Life flies when you're having fun.

I have a confession to make.

Deep breath.

Better just come out and say it.

I... am a magnetic poetry addict.

There, it's out. I have almost every set of Magnetic Poetry available. Rock'n'Roll Magnetic Poetry, Shakespearean Magnetic Poetry, Romantic Magnetic Poetry. I could go on and on, and you would understand why our fridge eventually ran out of space and I just took it all down. Before that melancholy day, I could spend hours sitting on the floor of the kitchen (blocking access to the fridge), physically playing with words. The magnets were organized by part of speech and alphabetized several times. That's how we homeschoolers roll.

I found these two refrigerator compositions on a piece of paper being used as a bookmark (original lack of punctuation preserved):

vouchsafe melancholy friend
the question is naught

and

haste you who would
wish every drunkard
a steed
bestow nothing o fool
lest of thy mercy they only jest

We also had a set of "Fractured Proverb" magnetic poetry, which allowed us to rearrange common cliches and figures of speech. These were captured for posterity when the magnets were taken down:

The best things in life have big ears.
Virtue is only skin deep.
Ennui is its own reward.
Behind every good man is a bowl of cherries.
A fool and his money shall inherit the earth.
Children find work for idle hands to do.
Beauty makes the heart grow fonder.
Life is a man's best friend.
Every good boy makes waste.
All work and no play doesn't pay.
Crime helps those who help themselves.

Humbug.

Call me a curmudgeon, but I do not appreciate that every single stinkin' pop station in Fort Wayne has changed over to an all-Christmas, all-the-time format. It's not even December yet and I am already more than tired of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" and "Silver Bells". At work today I had to make several long phone calls (trying to track down a felonious doctor... but that's another story), which necessarily included being left on hold to enjoy a fine selection of Christmas muzak. "Silver Bells" as rendered by synth and sax.

On the positive side, hearing "Silver Bells" made me think of my brother, who does a hilarious sloshed Dean Martin impression (or is that redundant?) And that made me laugh out loud.

Having complained, I must admit that I will be enjoying some laid back Christmas shopping on Friday, soaking up the festive atmosphere and possibly, maybe singing along with some carols.

I've been suffering from a serious case of writer's block lately. Every time I consider blogging, my mind is quickly swept clean of all creative thought and all I am left with is an inner monologue that looks something like this: "What did I think I was going to write about? Did I really think at all? I wonder what's for dinner...."

In lieu of actually writing something, I thought I'd share some of the amusing things I found in an old notebook last time I cleaned out my closet.

Written pieces of scratch-paper:
"You're one of those disasters that only cockroaches survive. Love, Patrick."

"Marie Antoinette was married to Henry VIII, wasn't she?" (not going to attribute this one, because the culprit KNOWS BETTER NOW)

Girl One: It's that thing... You know, the yoga of cleaning.
Girl Two: Huh?
Girl One: Where you arrange furniture.
Girl Two: Feng shui?
Girl One: Yeah, that.
Girl Two: You make me nervous.

"It's all about cookies. Baptism has nothing to do with it." (Wouldn't some context be useful here? Too bad I can't remember.)

And my personal favorite, from a note passed to Rachael during sociology class:
"Career advice? Yeah. He told me to marry a Lutheran."

Lunch Break

On a slightly more uplifting note, Target is carrying Tim-Tams again! Oh frabjous day! I can once more indulge my slightly pretentious and well-traveled sweet-tooth without the trouble of international shipping costs. (Or the plane ticket necessary if I wanted to go biscuit-shopping in Sydney.)

Now I just need to find a bakery that sells Lamingtons and my joy will be complete.

Argh.

What? No really. WHAT?

The guy espouses extremist views. He tries to convert his patients. His coworkers are concerned that, if sent overseas, he'll leak information to the enemy or commit fratricide.

And the first conclusion his coworkers and superiors reach is that he might possibly be mentally unstable and unfit to serve. Unfit to serve? To borrow a phrase from my uncle, no ****, Sherlock.

What really frightens me about this article is the underlying supposition that Islamic extremism is a mental disorder that needs to be treated gently. That argument could have disturbing implications. If it is mental illness that causes individuals to blow up buses on crowded streets or shoot their way through a room full of people, it could be argued that terrorists need to be treated instead of punished.

On second thought, I agree. There is an illness in play here and, although I'm not a doctor, I think I can diagnose it. It's called EVIL.

My mother met me outside the building after work this evening. We skittered on over to J.K. O'Donnell's --skittered because my mother did not think to wear her coat and the air was getting nippy as the sun set. Our plan was to do dinner before a 6:30 presentation and book-signing at the library. OF COURSE, beer was expected to be part of dinner. It's a pub (albeit a really nice one). Pub = beer.

Our waiter was so obliging as to choose our drinks for us from their vast menu of fancy-pants imported beers. It's a good thing he did, because I could have spent the entire evening trying to figure out what I wanted. For my mother, he picked Dragon's Milk, to go with her fish'n'chips. When told that I don't care for overly hoppy beers, he chose Belhaven Wee Heavy. It was seriously delicious. And strong. And it went really well with shepherd's pie.

Lunch break

It had been a while since I wore my long suede skirt, and I wasn't sure why. It's fabulous, yet it was at the back of the office closet with my prom dress and salwar kameez.

I took it out and wore it today, and now I remember why it was put away.

This skirt is the loudest piece of clothing I have ever worn. Not loud as in used-car lot salesman's plaid jacket, but loud like a jet engine. Loud like a stadium full of soccer hooligans. The lining of the skirt is the sort of super-slick polyester that makes swishing and screaming noises when it rubs against itself... which means, every time I move. I've been walking around our very quiet office all day sounding like I'm wearing a cheap track suit. Swish-swish swish-swish.

The rustle of silk is nice. So is the soft, crisp swish of a cotton skirt. Polyester just sounds embarrassing.

It's Wednesday, and I have this theory

I think that just as the length of the day, as measured by light, changes over the course of the year, the length of the day, as measured in hours, changes over the course of the week. Just as there is the most daylight at midsummer, Wednesday is definitely the longest day of the week. The hours seem to slow down and stretch out interminably. And, just as the midwinter days are the shortest, the 24 hours from noon Saturday to noon Sunday go SO much more quickly than any other time of the week. These were the thoughts going through my head this Wednesday morning, as I faced the length of the day.

I had one of those mornings.

Nothing looked good enough to eat for breakfast. My white blouse, which I had ironed the night before, was wrinkly again. When I put my shirt on, I found that it had been shrunk in its last trip through the laundry. My hair would not cooperate. I packed a healthy and tasty lunch, which was left on the kitchen counter when I ran out the door. Clearly EVERYTHING was out of whack and the day would be better spent in bed or curled up under a blanket reading something witty.

Things improved a little as I drove to work (except for the fact that I was driving to work and not sleeping or reading my Jeeves biography). It was a beautiful morning and traffic cooperated fairly well. I stopped at the downtown Starbucks for some fake (read: decaf) espresso and a cheese danish. The coffee was hot and the warm cup was exactly what my very cold fingers needed. The danish was--well--a danish, and therefore delicious.

Forgetting my lunch turned out to not be such a disaster. It meant that I had to leave the office and get some sunshine and fresh air in the middle of the day. That little bit of outdoor time woke my brain up and enabled me to face 4 1/2 more hours of work more cheerfully. My lunch from Loaf'n'Ladle came with a gigantic chocolate chip-pecan cookie, which also made everything a little brighter. I only ate a few bites of it (the gooey-oozy-melty chocolate chips represented a clear and present danger to my blouse) and stuck the rest of it back in my purse. . . . Come to think of it, that cookie is waiting for me as I type this.

Mmmm. Chocolate. Maybe Wednesdays aren't so bad after all.

A new career?

Last night, I dreamed I was filming a martial arts movie with Jackie Chan. The main action sequence involved throwing rolls of paper towels across the room--don't ask me why. I remember the director telling me that it didn't matter what moves I made as long as they 1) were unusual, 2) were funny, 3) allowed Mr. Chan to win the fight, and 4) showed off my muscles.

It was at that point that I realized I was dreaming. I don't really have discernible muscles.