Really Lent, Sometimes You Get On My Nerves

Well, I have not been posting. Because a few days ago I injured my foot and have since been hobbling along on crutches. In these circumstances, the distance between my couch and the computer became a vast expanse of pain and misery, therefore I elected not to cross it.

Yesterday evening, I sat with feet up and socks off, observing my injured extremity change colors. (Red, Blue, Purple, Red. ) Why has this happened to me? The narrow mind would merely attribute it to a poor footwear choice combined with strenuous yard work.

Really and truly, I think the cause is It Is Lent. I remember in previous, braver (or stupider) days, asking God to force me to sacrifice, since I was incapable of choosing sacrifice for myself. Silly, silly girl.

Anyway, now I am more or less stuck. Although I've been told I have quite a mouth on me, I am not yet impertinent enough to utter the prayer of "Pardon, Sir, might I have that other one back?"

In other, rather more alarming news ... I now hear the old familiar drip drip of internal bleeding. There are no other symptoms at this point. The question remains as to whether this is the extent of the thing, or really only the beginning.

I am praying that it will be nothing this time, or if it is something, that it will be brief. Anyone who is reading, please do pray likewise.

Why Use Email When There Is Cake

My brother turns 18 this week. Time for me to bake a cake.

Some people say it with flowers; but cakes taste better than flowers. Also, some people are allergic to flowers, but I've never seen anyone sneeze at a cake.

Cakes can say anything, really. I've seen a happy appendectomy cake, a happy divorce cake and a happy "You Failed The Bar" cake. This fellow, called Neil, gave his two weeks notice via Cake of Resignation.

"The letter was written in frosting on a full sheet size cake," he explains. It was "delicious" and "well received." The contents (of the letter, not the cake,) were as follows:

Dear Mr. Bowers,

During the past three years, my tenure at the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard has been nothing short of pure excitement, joy and whim.

However, I have decided to spend more time with my family and attend to health issues that have recently arisen. I am proud to have been part of such an outstanding team and I wish this organization only the finest in future endeavors.

Please accept this cake as notification that I am leaving my position with NWT on March 27.

Sincerely,

W. Neil Berrett

My brother likes butter cream frosting. It is hard to write witty things in butter cream, although I am considering arranging chocolate chips to say "Now You're A Man, Take Out the Trash" or something like that.

Fertility is Not A Disease

Why do doctor's prescribe medication? Usually, it's to treat or prevent an illness.

Which explains the Pill perfectly. Women have it pounded into them that the capacity to conceive is a frailty. So they go to a physician to be "fixed." Pop these pills and they are healed, perfected. The Pill allows women to be more like that creature who is naturally free of the threat of conception ... men.

Ever notice how modern feminism is all about making women more like men? As if "maleness" is the ideal to which women should aspire? This is empowerment? This is liberation?

We are the architects of our own oppression.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Now for the ritual shaming of non-Irish ... or rather, people who forgot to wear green. One year during my long sojourn in the high school wilderness, I discovered that my closet was a totally green-free environment. Dread of certain pinching filled my heart.

My mother, too, had visions of the bus driver dragging my bloody, bruised, and super-pinched body up the driveway. Quickly, she whipped out a Crayola marker, and made a series of green circles on my face. "There," she triumphed. "you have leprechaun freckles!" That, or some kind of green-spotted disease.

It worked out, however. Half the people were amused by my creativity. Others were afraid of the contagion and did not dare get close enough to pinch.

Let us pray to St.Patrick that he foil the plans of pinchers everywhere!

Cleveland Does Not Rock

It's taken this long for my lousy pansy-faced immune system to shake off what turned out to be a series of Unfortunate Infections.

As I lay in my sickbed, I had much time for thinking. First, I bravely reaffirmed my intellectual opposition to euthanasia. I also considered Pascal's Wager and the tragedy of the commons.

I also thought about how much I dislike the greater Cleveland area. It's cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and more frequently overcast here than in Seattle. There are a lot of cities with depressing weather ... but Cleveland is depressed. Sports, economics, politics ... I can imagine Cleveland's ghost walking around with a giant "L" embossed on its forehead.

Apparently some people agree with me, because Cleveland ranks 5th on the Unhappiest Cities List.

On the other hand, there are parts of Cleveland to be glad about. Like the Cleveland Clinic. Lake View Cemetery. Blossom Music Center.

Happiness is a choice, and at the center of that choice is gratitude.

But I still like DC best

I have a cold

Thus, I have not posted. Everyone count themselves lucky, because I am not charming or witty in my infected state.

Hopefully it will be over soon. 3 days coming 3 days here and 3 days going, right?

Play A Sad, Sad Song

... on the world's smallest violin. Have no musical talent? No worries! All you need is a thumb and two fingers. There is an online tiny violin to provide the sound effects!

"Rub your fingers together after you press play," read the directions. "Put on your most upset face and stare into the eyes of the person [with] whom you are 'sympathizing.'"