Watch this space

More actual writing next week, I promise.

In the meantime, enjoy this.

I wonder why it is

I don’t argue like this

With anyone but you

I wonder why it is

I won’t let my guard down

For anyone but you

We do it all the time

Blowing out my mind

Random, random redux

The most popular search term people use to find this blog is…Michelin Man.* 

It’s because I posted this adorable picture of the Michelin Man. 

Looking at that picture reminds me that I have to start exercising.  Last weekend I may have gotten up close and personal with some deep fried macaroni and cheese from Reggies.  I may have also gorged myself on expensive cheese from Leslieville West.  Those pecan fruit crisps are amazing.

On that note, I have started doing yoga again.**  It astonishes me that there are women out there (much younger than I) who cannot touch their toes.  Women with Lululemon.***  This does not compute.

I am off to the nation’s capital today. 

No, not to attend the funeral of John Baird’s cat.  For those of you who haven’t heard the story, the cat’s name was Thatcher.  When the news got out at a political function that the Transport Minister’s feline had departed for the giant litter box in the sky, the message was passed along (and eventually Twittered internationally) as “Thatcher dead”.

Yeah.  That went over well in Britain.  Especially with the family of the very not-dead Iron Lady.

RIP Thatcher.

RIP Moggy Thatcher.

 

 

 

*Little known fact:  Most people don’t know how to spell “Michelin”.  I know how this must shock you.

** Hannah, are you proud of me?  Or scared for me?  Or both?

*** Lululemon stores scare the crap out of me.  A clerk once bawled me out when I told him that I was planning on doing both yoga AND pilates on a mat that was clearly only designed for yoga.  I think I ruined his chi.  Or his aura.  Or whatever.

Open thread Tuesday

Dear Ten People Who Read This Blog (not counting my mother),

I feel guilty that I haven’t been able to write lately.  It’s been difficult, what with the whole double life, mild mannered lawyer by day, fabulous superheroine wearing spandex by night thing that I have to maintain.

Or maybe I’m just busy.

Leave a comment and tell me about that wonderful new book you’re reading, or why the U.S. health care bill(s)* will never pass, or just tell me how pretty I look.

Or, comment on this picture of our esteemed Prime Minister on his trip to India.

What is he looking at?

 

* Extra brownie points if you write me a 100 word essay about whether or not for-profit insurance companies can actually provide health “care”.

The ranks of the freaks who suspect they could never love anyone

One of the best parts of Paul Thomas Anderson’s rather self-indulgent Magnolia is Aimee Mann’s brilliant soundtrack.  Ten years out, it is still the record that I would never leave behind if I were running away from home.

 

An internal state of emergency

 

 

At about the 6:00 minute mark of this clip, Don says to Peggy:

“But something happened.  Something terrible.  The way that they saw themselves…is gone.  And nobody understands that.  But you do.  And that’s very valuable.”

The writing is brilliant, but it’s the delivery (and the tacit understanding present on Peggy’s face) that conveys the true meaning of those words.

Thoughts from a Saturday morning

I believe that we are all capable of change, and that it’s never too late for the second act to begin.

I believe that love should inspire us to be the absolute best version of ourselves.

I believe that lack of appreciation of red wine is a character flaw.

I believe that life is too short to choose unhappiness or to hesitate when joy is within our grasp.

I believe that those who abuse the privilege of freedom of speech should lose it.

I believe that cities are the ideal form of living environment and that the suburban landscape will ultimately lead to the social, psychological, environmental, economic and physical breakdown of North American society.

I believe in humanity over divinity, and that it is our moral obligation to care for each other, regardless of our individual traits or beliefs.

I believe that organized religion has lost touch with this moral obligation.

I believe that there is a special place in hell reserved for those who wilfully turn a blind eye to the suffering of others.

I believe there will never be another Freddie.

I believe that I am one of the luckiest women in the world.

_____________________________________________

Clearly, but not intentionally, inspired by something else.

With friends like these

I wrote to you the other day, just to see if you were still alive.

I didn’t get a response.

After everything I’ve been through in the past few years, I think your betrayal may have hurt me the most.

Yet, I still reach out to you.  Maybe it’s because I still can’t believe the words that you said.  I couldn’t wrap my brain around the cold, unreasonable, and completely unexpected nature of your response.  Your unkindness. 

I never would have suspected in a million years that you would have been the one to abandon me when I most needed your support.  It threw me into a state of shock, like an accident victim, lying by the side of the road, dazed.

Maybe I reach out because I hate to believe that I could have been so wrong about you.  I pride myself on being a good judge of character, and I thought that you were a true and honest friend.

But I was wrong.

I bear a raw, gaping wound where your friendship used to live in my heart, and it will never heal.  I may ignore it from time to time, but every so often I am reminded of it.  People ask me about you, and I find myself with no coherent response, with nothing to say.   I can’t articulate what I don’t understand.

The odd thing is that I should hate you.  But if you needed me, I would be there for you in an instant.  In a heartbeat.

In a broken heartbeat.

The Five Minute Post

What a week.

Random thoughts.

This blog was initially created as a showcase for my writing skills.

Why are you laughing?

Right now, the only writing I’m doing is in relation to HR 3933.*

Don’t click that link.  Unless, of course, you enjoy reading arcane bills relating to the U.S. tax code.

What was I just saying?

Oh yeah, writing.  I promise that I will write more interesting things in the future.  And by future, I mean December.  Possibly January.

This morning, while I was walking to work, I enjoyed the best five random iPod songs ever:

Bolero – Ravel

Across the Universe – The Beatles

No Myth – Michael Penn

Shame for You – Lily Allen

Sunday Morning – No Doubt

Yes, yes, I’ve posted this song before.  But this version features Arsenio Hall. Check out the hair and jacket.  Classic.

 

 

 

 

* Which, by the way, is unduly onerous and will place unreasonable reporting burdens on foreign financial institutions.  But hey, what the hell do I know?

The Price of Catching a Butterfly

After suffering from brain fever and forgetting all about my tickets, I finally saw Madama Butterfly.

For those of you unfamiliar with the story, it’s about a young Japanese woman who falls in love with an American, marries him, bears his child*, and then waits three years for him to return to Japan. 

Of course, he does return…with his new wife.  Oh, and he wants to take the child back to America, too.

Everyone in the show knows that Pinkerton will break Butterfly’s heart. 

Everyone, of course, except for her.

The singing of Cio Cio San was exquisitely heartbreaking, but the line that will stay with me from the show belongs to Pinkerton:

 

“I am seized by a wild desire to pursue her, even though I should crush her fragile wings in doing so.”

 

When we are children, we chase innocently after butterflies, blissfully unaware that we are likely doing permanent damage to the object of our desire.

When we are adults, we chase with our eyes wide open, yet wilfully blind to the repercussions of our actions.

The caught butterfly trembles almost as much as the hand that encloses around it.

If you hold onto it, it will die.

If you let it go, it will never fly again, not as it did before.

 

* As if the little guy who played the son (named Sorrow, of course) wasn’t adorable enough, he clearly had the hiccups during last night’s performance.   Watching his little shoulders go up and down while the adults sang on stage was hilarious.

Why not? Life is short.

I’m just a little busy at the moment, but leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this musical interlude.*

 

* Let’s not argue about whether it’s as good as the original, OK?