centre of the universe - the dreaming

For instance, when oiling your hardwood floors, it is *much* better (and faster, actually) to just get down on your hands and knees and do it yourself by hand, rather than trying to use fancy "time and energy saving" products and machines. And mineral oil is still best. If you could change a woman's hair from grey to brilliant shining blonde with natural streaks just by rubbing some mineral oil in there, the cosmetics industry would go bust.

Speaking of which, I have another Public Service Announcement.

Women, most of you who wear cosmetics DO NOT NEED THEM. Don't waste your money. If there was ever  a bigger absolute swindle for non-essential products, I can't think of one. Well, maybe the sale of razors to the gentlemen. (NB - It is not only women who wear makeup, and too much makeup at that. Let's be fair.)

Let's face it; many of you learned how to wear makeup from television and magazines, where the only way you can tell a woman has a nose is because the nostrils themselves are visible. Barely. I know some of you watched daytime television programmes that focussed on how to match your...um...cheeks crap to your eye crap, and how to blend all of it with some ridiculously expensive brush or lotion or interpretive dance.

Eyes, my friends, should not look like the hat in Matisse's Woman With a Hat. If you *must* wear makeup (which, I reiterate, most of you do not need), it should look as though you are not wearing any. Check out Christy Turlington here, wearing NOTHING AT ALL. Her makeup (and I guarantee you, she's probably wearing more than you do) looks nekkit too. Now, you probably don't want to have to spend thousands of dollars to pay some flappy person to apply your makeup every day.  I know I have better things I'd like to spend thousands of dollars on (do you hear me, Johnny Depp!!??).

Want to know something else? Wearing makeup wrecks your skin. The more you wear it, the more you "need it" (which, again, is Bee Ess). I proved this to myself; I put some top-end, really-bloody-expensive cosmetics on one hand, and I put nothing on the other hand (technically, on the back of my hand). Yes, I moisturised both beforehand (heh). In less than an hour, my makeup hand was full of wrinkles and looked like the hand of someone twice my age. Bleah.

And, AND! Here's the most important bit: It's really sad that you're afraid to look your age. Eighteen-year-old girls look like eighteen-year-old girls because...wait for it... THEY ARE EIGHTEEN. Forty-year-old women look like forty-year-old women because they're FORTY! They're beautiful FORTY YEAR OLD WOMEN. Women who, at twenty, or thirty, or sixty (I'm looking at you, Cher. Oh! And you, Madonna!) try to look like they're 18 are lying to themselves, they're lying to you, and they're kind of making a mockery out of what it means to be a human. Not just a woman, but a human.

Look at the reason *why* you wear cosmetics. Are you trying to look older? Younger? Are you a performer? A circus freak? Think of all the money you could save if you just...stopped. You're already beautiful (that word, remember, means 'full of beauty'). Go ahead, when you're stepping out and you want to do that smoky thing with your eyeliner, that's cool. But a daily regimen? You're doing it wrong.

For two weeks in grade 9, and then again for three days in grade 10, I attempted to wear makeup. It did not end well. In fact, I think the pink frosted lip gloss from grade 9 was still in the dresser drawer last time I was at my mum's house (I threw it out). My mother always told me: "you're lucky; you don't NEED makeup."

And that confused me, because neither did she.
Neither does my aunt, who is one of the coolest, smartest, most beautiful women I know. But she will not...WILL NOT leave the house (not even to get the paper) without it. Never has.
Another woman I know won't even leave the bedroom without 'putting on her face'. Do you know how frightening that EXPRESSION is, never mind the practice? Think about it for a while. Putting on your face.


It gives me THE SHIVERS. The idea that somewhere, in some girls' dormitory somewhere, there is a special closet with row upon row of faces hanging on little hooks, and the girls all sleeping motionlessly, their beds lining a long, narrow room, the only light coming from tiny, dingy windows high up int he walls. And where there faces ought to be are pulsating, bloody landscapes, eyes darting this way and that, deep in REM sleep, but lidless, mouth muscles pulled back over teeth. The only sound a rhythmic breathing as the girls all exhale in unison, and a subtle drip, drip, dripping as blood drops on the floor beneath every girl's head.

That's why you shouldn't wear makeup.

Labels: advice, fugly, style

There's a post I made about spandex and tube tops that's in the February archives, but it doesn't appear on the main page.

Blogger, you have frustrated me for the (very possibly close to the) LAST TIME!

**UPDATE**

Right. THAT was incredibly stupid.
But.
You say, 'she broken', I say 'I fixy her'.

Ladies, let's sit and have a little chat, shall we?

Some of you need an intervention. Some of you needed an intervention when you were still under the age of ten. I'm sure some of you won't pay attention to this intervention, but really, trust me: it's for your own good, and for the good of the whole world.

Bodies come in many shapes and sizes. As long as you are *healthy*, it doesn't really matter what shape and/or size your body is. Some of us are flat-chested, some of us are well-endowed; some of us have great, sensuous round hips, and some of us are far more streamlined. Some of us have bingo flaps on the backs of our arms which can be deployed in a strong headwind to increase lift. The point is, if you don't look like "that" or like "this", it's no big deal. But there is something that *is* a big deal.

This thing is shape-appropriate attire.

I have said before that spandex is a privilege and not a right. This could be amended to 'spandex in public is a privilege and not a right'. I do not wear spandex, unless it is as reinforcing material in my bathing suit or brassiere. I *did* wear spandex, when I was sixteen. I wore spandex bicycling shorts because I used to do an awful lot of bicycling. I don't believe that I could fit those shorts on my bingo flaps now, if I still had the shorts, which I do not. BECAUSE I HAVE NOT BEEN SIXTEEN FOR TWENTY YEARS.

Tube tops.

Baby, tube tops are awfully cute on little girls. Some older girls and young women can get away with tube tops as well. When we develop our luscious curves we enter in a time in which extreme caution must be exercised. Tube tops are dangerous, dangerous things. Here are some guidelines for you:

1) If you do not pass the pencil test*, you probably should not wear anything without straps. Unless all you're doing is lying down, or reclining on a chaise whilst your cabana boy feeds you peeled grapes.

2) If the tube you are preparing to don is too small for your thigh, it is too small for your torso.

3) Tube tops look bloody stupid when worn over a tee-shirt. This applies to women and girls of all ages.

4) Flocked tube tops do not make you look slimmer. They. Just. Don't.

5) A tube top is *not* the same as a strapless gown. DO YOU HEAR ME, TEENAGERS!?? THAT IS A **SHIRT**, NOT A DRESS.

6) Never, ever wear a tube top to church. ESPECIALLY if you're the priest.

7) Tube tops are meant to be handled gently, with grace and a delicate touch. It is a Bad Idea to wear a tube top to participate in football, soccer, baseball, basketball, rugby, marathons, jump-rope, hopskotch, or curling. They are appropriate for swimming, beach volleyball, darts, and ice dance.

8) If you are over the age of 35, you might want to ask yourself, before donning a tube sock top: what am I trying to accomplish, here? Am I wearing the tube top, or is the tube top wearing me?

9) If you are over the age of 70, wear whatever the hell you please.

The next lesson will be: Fake Nails, or What Were You Thinking?

--
*The pencil test: this is how the school nurse/guidance councilor/phys ed teacher decides it's time for a brassiere - slip a pencil beneath your breast. Let go of the pencil. If it drops out relatively quickly, you don't need a lot of support. For reference, the pencil I slipped under my breast in grade six is still there. I have named it Millicent.

Labels: advice, Mr. Dressup, style

So then there was the 45 minute wait *just to check in*.

Wherein the hotel peoples did a bunch of stuff so idiotic it makes my eyeballs scratchy just thinking about. There was the 'I need a credit card number on file for any incidental charges' which was bloody ridiculous, and then the whole "I don't care WHAT the airline told you - you can't use those food vouchers for room service..." And me telling the hotel guy that since we have two children and it was eleven o'clock at night, and it would be a fine kettle of fish for us to sit in their restaurant with rangy, over-tired children...

When we got to the rooms, His Nibs called for room service (turns out we could order it, but had to pick it up, since room service apparently doesn't get charged to the room....or something...), and he was told that the kitchen was closed, but that we were welcome to go to the lounge. The server said something about her shift being over and only being there because there were, like, a bunch of, like, PEOPLE, whose, like, PLANE was late, or something, and she couldn't take an order because she was, like, done her shift...

"Yes," His Nibs said. It's a good thing he was doing the talking, because I would have actually telepathically caused the server's prefontal cortex to liquefy. "WE are some of those people."

"Oh, well, the lounge is open..." she said.

"Excellent. We'll bring our five year old and our ten year old to the bar for wings, shall we?" He said.

"Oh," she said.

A few minutes later, His Nibs went to pick up our food.

There were more little things that pissed me off, but I'd really rather not think about them too much. Because I'm not angry *now*, and I'll be sending our 'incidental expenses' to the airline for them to cover, since the hotel people were arse-danglers.

Labels: piss in your eye, vacation

Well, apparently the post-by-phone option I tried whilst stuck in the Phoenix airport for three and a half EXTRA hours yesterday (never mind the three hours early that one has to be because some kook likes C4 enemas) did not work.

It featured some photos of our incredibly patient children, postulating that perhaps the reason our airplane was delayed (mysteriously, I might add) by three and a half hours was because Spiderman and Superman (and possibly J'onn J'onzz) required it for some kind of anti-crime commandeering...thing...with Jedis and noodles? I'm a little fuzzy on the last bit there as I think I dozed off. At any rate, the airplane bit ended well because the Flash was able to bring the required parts to the airport to ensure the plane was A-OK.

Three and a half extra hours in the airport meant we missed our connecting flight home.

The airline kinda promised us the first flight in the morning (which was at 8:30am), and we thought that'd be fine, but then when it came time for the airline representatives to actually give us our boarding passes for the flight next morning, it turns out the next available flight was actually just after noon o'clock, which means that we'll miss The Captain's last hockey game of the season.

*insert Angry cenobyte here*

The airline kindly provided us a hotel for the evening and a veritable crapload of food vouchers to cover the costs of our meals, which was very nice of them.

So His Nibs and I, together with our Very Tired and Very Patient and Very Good-Natured children, collected  our luggage and made it through customs (WITH our cactus seeds, thank you, douanes) and we made our way to the Hotel Shuttle (so's we wouldn't have to pay for a taxi, the airline works with a hotel that provides a shuttle!). Of course, 90% of our flight is waiting for the shuttle, and although we are the only ones with two small children standing out in the cold, dark Calgarian night, they all are tired as well, and they pile into the van.

The driver looks at us and says, "You'll have to take the next one."
I say, "and when, exactly, *is* the next one?"
"Forty-five minutes," the driver says.
"What-y five minutes!?" I ask **insert Angrier cenobyte here**.
"There is only one shuttle," the driver says. "I will return in one half an hour or forty-five minutes."

We truck our children, their luggage, our carry-on, and my attitude BACK into the airport while I start thinking "I'm willing to bet the rooms the airline booked for us are going to be halfway across the hotel from each other" (the airline booked us two hotel rooms because our family has two different last names). So I call the hotel to make sure we have adjoining rooms, or a suite, or a king-sized bed or a cot or something.

"Well, ma'am," the hotel bitch says, "it's all based on availability, and so we can't promise you anything..."
"..." I said. I believe I was shaking by this point. It's 10:30 at night, we're supposed to be HOME by now, my children (thank God for their being patient and good) are ready for bed, and His Nibs is...well...probably getting frightened by this point.
"So we'll just have to wait and see when you get here what is available, m'kay?" the bitch says.
"No, miss, I'm sorry; that is not okay. I am *very* upset."
"Oh?"
"Yes. We've missed our connecting flight, and the airline has booked us two rooms at your hotel. They instructed us to take the shuttle, which we've just been informed means we will have to wait an ADDITIONAL forty-five minutes in a god-forsaken airport, and now you're telling me you cannot confirm for me that you have adjoining rooms or something that will accommodate two very patient children, one frustrated adult, and one very angry adult?"
"Well ma'am," the bitch said bitchily, "we only have one shuttle, and your airline booked the rooms, so you're just going to have to take what's available. M'kay?"
"No, that is not okay. I am now VERY angry."
"Well there's nothing I can do until you check in."

**cenobyte throws her phone across the floor and stomps off to punch something. Then cenobyte returns to her very patient family, retrieves the boarding passes and tries to find an airline representative to talk to. There are none. cenobyte phones the airline. The airline's customer service person is very patient and understanding and apologises and suggests cenobyte talk to a customer service rep the next morning. cenobyte feels a bit better.**

We then trudge BACK out to get the shuttle. No shuttle. His Nibs calls the hotel. It'll be ANOTHER forty-five minute wait.

cenobyte then says, "Fuck this. We're taking a fucking taxi, and we're going to fucking mail the fucking bill to the fucking airline and we're going to fucking ensure the fucking airline never fucking uses this fucking hotel chain ever the fuck again."

cenobyte's children stare wide-eyed.

cenobyte stomps off to the taxi line.

The woman with not enough to do shouts at cenobyte's family that we are not to take the *second* taxi in the lineup; we are to take the *first*. His Nibs stares at this woman (who is wearing an Official Vest, and who is across the street). "Are you yelling at *us*?" he asks.

She reiterates thus: "EXCUSE ME PEOPLE, YOU CANNOT TAKE THE VAN TAXI. YOU MUST TAKE THE FIRST TAXI IN THE LINE."

His Nibs shakes his head. The taxi driver looks embarassed. The children are excited to be taking a taxi. cenobyte shouts back: "WE HAVE NO INTENTION OF TAKING THE VAN TAXI. WE KNOW HOW TAXI LINES WORK. IT'S PRETTY BASIC. SETTLE DOWN, LADY."

His Nibs groans, figuring cenobyte is about to be arrested. cenobyte does not care.

**
Oh, this is NOT the end of the story. But I have to attempt to get my family on to the shuttle (assuming it's fucking here) to take us to the airport to take us home, more than 24 hours after we left paradise. If only I weren't too fat to ride a horse, none of this would be happening.

Labels: piss in your eye, vacation

Labels: Christmas, His Nibs, More Chins Than A Chinese Phone Book, Pictures

Yankees talk about two things:
1) Restaurants
2) Food

Check that.
*Retired* Yankees talk about either Restaurants or Food.

Every single person I've eavesdropped on (and there have been many, many, ma-hany opportunities for me to eavesdrop - at the gym in the morning, at the pool in the morning, um....in the yard...er...on the teevee....) has asked or commented : "You know where's a good place to eat around here..."

Also: Yours Truly simply CANNOT use women's gofing clubs. CANNOT. It does not work. cenobyte must use mens' clubs. Else the ball doesn't do stuff right.

For now, that is all. Hopefully, some photos of Yours Truly picking her breakfast.*

--
*not snot. I promise.

Labels: Yankees

Nobody at the RENAISSANCE FAIRE told me I'm too fat to ride a horse.

In fact, on the PIRATE SHIP RIDE, my VAST AMOUNT OF GIRL POWER (and upper body strength) made our pirate ship go WAY HIGHER than the guy next to us's pirate ship. I kept looking over at the dad in the next ship over, and saying: "DUDE! YOU'RE GETTING BEATEN BY A **GIRL**!!!", and his son, who was Lord High Dink of Dinkus Mountain while in lineup, was saying, "DAD! GO FASTER!!!".

AND I had TWO kids in *my* pirate ship.

So.

Take my girl power and shove your trail rides in your arse-bung, you bow-legged cowboy wannabe;
I bet you have to pay people to say nice things to you.

GRRRRRRRRRL POWERZ!

Labels: ample chest, bodies, vacation

You don't want to read about our travelling and vacationing. I know this 'for a fact' (as The Nipper would say). So I'm only going to tell you about the things that ...stick out...

Today we went to a gold mine/ghost town/tourist cash sink. They had train rides and carriage rides and a main-street shootout and trail rides. While the Family was off scouting how much train rides were and when they left and how long they were, Yours Truly went and scouted the trail rides. Half an hour for twenty-five bucks; I thought that'd be awesome!

My best friend and I used to go trail riding at least once a week in the summers when we were younger. My aunt owns a ranch, which I used to work on, and I've even been on a few cattle drives. I know how to ride a horse. In fact, I know how to saddle and outfit a horse, how to care for the horse, and how much it costs to *own* a horse. I also know the differences between many horse breeds and how to tell them apart at fifty paces.

So I went up to the guy and asked when the trail rides left and whether I could book one.

He said, "well, there's a height-to-weight ratio. It goes strictly on weight."

I said, "Okay, when do they leave?"

He looked down the end of his nose at me and said, "You ever rode a horse before?"

I said, "Yep! I've ridden lots!"

He leaned back against the post and said, "Like I said. There's a height-to-weight ratio."

I said, "Yeah?"

He said, "I don't think I could get you up on that horse, you bein' as short as you are."

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

I returned to the Family and informed them that I am now, officially, Too Fat To Ride Horses.

At least I saved $25.

Labels: piss in your eye

"Myself" is a bit like a dildo.


WHOA, CENOBYTE!!! THAT'S TOTALLY TMI!!!


No, seriously. Stay with me here. I'm'a get back to that.

As I pointed out to Viper Pilot in one of the comments down there, formal English (Smarty Pants, we'll save the 'but that's how people talk' discussion for later, because you know my opinion on doing things a) simply because everyone else is doing them, and b) incorrectly) teaches us that saying "my friend and I" is incorrect.

Your grade two teacher probably told you that it is more proper to say "My friend and I" because it's a) more polite to list your friend first, and b) proper English. Well, Mrs. Gonadcrusher was, as our friend would say, mistooken. ((*\ /*)) (those are not boobs. Those are the Sarcasm Hand and the Humour Hand being deployed simultaneously)

Here's the deal.
Pronouns have what are called cases*. Special states of being dependent on what they are doing in a sentence. Kind of like freedom, incarceration, and parole, except nothing at all like that.

Whoa. Let's back up a bit, shall we? You remember what pronouns are, right? Okay, good. But just in case you're just SAYING you remember what a pronoun is so that I won't mock you, I'll just remind you: a pronoun is a word or phrase which replaces a noun or noun phrase (noun: person, place, or thing, for ease of reference).

Now. Pronouns have cases. I'm not going to list all the cases here, because you'll go crosseyed and stop reading, if you haven't already. But seriously; if you learn this stuff, you'll be, like, the smartest person on your block! Maybe even in your whole NEIGHBOURHOOD!

There is the nominative or subjective case. It is the **subject** of a sentence (the thing what the sentence is really about...not the same as the **topic** of the sentence, btw).
There is the objective case, which is the **object** of a setence (the thing what stuff is being done to).
There is the reflexive case, which is much easier to demonstrate than it is to explain (so that's what I'll do).

There are three cases for the first person pronoun (the one you use when you're referring to yourself).
"I" is subjective
"Me" is objective
"Myself" is reflexive

Observe:
I love the smell of napalm in the morning. -> "I" is the subject of the sentence; that which is taking the action, in this case. (incidentally, 'love' is the predicate, or verb; 'the smell of napalm' is the object; and 'in the morning' is a prepositional phrase).

Charlie is shooting at me. -> "Me" is the object of the sentence; that which is being acted upon, affected...the *what* of the sentence.

I shot myself in the foot. -> "Myself" is reflexive. That is to say, it is a pronoun which refers to an antecedant, or pronoun/noun/subject appearing earlier in the sentence.

The following is not now, never has been, and never shall be correct:
"Please respond to myself at your earliest convenience."
"Vincent or myself can help you select a palette"
"This was broken by myself"
"Myself loves cake."

(arguably, 'by myself' is a prepositional phrase which ostensibly means 'on my own' or 'alone'; that is not the way in which it is intended to be used in this example.)

Why is this not correct, cenobyte!? you ask. And you would be correct in asking this. Because PEOPLE ARE WRONG. They are attempting to use the reflexive case as the objective case (most often) or the subjective case (less frequently). They THINK that what they're saying makes them sound smart, but the opposite is true. Someone uses the reflexive first person pronoun incorrectly, and I think: "that person is a dink. Clearly, they think they're impressing me. They are wrong." There's a reason it sounds wonky.

Would you like to take a stab at what would be the *correct* and less mentally-developmentally-delayed way of saying the above sentences?
 
Back to the first sentence of this post. "Myself", as a reflexive, only operates as an aid to the original subject. I guess it doesn't HAVE to be a dildo. It could be a midget. Or possibly some kind of poorly-paid foreign exchange student who constantly pays attention only to you simply because you've convinced him/her that it's the way things are done in Canada...I just like making the comparison to a dildo because if you think of "modifying" as "pleasuring", reflexives, single handedly (heh), pleasure the first thing they come across (heh). Yes, I got through a good portion of my linguistics morphology classes by likening 'modifying' to 'pleasuring'.

--
*Other parts of speech have cases or tenses too; right now, we're only dealing with pronouns.

Labels: darkness, education, grammar, just wrong

Because TUO brought it up:

Lay or Lie?
Lay means "to place something down." It is something you do to something else. It is a transitive verb.

Incorrect: Lie the book on the table. Correct: Lay the book on the table.
(It is being done to something else.)

Lie means "to recline" or "be placed." It does not act on anything or anyone else. It is an intransitive verb.

Incorrect: Lay down on the couch. Correct: Lie down on the couch.
(It is not being done to anything else.)

The reason lay and lie are confusing is their past tenses.
The past tense of lay is laid.
The past tense of lie is lay.

Incorrect: I lay it down here yesterday. Correct: I laid it down here yesterday.
(It is being done to something else.)
Incorrect: Last night I laid awake in bed.
Correct: Last night I lay awake in bed.
(It is not being done to anything else.)

The past participle of lie is lain. The past participle of lay is like the past tense, laid.

Examples: I could have lain in bed all day. They have laid an average of 500 feet of sewer line a day.

Layed is a misspelling and does not exist. Use laid.

From the English Plus website, which is a *really good* place to find information about spelling, grammar, usage, and even punctuation. I get their newsletter regularly. Because I am a nerd. Grammar nerd at your service!

Labels: grammar

Karl Marx is the author of a very famous quote. More the the point, many people know a small portion of the quote. The part you'll remember is: "Religion is the opium of the people". Some folks use this as an argument against organised religion, when what Marx was trying to say with that teeny tiny passage from a much, much larger idea has more to do with economic and political stresses. Marx was no great lover of religion, but had Marx really wanted to come down on religion, he was more than capable of doing so with something much stronger than this gentle comparison.

'Gentle'?

Yes. Opium has a distinct purpose. When someone who is in pain has been administered opium in any of its derivatives, their pain is eased. This is the simile Marx evoked. Certainly, he also went on to say many things about religion being, like opium, a somewhat topical solution. Administering opium to a patient in pain doesn't cure the underlying condition; it merely treats discomfort in the short-term. So too does religion, he argues, soothe those living with economic and political discomfort, but it does not solve the underlying economic and political issues which brought the people to that point.

There's no denying that Marx had very strong opinions on religion and atheism, but I don't think this one portion of a quotation is "proof" that he was an atheist, nor do I think this particular quote ought to be used by atheists, ever, to bolster or support their position. 

Um. Okay, I didn't mean to make a post about Marx. Because extending the simile, someone claimed that if Marx were alive today, he would say that television is the opiate of the masses. I think that's giving rather a lot of credit to the boob tube, particularly since every culture in the world has a form of religion or religious/spiritual worship, but not every culture in the world has television. I mean, okay, taken in the context in which it was meant, it's pithy; I'll give you that.

Marx, however, thought "bigger" than that. Television is an easy target, and I don't think he would have cast his net in such shallow water. My guess is that Marx would have said that *marketing* or spin is the opium of the masses, were he alive today. Consumerism is the opium of the people now. Buy, buy, buy, and you will be happy. You will forget your problems if you get the new dust mop, the latest car, or the new paint for your kitchen. You can SPEND YOUR WAY OUT OF DEBT.

I wish Marx WERE still alive. He would have some fairly strong words for current administration, I think.

ANYWAY. None of that is the reason I'm posting today. Of course, now I can't *remember* why I'm posting today...OH YEAH.

SPEAKING OF BEING A DRUGGED-OUT JUNKIE (we were talking about opium, right? M'kay. Just making sure you're still with me here), please review the following:
You can download this fine poster from http://iampaddy.com/spell/. I encourage you to do so.

This handy guide will lead you to be a more efficient communicator. A stronger speller. A better person. Chicks dig proper spelling. DUDES dig proper spelling. Seriously, if you want to get laid, start using words properly. In particular, I want to shout rather loudly about the "your/you're" conundrum. And what a conundrum it is!

It seems a good 60% of people who claim they can read and write actually can't!

Look. I want you to refresh yourself on contraptions. I mean, contractions. You know, when a little word like "are" has the leading 'a' slashed with a spelling machete. That little machete hangs above where the 'a' USED to be, showing the place where a machete tore out an 'a'. That's so that you know that when you come back to survey the damage, you remember there's actually a poor letter missing.

So: 'You are' is walking down a lovely street on a spring evening, and all of a sudden, the nefarious contraction stabber LEAPS OUT OF A SHRUBBERY and wields his or her heavy machete, cutting the 'a' out in its prime. **WE ALL MOURN THE 'A'**. 'You are' has now become 'You're' (see that machete hanging there, as if nothing happened!), and it's trying to get on with its life, without its beloved 'a'. It's sad, really. But that's the way it happens.

BEHOLD THE CONTRACTION. Learn it, love it, remember it.

One that isn't on this list but ought to be is "Loose/Lose".

Two 'o's went walking. They were in love; they were moony-eyed over one another. They held hands on the wharf. But a gust of wind came up off the water and knocked one 'o' off its feet. Being as their hands were wet, their grip was LOOSE and one of the 'o's slid, shloop, into the deep. Had poor 'o' been wearing gloves, its hand would not have come LOOSE.

LOOSE is an adjective. It tells you about the state of something (the doorknob is LOOSE).

LOSE is a verb. It does things. It DECLINES - Lose, lost, losing, etc.. It is the verb tense of "loss".

They don't even rhyme. LOOSE...you see how many 'o's there are there? See them staring at you? Ooooooo. Loooooooooos. Loooooooooooooooos!

Here's the reason they don't rhyme: In English (keep in mind that in English, there are rules that break other rules), when you have a vowel in the middle of a word, and an 'e' on the end of the word, the 'e' at the end of the word modifies the sound of the vowel in the middle. Remember the Electric Company's "Silent E" song?





Terminal 'e' turns "fat" into "fate", you see. It turns "Loss" into "Lose".

In the case of 'loose', the terminal 'e' makes the 'oo' in the middle there say 'oo' rather than 'uh'. Check it out:
Book - /b/uh/k/
Goose - /g/ oo /s/

Loss - /l/ ah /s/
Lose - /l/ oo /z/

(in advanced terms, the vowel sounds are also influenced by the presence of a specific kind of consonant after the double vowel, but let's not get into that right now).

So. If you have experienced a LOSS (poor 'o', drowning out in the briny deep), use "lose". If you have experienced WIGGLINESS, use 'loose'.

And let's just leave Karl Marx out of the equation for now.

Labels: Bad Mojo, grammar, rants, spelling

Our national anthem. "O Canada", in case you'd forgotten. It's supposed to be a MARCH. That means cut time (or, for the un-musically trained, one-half of common time, otherwise known as four-four time). NOBODY does it right. They're all, "Oh, Canada. It's a freakin' DIRGE, man. A DIRGE. It's like, a funeral song for all those dead British white guys."

Except for this one guy who just sang it. He's bald, but he got it right. It would have been a *very slow* march, but a march nonetheless. Maybe a march for a company of drunks. That sounds about right.

Second. Say this with me, will you? Feb-ROO-ary. February. Feb-ROO-ary. February. It's not "Feb-YOO-ary". I swear to God, every single person who says FebYOOary...I'm'a rip out your uvula. Jerkfaces.

For now, that is all.

1) It's a MARCH.
2) It's a Feb-ROO-ary.

Carry on.

Labels: rants

Because now that it's officially Saturday, last night is actually Friday night, and I really mean Thursday night.

Anyway, you know how I have really vivid dreams? And you know how I often remember my dreams? And you know how sometimes when I tell you about my dreams, you don't know if they're real stories or not?

Last night (and remember, I mean THURSDAY night) I dreamt, in vivid detail, about...okay, wait. I don't want to rush into this. You might not be ready for this. It's not about the way I feel about you; it's about commitment. If we rush it, we might wreck a good thing. And that's what we have now; a good thing.

Have I told you about The Sandwich yet? I haven't? Well, this is a good time to talk about The Sandwich. I, um, invented The Sandwich. It is the best Sandwich ever invented since the beginning of man. For all you evolutionists out there, that can be translated as: it is the best Sandwich ever invented since the beginning of mammals. This is how it happened (and i'm pretty sure this story itself will somehow be enshrined on a brass plaque above a holographic image of The Sandwich. You wouldn't want The Sandwich sitting on a plinth for decades on end, because it might get a little manky.

Anyhow, enough about manky plinths.

The Sandwich is made thus:
Tuna
Yoghurt or Sour Cream + a smidge of Mayonnaise
Red onion
Pickles
Curry
Two pieces of Rye or Pumpernickel bread (or one piece of Rye or Pumpernickel, folded in half)
Cream cheese (optional)

I'll leave it up to you how you put all those things together; that is the secret of The Sandwich.

I should warn you, though. The Sandwich has Powers. Your life could easily become consumed by thoughts of The Sandwich. When you are without The Sandwich, you may think of nothing but The Sandwich. It will take over your every waking moment.

...so on Thursday night, I dreamt *all night*, and in vivid detail about PAINTING MY NAILS. All. Gorram. Night.

Labels: dreams, The Sandwich

My father's had a number of offers on his land. Some of them, he says, have been made by folks with pretty deep pockets.

My father is in his early sixties. He's talked about retirement on and off for a couple of years.

Once, when I asked my mother why Da didn't just quit farming and come home to teach, she sighed and said, "because there's something about the land that won't let him go. And he *can't* let it go."

So it's a strange thing to be thinking about; this farm, this land that I resented and hated for years, this land that I later realise I love, that I can't get out of my own thoughts, this land might not be his anymore.

I harboured dreams of farming it for a while, but the reality is that I'm not going to manage two sections on my own. My boys would like to try it, or so they say now, but in 15 years, who knows?

My mind goes back, time and time again, to the romantic memories - the boys, driving on the same tractors I drove on with my Gramps, with my Da. Last year, I took The Captain down to the spot I used to spend the sweltering evenings, with the smell of clover and the rustling of barley heads all around. I knew he'd probably never have the same attachment to it that I do, and I certainly don't have the same attachment to it my father does, but I think I understand.

He has given everything to his farm; his youth, his family, his career, his pain, his lonliness and his fear.

I don't know what's going to happen. But I know it's breaking my heart.

This crappy picture is from Grande Moote III, a werewolf game played on my father's farm:

Labels: breaks my heart, Da, farm

You know what's screwed up? What's screwed up is when you decide that enough is enough, it's time to DO something with yourself, and you start working out every morning, and your body starts doing effed up things. That's screwy.

And by 'effed up things', I mean gaining a pound a day.

One may have discussed this very thing with Neo and with SWC, but none of what they have said is a) news, or b) reassuring. I KNOW muscle weighs more than fat. I KNOW your metabolism changes when you start doing regular activity. I KNOW you can retain water. But a fricken' pound a fricken' day? FOR TWO WEEKS?

SWC said something about something-something 'lose a whole bunch of weight all at once', something-something something (he kind of lost me in the beginning and end bits there, with his fancy talkin' and his multiple choice questions). So that better happen. Seriously. Because if I keep working out every morning and just getting bigger and bigger, I'm going to end up looking like this:

And nobody wants that.

Really.

After the tongue graft and the vein implants, you're just never the same person. And then I'd have to go and find a bunch of tapeworms to make a costume, and some kind of large bladder stone to make a necklace out of.

When I get to this point, you know, there's just no reason to keep going. Not even yoga can save you from the popping veins and the dried-out husk of skin. In the 'you are what you eat' spectrum, this is really the 'walnut shells' stage. Nobody wants to curl up with someone who could snap your thigh in the crook of her elbow.

Okay, *some* people might want that. I am not one of those people. Sure, there's the party trick of bouncing each of your pectoral muscles individually in time to the Village People, but that's only going to get you through two, maybe three art openings or book launches.

Labels: Bad Mojo, exercise