning is neato!

We just had a big ol' East Coast-style Thunder & Lightning Extravaganza here in Portland! Stick lightning and everything! It was all beautiful and clear this evening; the incredible, wonderful dry heat had just been replaced by the cool crepuscular breezes, which were sighing this way and that... and then, from the southeast, this green-gray miasma that can mean only one thing began first to creep and then to roll its way into and over the city. The storm was both calm and violent - the key lime-sized drops of rain were slow and infrequent, but heavily soaking. And it moved so quickly that for about five minutes after the rain had stopped at 25th and Marshall it was still bludgeoning the pavement at 25th and Northrup. The lightning was so cool - even the kitten (Domino, who is now a year old and as big as the old cat, Heidi) couldn't tear her eyes away from the window. I made her come in from the deck when the thunder started (I had to fish her out from under a patio chair) because I was worried that the noise would scare her. I should have known better: that cat isn't scared of anything. She was just desperate to get back out, running full speed up the stairs any time Pete or I took even a step in their direction. She stood by the window and mewled. She wound herself around and through Pete's legs and whined. But once we sat her in a north-facing window, she was glued to the spot until the storm moved too far north and the best parts of the lightning were obscured by our neighbors' rooftops. At that point I figured it was best to let her out, before she went totally nuts. I was surprised to find it was still raining- big, silent crocodile tears accompanied by more thunder to the south. Matt Zaffino (local weather hunk for the past 10-15 years, for those who don't recognize the name) says we're likely to have more storms throughout the night. Man, I love thunder storms! It was so cool to have real, awesome stick lightning for once too. I just hope I get to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound rain pounding the side of the house and thunder really crashing, not just grumbling.

I need my Harry Potter! ::whining:: Now...!

I just finished rereading Harry Potter 6 and now I need - NEED, people - number 7. I really enjoyed 6 the first time I read it, but it was even better the second time around. I'm going to have to reread 4, because right now, from where I stand, 6 seems like it's the best. There was so much that I missed the first time around because it was necessarily contextless. But knowing how it ends, having the context, well that changes everything! Or at least it feels like it does. So I'm all excited for number 7 now, even though I'm sure I'll cry right through the whole thing.

Is it the 21st yet? No? Damnit!

No, seriously: those PSAs suck

No, I'm sorry, I have to disagree: those ads are stupid. That irritating little dog being all like, "You disappoint me." Those ads make me want to get stoned and punt a puppy across a large room. And I love puppies! I don't think they really make the case for "smoke pot = loserdom." I think they make the case for "guy with talking puppy = tool." I really doubt that anyone sees those and says, "Yeah, pot is lame!"

The anti-pot ads I liked were the ones with the kid talking about how when he smokes weed he just goes and sits on his friend's couch in his basement. And that's it. They don't do anything and life just passes them by. I thought that was honest and probably the closest thing to a convincing argument one was likely to see in a PSA. Although really: does anyone think, "Ooh, marijuana looks so glamorous!" I bet it's more like, "Ooh, marijuana makes my boring suburban life a little funny and helps pass the time." But then, I've never been much for what is (for me) essentially an expensive sleep aid. So perhaps I'm biased. :)

That dog is a tool.

Also, I hate him. And his little flag.

Yeah.

Why do dogs hate pot?

TV is all about dogs hating on stoners these days. There are two ads/PSAs in particular: a "live action" and a cartoon. The live action one doesn't really make sense. I mean, if you think your dog is talking to you, it's not the pot that's the problem - it's whatever the pot is laced with that's the problem. Also: making animals look like they're talking is always a stupid gimmick. And then the cartoon. I HATE those PSAs with the yellow background where the cartoon puppy is like, "You disappoint me," and then goes and raises his lame little flag. (Symbolism, anyone?) I hope those ads are making kids want to smoke pot. And I hope that they think "Fuck that sanctimonious little dog from the TV" as they do it.

Also, can anyone explain to me the sour skittles commercial with the guy hooked up to the milking apparatus? I mean, that is seriously weird.

Read this comic!

Thinkin' Lincoln linked to this comic today - Bear & Kitten. You should read all of it. It's awesome. I'm going to learn Drop Bear Fu.

My degree!

Did you ever wonder what a masters in science from Georgetown looked like? Did you ever wonder what it would look like if poorly photographed? Well now's your chance to find out! Lo- this is that for which I worked so hard and took on so much debt. Bask in its glory!

S&M Jousting?

Last weekend, Pete and I were driving around looking at apartments and houses for rent, when we saw the most curious sight. In the park at SE 21st & Belmont, we saw two men jousting. On super tall unicycles. In what appeared to be S&M gear. Surrounded by a crowd of people. We couldn't get pictures right then because the light turned and I was at completely the wrong angle. But we circled the block and got the following shots. Apparently the guy in the black shorts had won, and the crowd seemed divided as to whether or not this was a good thing. It is so weird to hear people booing in Portland!

The Historian Can Bite My Butt

And lo, my butt is big! 650 pages! I wasted my whole lunch break to read the last 50 today and it was so disappointing. Here is a summary of why it was a total waste of my time, as told in snotty narration as I imagine the author must have conceptualized it:

"I'm going to tell most of the story through letters so that 70% of the book's paragraphs will start with quotation marks! Then I'm going to wait until the last 50 pages to neatly tie up all the loose ends, except for the last 5 pages in which I will pretend like there is the possibility of a sequel even though all the characters are dead, totally squared away or both."

Why did I finish it, you might ask? Yes, why indeed. There are several reasons.

1) I hate to leave a book unfinished. Especially when they're a really easy read. Or I'm trapped on a plane and my only other option is Daredevil. ::shudder::

2) There was only one thing I couldn't figure out. One stupid, stupid plot point that seemed too poorly thought out to go unexplained. It takes too many sentences to explain the actual plot point, but suffice it to say it was along the lines of writing a book about the Greatest Chef's In All Of History and they all happen to be from the same town in the same state and they were all born within 50 years of one another and all end up working in the same restaurant together. That is so patently ridiculous, the author must have an explanation, right? Oh - she does - but that doesn't mean it's a good explanation, or that she'll spell it out before the last 50 pages.

3) At some point, you've looked at a train wreck long enough and you just have to stick around and see if anyone survived.

Anyway, there are only two reasons I would ever recommend this book: you're at the beach (where anything is worth reading because, hey, you're at the beach!) or you're stuck on a plane where your other option is talking to a sweaty old guy with a bad comb-over who keeps looking at your "goodies" or a really fabulous movie like Mrs Doubtfire or the aforementioned Daredevil.

Another Thought About Writing

Here are two things that very few people should ever attempt in novels: genius characters and descriptions of sex. Someone who is not a genius cannot write genius. I think that if I were a writer I might - might - be able to write a side character who was a genius by describing as exactly as possible the two geniuses I've known in my life. (What's that, Pete? Oh, sorry. Three. Three geniuses. Thanks, Pete.) I don't know that I could write that character as saying very much, but I could describe how s/he sat while watching TV or eating steak. But I would never - in a million years! - attempt to write, a) a first-person novel about a genius, or b) a novel where one of the main, speaking characters is a genius. This is one of my major criticisms of The Di Vinci Code: there wasn't a single "puzzle" in that book that was in the least bit difficult to solve. And yet the characters - one of whom is a genius cryptographer, the best in France!, and another of whom is a genius "symbologist" ::grumblegnashhiss&spit:: - were totally mystified! Here is the deal, Authors Of The World: if you are not a genius (and please, seek outside verification on this, and not from your mother), and you can figure out the solution to a puzzle you have created, then Q.E.D., it does not take a genius to figure it out. And it's insulting to your reader to imply as much!

And the sex thing... I cannot think of a single book in which I've read a really detailed sex scene and thought, "Man, now this is art!" But I can think of plenty of times when I've thought, "Man, now this is embarrassing!" Here are the books that spring immediately to mind where this phenomenon is concerned: Clan of the Cave Bear, Jean M. Auel (and any of the sequels, for that matter; I've heard Plans of Passage is essentially pornography, but I couldn't even make it through The Mammoth Hunters); and The Mists of Avalon, Marion Bradley (and any of the sequels or prequels). If you have read a truly beautifully written sex scene in a book, please suggest it! But if tongues swirl anatomy in moist detail or ladies that are just deep enough for their lovers' giant johnsons, I will seriously question your taste.

::sigh::

The book I'm currently reading (The Historian) violates both of these precepts (or "fiats," if you prefer). There are no puzzles, but the side characters make very prosaic observations about things historical and the main character frequently comments on how he is "astounded" by the "quickness" of someone's mind, the "breadth" of their "intellect," or their "genius." And while one reference to a sex scene is very tasteful - more like a movie montage of provocative images - the other is a pseudo-sex scene (in that sex doesn't actually result) and involves "adolescent fumbling" and an "ugly white brassier." I mean really! It just leads me to believe that the author has never actually had sex and has never seen a movie with a rating higher than PG-13. And that makes it embarrassing, the way fan fiction is embarrassing. It's like a window into how she wishes her 16-year old life had been, or how her first time with her True Love had been/would be. And I don't need that window, because it's not an autobiography; it's a work of fiction with sci-fi/fantasy overtones that seriously stretches the limits of my suspension of disbelief.

Anyway, The Historian is like 600 pages long, I'm on page 444 and I've just been tearing through it (because the story is more interesting than the writing is bad/embarrassing, even if it's a stretch) so I've been thinking about this a lot. I have a high tolerance for crap: I read all but one of the Ender's Game sequels. (If that offends you, I... wait, no. I don't apologize. If that offends you, you enjoy bad novels. Sorry, but I'm pretty sure this is empirical truth. Okay, okay... Ender's Shadow wasn't so bad. Geez!) And I read a ton of Star Wars novels and a lot of fantasy novels, and let's face it, many of the latter are soft core for geeky adolescent girls. "I am a witch who rides a unicorn - don't fondle my heaving boozums, Mister Night Elf! Oh, your tumescent manhood - I mean elfhood - is too much for me! Make me a woman, sexy mythical creature! Take me now, before my unicorn gores you!"

English Slang and American Weirdness

I've been reading "Scary Go Round" from the beginning, and I've learned some new British slang. Well, new to me anyway.

• Skellington: variant of "skeleton." Pete pointed out it's also in the Cream song about the baby going down the drain. That song is awesome!
  
• Trumps: farts.
• Tupping: frickin'
• Smalls: undergarments

"Skellington" is by far my favorite. Normally it's Americans adding extra sounds and syllables into English words ("burglarize" instead of "burgle," "Acclimatize" instead of "Acclimate", "Orientate" instead of "Orient"... there are other examples here and here - although it seems that some of the examples at those links are of British legthenings).

I've also been reading this great book about word origins that has some really wonderful, oft forgotten American words.

• Hornswoggle: origin unknown. But it belongs to a group of "fancified" words invented in the American West to poke fun at the sophisticated. Why can't our anti-intellectuals invent words these days instead of "Blue Collar Comedy"? The next three are also examples of this.
  
• Absquatulate: "to depart in a hurry." Faux-Latin affixes: ab- "away from;" -ate "to act upon in a specified manner." All around the made-up root -squatul-. Literally meaning: to squat away from. Hilarious!
  
• Busticate: "to break into pieces."
  
• Argufy: "to argue."
• Buckaroo: from the Spanish "vaquero," or "cowboy." Interestingly, we got the word "cowboy" from translating "vaquero," and "buckaroo" from mispronouncing it!
• Hosey: dibs. (Bostonian) Maybe from "call holdsies," maybe from the French "choisir," "to choose." But "I hosey shotgun!" is pretty neato.
  

There are others from that book, but I can't remember them. Also a neat word:

• Grampus: kind of big fish in cold water. Also, an orc.

In fact, looking up "orc" to see if Pete could use it in Boggle is how we found the word Grampus.

::snicker:: grampus...

Things in books that are lame

Hey, I remembered (all on my own!) what I wanted to blog about last night: Things That Bad Authors ::couDANBROWNgh:: Do That Both Drive Me Nuts And DEFINITIVELY PROVE That He Or She Is A Bad Author. See, this is why this wasn't the title of this post; I was feeling very strident about it last night. So I invite you, the reader!, to comment and add to the list the things that frost your cookies when it comes to bad writing. But here is my list (so far), and please to note the asterisks indicating the "stylistic manoeuvres" employed in "The DaVinci Code." (God I hated that book.)

• *People don't speak, say or tell nearly as often as they "grin." ::aaaARRGgggh::
  
• *Eyes are always twinkling.
• *Everyone speaks English.
  
• INTENSIFIER: *****!There is a stupid, contrived reason as to why non-English speaking characters are speaking English.
• [This one is actually Pete's, but I whole-heartedly agree.] Non-native English speakers say everything in English, except for "yes" and "no" which they say in their native tongue. Da, darlink.
• Oblique cultural references meant to let you know how smart the author is. (Dan Brown probably did this too, but I was so incensed by all the eye-twinkling and grinning with French accents that I didn't notice at the time.) For example, in a book that talks about Dracula, it isn't enough to point out that the movie version might not be an accurate historical representation of Vlad The Impaler, it has to be the Bela Lugosi version. Specifically.
• Settings that come with a full, contextual set of obligatory actions (like restaurants: waiting, ordering, sitting, eating, drinking, waiting, paying, tipping, leaving) that are completely ignored. For example: characters arrive at a restaurant and are somehow seated without ever seeing a waiter, and their food arrives without ever ordering, all the while they're having an uninterrupted conversation, and then they pause to eat a single bite of food, a couple more lines of dialog, and suddenly they're helping each other put their coats on and leaving. If your characters converse throughout a meal, and you record all of the conversation for the reader, then it better actually be a meal's worth of talkin'. Please to note: J. K. Rowling does not make this mistake. When her characters leave a meal midway through, they're hungry later. If they fight, but finish their food, she lets you know that they finished their meal in awkward silence.
  
• Over-the-top oddballness as a proxy for intelligence or a good up-bringing. Characters who proclaim that they never went out as teenagers because they grew up in the Orient with their diplomat/archaeologist/ninja parents, but they were never interested in that sort of thing anyway. Because the children of bankers and postal workers are always dull and uninteresting.
  

Okay, your turn!

Yes, I suck at blogging

I know, I know, I should post more often. Or ever. Baby steps, Sydney. But I have gotten super busy at work and super lazy at home. I have so many things I've been meaning to blog about... Off the top of my head, all I can come up with is:
READ "THE BLIND SIDE" BY MICHAEL LEWIS! OR PERISH!
But that's less because I so intensely want to blog about how AWESOME that book is and more because that book is so intensely AWESOME I keep bringing it up, even in totally inappropriate contexts. "You know Gramma, your desire to hold onto all of your old crap is just like Bill Parcell's desire to hold onto his stupid belief that the real key to football is all in the brawn and not in the strategy." Gramma says, "I hope Atlanta doesn't beat up on my Braves too badly... I hate Atlanta..." Yes, it's a football book. And yes, I loved it, so other non-sports people, you have to read it too. OR PERISH!
Also, Pete is worse than useless when it comes to remembering things that I wanted to blog about. It's almost like he's not actually in my head at all. This is good to know, as we are planning to get married this summer. I'm pretty sure that shouldn't be in my vows, though: "To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, whether you remember what I want to blog about or not..."
So that is why I have not posted anything. I've been working. And lazy. And did I mention being lazy? Because that's really the crux of the problem. Perhaps when Pete and I get our own place, and I have a desk again, I will be better about posting. Because then the lazy won't be amplified by the inferno-like heat of my computer melting my lap.