And they're calorie-free!

A lovely person was working in an adjoining department, filling in for one of the regular receptionists. She's very nice and good at her job and if she didn't look so dratted lovely a mere fifteen minutes after giving birth, I would like her a lot.

No, seriously. Her baby is practically fresh-squeezed and mama is already back into size -2 jeans. Gah. These people are lucky I let them live.

Anyway, after catching a glimpse of her, I had to have a quick word with her. She was chatting with another lovely person, Kristin of reception fame herself, and I approached. Ever courteous, these ladies allowed me to interrupt and I said to this young lady these respectful and caring words:

The only reason I haven't knocked you down and stolen those shoes is they
wouldn't fit me.

She understood.

What is it about shoes?
I have resisted their siren song for for far too long. So this is my plan.

For every ten pounds I lose, I get to buy a new pair of shoes. Okay, not these. That would be ridiculous. And I'd have to sell a kidney, fer chrissakes. But I get something pretty.

I can hear them, calling my name. Oh, yes. The sweet siren song of stiletto shoes.

Who really needs two kidneys?

Effects of the Inner Caveman

It always happens with young men. I get a young, healthy man in my drawing booth and stick a needle in his [usually gorgeous] vein and voila, he goes kerthunk on the floor.

Kerthunk. Technical term. Write it down.

I hate this. They're usually fairly heavy and difficult to pick up, since they're all limp and dead weight-y. And the paperwork is a pain in the tookus. Really, it's very inconvenient.

Yesterday, a delightful young man sat in my booth and made it through the whole blood draw. It wasn't until he had his choice of granola bar in his little paw that he said, "I'm feeling kind of weird." Sure enough, his skin tone had taken on the shade of dead fish belly and I suggested, in a calm and loving tone, that he rest his head on the counter and try a little breathing.

It's astonishing how many people stop breathing during a blood draw. Word to the wise? Breathing = good. Go ahead, write that down too.

After alerting some staff from the walk-in clinic, a couple of nurses arrived with a wheelchair and the ability to play straight man. This is something I always appreciate, as, at that moment, I have a seriously captive audience. I introduced the nice, albeit pale, young man to the nurses and informed them sadly that I didn't think he was going to marry me now. I'd have to cancel the hall. I'd already booked the band.

Muffled chuckle. It's hard to laugh when your head is resting on your arms.

Young man was relocated to a wheelchair and rolled down to the walk-in clinic and I bid him a fond farewell, hoping he was amused rather than embarrassed. It's not their fault when they pass out, you know. It's because of their Inner Caveman.

Inner Caveman has a very strong survival instinct and encourages young men to survive when under attack. Attack. Like when someone's about to draw blood from him. Them. You know what I mean. Anyway, it usually goes something like this:

IC: What's she doing?

YM: She going to draw a little blood.

IC: This is not a good idea. That thing is a weapon. We are under attack. Stop her. Punch her in the face.

YM: Are you kidding? My parents would kill me if I hit a woman.

IC: Pffft! Fine. Then run away. Run away now. Scream like a schoolgirl if you must, but run now! Now!!

YM: I'm not going to do that. Don't be ridiculous.

IC: You won't punch this needle-wielding hag?

YM: No.

IC: And you refuse to run away?

YM: That's right.

IC: Then...[ominous pause] I am out of here.


And....kerthunk.

My most recent kerthunkee was wheeled down to the walk-in clinic and observed closely while he recovered. Evidently, he assured the nurse taking care of him that he was fine and was okay to drive himself home. As a precaution, she walked him out of the building, taking the long way, to ensure the veracity of his statements. Conveniently, they passed by the lab and let the young man say goodbye to me.

"We're still getting married," he called as he left.

Thank God I still have the dress.

One Week!

Dearest invisible friend, are you as beside yourself as I am? Are you ready? Are you braced? Are you squeaking and drumming your fee on your chair?

No? Okay, just me, then. Because......

Hockey season starts in ONE WEEK!!!

Preseason has been okay, don't get me wrong. And wow, they've been handing out the head-shot suspensions left, right and center. But [sigh] it's still preseason.

On October 6th, the Philadelphia Flyers will take on the Boston Bruins, the Montreal Canadiens with face off with the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Pittsburgh Penguins with throw down with my pals, the Vancouver Canucks. Not that the Canucks realize they're my pals. But they are.

I really want the Canucks to win.

So. Thursday night. My house. The couch. You coming over?

Not my owie.

Hello, dearest. Did you have a nice weekend? I do hope so. Hm? Oh, thank you, my weekend was fine. A little too full of actual work, but they refuse to pay me if I don't work.

Rude.

Anyway, my weekend was fine, but Roommate didn't have as much fun. Sigh.

Do you remember my talking about Roommate's pain tolerance? Personally, I don't get it; why would anyone want to tolerate pain? It makes no sense. If there is pain, it should be stopped immediately. And no, pain is not "weakness leaving the body," no matter what my darling ultra-fit friends say. No, it's not. No, it's not!

Look, we can quarrel about this later. The point is, Roommate is not a complainer when it comes to discomfort. It took a nearly ruptured gall bladder to get her into the walk-in clinic, so this is not necessarily the best thing. Okay, okay, I take the complaining too far in the other direction, but this is how I help the universal balance.

That smirk is not attractive, btw.

So, as we all know, Roommate walked sixty freakin' miles last weekend. Oh, excuse me, she "only" walked about fifty-five miles. Sorry. How foolish of me to exaggerate. She walked an obscene number of miles and shocker, her body was...shall we say, displeased with her? Yes. Yes, we shall.

Shin splints.

Now, surely there are more painful injuries in the world, but this one is not a barrel of laughs, dear one. Roommate has been mightily uncomfortable, so much so, she's even--wait for it---

---said something.

I know!

Yesterday, we went to the drug store and picked up supplies for this:

I have no idea if this will actually help. I vaguely remember this herringbone pattern of tape from high school, but maybe this was only useful when evading the dinosaurs.

Poor Roommate.

Added to the wishlist:

I'm not a car person. I'm not. My buddy Erik, wonderful creature that he is, is a car person and likes to share car information. I like this about him. I don't understand 90% of the things he tells me and I retain almost nothing of the explanations five seconds after he's walked out the door, but he's lovely about it. He uses small words and speaks slowly.

All in all, the best kind of car guy to know. Just saying.

That being said, I don't have the appreciation for cars that many people do. Oh, I know when they're pretty, but that's as far as it goes. A high-performance vehicle is wasted on me. A Ferrari is the vehicular equivalent of a Bose stereo system to me. Very nice, but you may as well give me a mini stereo from the thrift store for all the difference I notice.

This is why driving the Cast-Iron Tank, AKA Volvo, doesn't bother me too much. Well, when I put the gas mileage out of my head. When I think about the gas mileage, I sob a little and think lustfully of this:

It's such a sensible little car, this Prius. Look at it. Designed to reduced wind resistance, not for speed, but for efficiency. I love that. And even though a gigantic Duracell lives behind the back seat, you can still put a reasonable amount of groceries in the back. Or a suitcase. Unlike this:

This upgraded roller skate...excuse me, smart car does not seem terribly smart or efficient to me. The gas mileage seems okay, but if one must drive the smart car, 93 mpg seems a reasonable expectation.

The Scion version is slightly better; it has a back seat.

Only small children and/or international fashion models can fit into the back seat, but hey! It's there, at least. One local car reviewer has an interesting test for vehicle stowage; he counts how many of the mondo Costco packs of toilet paper fit into a car. The Scion iq holds seven. Seven.

Almost worth never being able to offer anyone a ride home. Just saying.


I don't understand the two-seater vehicle. Even this gorgeous beast of a car:


I'm drawn to the Tesla, don't get me wrong, because it's a very, very, very pretty car AND because it's 100% electric. This may not actually make my brain explode with lust and longing, but there's definitely been some small popping sounds from my skull whenever I see this.

And this:

So pretty. So very, very pretty.

Okay, yeah. If I won the lottery, I'd buy one. No, I'm not holding my breath. I'm just saying.

Of course, if I won a LOT of money from the lottery people, I'd also buy one of these:

A Karmann Ghia. It's so cute! Not sensible. Not practical. It's the vehicular equivalent of puppies and tiny clothes for babies, and it, too, reduces me to high, squealing noises and incoherent babble--yes, more than usual. I just love these cars. I have no clue how much it would cost to maintain. I'm certain the gas mileage is absurd. And crash safety rating? Mmm...probably none. But I don't care. It's so darn cute!

I'm just saying.

Day Three

Roommate is home again. Jiggity jig!

She's already asleep and hopefully will remain under the sweet influence of Advil PM the whole darn night, as she got very little sleep last evening. It seems the people in charge of the park that hosted the 3-Day walkers' camp forgot to switch off the automatic sprinkling system. At 0330 today, tiny pink tents were filled with water and shrieking. Yes, two-thirds of the way through a sixty mile stroll, that's what I want to happen. I want to be ripped from exhausted, pain-filled slumber into an ice-cold shower. While still in my sleeping bag.

Fortunately, Roommate's tent was not one of those awash; she was merely sleeping next to the sounds of water and screaming. Strangely, she couldn't sleep through it. Go figure.

She did, however, make it through the walk for the third time. I made it to downtown Seattle in plenty of time to park the car, find her luggage, drag it back to the car and grab a seat in the stadium until the closing ceremony. And not too surprisingly, I was a sodden mess during said ceremony.

Much like the tents.

It kills me, that ceremony. They have the volunteer staff [in gray shirts] make an aisle leading into the field, and those people cheer as the participants do the victory walk in, all in white shirts. Then, after everyone is on the field and the music is blaring and people are waving at their friends and families in the stands, things quiet down. And a small group wearing pink shirts walk onto the field.

These are the survivors of breast cancer.

As they file in, the walkers salute them and their courage by each removing one of their own shoes and holding it high as the survivors fill the center of the field. A smaller group of survivors climb the steps to a round stage in the middle of the crowd and raise dark pink flags into holders around that stage, flags that read things like "Hope," "Commitment," "Optimism," "Healing," "Strength," "Belief" and "Love." After they raise the flag in the center, calling for the cure and the end of breast cancer, they join hands to form a circle, then raise their hands in victory. They have, after all, survived until today. One of the survivors had a little trouble making it up the steps today and as the other survivors realized it, they clustered around her to help her up the stairs and lift her flag into its spot. She made it, though. Up those stairs and into her circle.

I hesitate to say that I'm "proud of" anyone else's achievements. It always makes me feel like I'm taking credit for work I didn't do. I will say this, though. I'm proud to know Roommate. I'm proud that such a strong and committed woman calls me friend. I'm proud to live among people who will walk sixty miles in three days to raise 5.3 million dollars [that's $5,300,000.00, in case you needed to see it] to find a cure and to care for those battling this beastly disease until a cure is found.

Because everybody deserves a lifetime.

Day Two

Roommate texted me when she returned to camp today. See, when people do the 3-Day Walk, most of them stay in the camp overnight. Picture it...thousands of tiny pink tents in rows, flanked by Porta-Potties and peppered with people who have just spent the day walking a greater distance than most Americans walk in a year. Yeah. It's just that great.

Anyway. She's tired and her feet are blistered, but she still sounds great. Perky, almost, considering that Roommate is not a perky person. Not that she isn't generally good-natured, she just isn't terribly emotive.

No, I don't have any idea how we ended up friends. I think she felt sorry for me.

But that doesn't matter. What matters right now, is Roommate. She's probably sleeping off the last two days of 20+ miles of walking. Bless her heart.

Tomorrow is the last day and I'll pick up Roommate at the closing ceremony. I will have a huge steaming cup of hot chocolate for her, since the weather changed and she's spent the last two days shivering, and I'll also bring her a king-sized Snickers bar. She's earned it. Bless her heart.

Tomorrow, she'll be done with her walk. But the women who are fighting breast cancer, who are fighting for their lives, continue with their walk.

Bless their hearts.

Day One

Here she is! Roommate, on Day One of the 3-Day Walk for breast cancer. Isn't she a vision in pink?

And, okay, isn't everyone else, too?

Roommate's alarm went off at 0240 today. She got up and, in a cruel and vicious manner, sent the Hounds of Hell [AKA our dogs] into my room to wake me up. Although I didn't actually have to power of speech, I managed to rise, dress and drive Roommate to Seattle to meet up with thousands of other walkers and start her day.

Then I went home and went back to bed. Don't judge me.

We even managed breakfast before dropping her off! Okay, it was a grease gut bomb from Denny's, but it was breakfast of a sort. [NB: Even when Denny's has "Fit" in the title of a dish, it's still going to arrive at the table, swimming in its own little lake of grease. Shudder.] Walkers are instructed to check in between 0500 and 0600, but word to the wise, earlier is better for dropping off a walker. Unless one enjoys sitting in a veritable parking lot of cars/drivers, trying to drop off their walkers.

This we learned two years ago, during our first walk experience. Not so much fun. Just saying.

Anyway, after pulling up to the drop-off point [Pulling right up! No waiting!!] I helped Roommate pull out her small mountain of stuff, gave her a big, warm hug and wished her well. As she rolled her suitcase toward the luggage trucks, I yelled after her,

"Play nice with the other kids!"

Even on a cool, damp Seattle morning, the heat of a Look Of Death can be felt. It warmed me all the way home.

Oh, I'm going to pay for that on Sunday.

Ah HA!

All right, maybe this was cheating, but I just found a way to have a decent weigh-in at Weight Watchers.

Hey, I see you, rolling your eyes and judging me! Just because you're invisible doesn't mean you can't be seen. Okay, that's exactly what it means, but...oh, you know what I mean. Look, hear me out, then judge. All right?

Thank you. This is what's been happening.

The Chocolate Beast has been roaring the past week or two and my eating hasn't been as...pristine, shall we say, as one might wish. Oh, I'm still coloring within the lines, but I've been pushing my boundaries a bit. And as you know, my loathing for exercise is ocean deep and mountain high, so other than a teensy bit of walking and some wood chopping, not a lot of caloric burn has been going on there.

Although, now that I think of it, this might not be strictly the case. You see, I suck at chopping wood. I do. It's mortifying. Roommate, AKA Paulina Bunyan, has chopped about 90% of the wood stack we have in our back yard. Given that the stack is two rows deep, three to four feet high, that's...um...hang on.

Google. Oh, how I love thee.

Okay, that's almost two cords of wood! Much more precise than butt-load, huh? And please, don't ask me to convert it to metric.

Gah! Fine. Hang on. Here: 5.95 cubic meters. Happy? Two full cords would be closer to 7.07 cubic meters, but we don't have quite that much.

And now my brain is bleeding and I have to lie down.

.
.
.
.
.
.

Okay. I'm better. Where were we?


Oh, yes. I suck at chopping wood. BUT! This may be a benefit to me, as I have to expend much more effort for the same result, and therefore, am burning more calories every time I attempt.

This, however, is not my point.

My point is, I hadn't been as Weight-Watcher-wonderful as I might have been, and was resigned to a not-stellar weigh-in last night. Then

The Puget Sound Blood Center bus was parked outside my building, waiting for donors. I saw the bus and I thought:

1. I haven't donated for a while.



2. I haven't had an accidental needlestick in over a year.



3. I would be out if the lab for at least 20 minutes.



4. I have weigh-in tonight. How much does a unit weigh?

Did you know that a unit of blood is approximately 1.1 pound? Or half a kilogram? Why, yes! Yes, it is!!! And after I gave blood, I got a cookie and some V8! Mmmmm!

And I lost 2.4 pounds this week. Heh heh heh.

Okay, it wasn't due to my hard work or adherence to the program. And I may go up in weight next week. And I won't be able to pull this crap again for a couple of months.

But right now, I don't care. 2.4 pounds.

Heh heh heh.

This isn't my usual thing.

In July, Norway was shocked and horrified by an act of violence perpetrated by one of its own citizens. Hell, the world was shocked and horrified. It was an awful, awful thing. Even today, my heart aches for the lives lost and ripped to shreds by this. But I didn't blog about it when it happened.

A friend of mine asked me why I hadn't done so. I told him that my blog was fluff and silliness, and I had no wish to show any disrespect to the people harmed by such a tragedy by treating it in my irreverent manner. As he is a military man, his life was/is affected by this and other acts of terrorism, all over the world. He said simply, "If you can't talk about it, we can't fight it."

Damn it.

I've heard that voice in my head for months. As yesterday's date approached, it got louder and louder and louder.

"If you can't talk about it, we can't fight it."

I wasn't working in September of 2001. On the evening of the 10th, I had attended a showing of "Apocalypse Now" at the Cinerama in downtown Seattle. I think it's a brilliant movie, but I'm sick with horror every time I see it. I was out late. I was sleeping in, or I was trying to, when my phone rang.

The friend who called was prone to hysterics and melodrama. Yes, I know, so imagine how marked this behavior was to warrant my comment. "The world is coming to an end!" she shrieked and sobbed.

At this point, I restrained myself from calling her Chicken Little and merely inquired about what she was talking. I was told, in rising tones, to TURN ON MY TELEVISION!!! I did, expecting...I don't know what I was expecting, but Christ in a sidecar, it wasn't what I saw.

New York City. Under attack.

My darling Mo, of the spicy Cuban variety, is a hardcore New Yorker. Her time spent in Pennsylvania is viewed as something of a penance for unimaginable karmic crimes. I understand this and as I adore her, I am willing to shut my mouth against any sort of Pennsylvanian defense. To Mo, Pennsylvania has no defense. There's just
no excuse for it.

After graduating from law school in that dreaded state, Mo moved back to New York and was greeted with open arms. Okay, screaming taxi drivers and smelly people on the subway, but in New York, that's open arms. When I watched the terrifying images of the burning Twin Towers, I knew that she was at work, in a building near these.

After ridding myself of my hysterical news-breaker, I started my volley of calls to reach Mo, to reach anyone who could tell me that Mo was okay, that she wasn't anywhere near the Twin Towers, that she'd called in sick this day, this one day. When I finally reached her darling husband, he had obviously been fielding calls like mine all day long.

"She's fine," he said first, as soon as I had identified myself. "She's okay, and she's walking home." I don't remember if I asked him how he was, I only remember an ocean's worth of waves of relief. I hope I asked him how he was. I hope he knows he's beloved, as well.

"If you can't talk about it, we can't fight it."

In the years that followed that hellish day, I talked to many people affected in real and major ways by the devastation of the Twin Towers, the loss of United Flight 93 into a field in [yes] Pennsylvania, the crash of American Airlines Flight 77 into the Pentagon. Some people say it wasn't a plane that struck the Pentagon, but a missile, fired by our own government. I don't know anything about that, and I'm not knowledgeable enough even to speculate. I shall simply say that the world changed after that day. My world changed after that day.

Thousands of people died that day. Thousands of people have died in service to this country since that day. Thousands have returned alive but harmed and have struggled to survive their injuries, both visible and hidden. Countless lives are affected every day by our ongoing war.

Yes, I'm calling it war. Not police action or peacekeeping mission or military activity. It's war, from which I am mostly sheltered and protected.

Thank you for that. Really. Even when that protection makes me like I have no valid opinion to state, no relevant commentary to make. Thank you for that. I'm grateful even when I feel like I cannot speak well or wisely about these global happenings.

"If you can't talk about it, we can't fight it."

In church yesterday, the pastor spent some talking about the differences in forgiveness and justice, how the refusal to forgive is sometimes the inability to forgive.

Yes, church. What? Okay, okay, so I mostly go to see if lightning will strike the building, so what? It's not like I claim the title or take communion. Even my hypocrisy has its limits.

I don't know if the United States will ever forgive its attackers. I don't know if Norway will ever forgive the person [or people, let's be realistic] involved with the combined bombings in Oslo and shootings on the island or Utoya. I don't know if any of us can. Or should. I don't think justice has been done. I don't think the people being used as tools of justice and/or retribution are being served justly, either.

I do know that I want the fighting to stop and the fear to end. Unrealistic? Sure. But that's what I want.

You don't even have to wrap that particular present for me.

My Latest SLO

Darling one, as you know, I am an addict. Oh sure, most of my addictions are legal and not obviously life-threatening, but they are addictions all the same. I realize it. I own it.

And no, I'm not planning on giving them up. Quit bugging me.

Since the advent of Weight Watchers in my life, one of my addictions has suffered from neglect. Poor, poor baking. Oh, sure, I made carrot cake with double cream frosting for my dear neighbor's husband. And shortbread for my dog's water therapist. And another of my dog's water therapist's clients [need a flow chart for that connection?] is allergic to many things, so I've been baking bread for her. But other than that, not so much.

Hmm? Oh, the bread thing. Well, Courtney [easier to type than another of my dog's water therapist's clients, huh?] is allergic to:

• glutens



• eggs



• dairy



• tree nuts and



• yeast.

Bread, as you can well imagine, is a bit of a trick for her. She told me the tale of forcing her husband to take a bite of the "bread" she bought at a specialty store, so he would understand the hell she's living in. Her words, not mine, but...yeah. She described it as tasting like layers of sandpaper, pressed together. So of course, I had to try and bake decent bread for her.

The last batch was really quite good. Good flavor, good texture. I believe she had success in slicing the bread, which can be a challenge with gluten-free baked goods. [No, really. Just ask Gluten-free Jen. She'll back me up. They crumble like a politician whose sex tapes have been discovered.] It was a fairly light bread, even though it lost some of its loft after cooling. Only problem?

It looked a little...green.

Apparently, the teff flour, when mixed into the recipe I modified and used, changes color. It was a nice, soft brown before the baking, like the faux wheat bread of the seventies and:

But after baking, the color resembled the lovely olive green of military camouflage. Not desert or winter camo, the regular kind.

Anyway. I told Courtney she should make a ham sandwich with it, so she's be eating...

...wait for it...

GREEN BREAD AND HAM!! Hahahahahahaha!!

What? Oh, come on. It was a little funny.

Fine. It wasn't my point, anyway.

My point is, I haven't been doing as much baking, whether out of self-preservation or the general craptastic nature of my summer, I do not know, but now I am being lured back to the fold. Ha! Fold!! As in, the gentle combination of ingredients! You know, like egg whites beaten into a meringue...added to cake...batter...?

Sigh.

You know, you're a tough crowd today.But look:
This little beauty is the picture attached to the most recent blog for someone named The Caked Crusader.

I think I love the Caked Crusader. I really do.

She has baking commandments. No, really. And she posts gorgeous pictures of mouth-watering cakes. And best of all?

She posts the recipes for these baked beauties.

Okay, the measurements are mostly in metric. I can cope with that. Okay, okay, she will occasionally use ingredients that are not easily found in my local grocery stores. This is why the Omnipotent Comedian gave us mail order via the Internet. And okay, she has used terminology common to British vernacular that I do not always understand, but baby, that's why I Google.

Cakes. In all their wondrous glory.

The baking addiction has returned.

Wedding Of The Century! Okay, decade! Fine, Year?

So Roommate's mother is getting married again.

Yes, again. To a man whom she loves. And I do wish her every happiness, I really do, but I have to say, I'm dreading the wedding. Just a little bit.

Oh, that's terrible, isn't it? It's just that the timing is a teensy bit terrible. The date they've chosen...December 23rd.

I know.

And to top it off, the place they've rented for the ceremony/reception is all theirs...from noon until 6PM. Yeah. 3PM wedding. Three hours to put up inexpensive, yet tasteful and elegant decorations, prep the bride, move the cake [that I'm making] and cupcakes [that I'm making] into position, take all the appropriate photographs [that Roommate will be taking], get everyone seated and have the ceremony.

Then after the ceremony, move all the chairs lined up for the ceremony back into place for the tables, shove attendees through the buffet line [assuming the catering is ready to go], allow people to enjoy and eat and talk, albeit quickly, because we only have until 6PM to get everything cleaned up, including all the decorating stuff packed up and out to the car.

No problem.

Before the ceremony, we need to get bolts of tulle, acres of chiffon and a gazillion of those hook thingies that stick to the wall without damaging it, as much sparkly stuff as we can and all for as little money as we can spend.

Btw, the catering people are only providing the meat for the meal. Barbecue. The rest of the food...well. Roommate and I will think of something.

And I have to have something appropriate to wear. Gah. Shopping.

Roommate also needs something appropriate to wear. Gah! More shopping!!

I hate shopping. I know, I know, but I think I'm missing that part of the X chromosome. It's just not my gift.

Speaking of gifts, we also have to run around and register. Well, okay, Roommate's mom has to do that, but you know how that will play out. At least she and Roommate took care of the dress.

Anyway. I'm sure it'll be fine.

How much is an actual acre of chiffon?

Loose Change

Well, darling one, I have returned. I know, I know. I disappeared. Things were just...wackadoodle. You understand, don't you? I was dealing with unpleasantness that we shan't discuss yet. Oh, I'll handle it. Don't worry. Don't fret.

Stop wringing your hands.

I have a solid Plan B in place, so it's going to be fine. I just hate the kick-in-the teeth process of this type of situation. Anyway.

Before we go any further, I want to express my unfettered glee at the number of comments on the last post. Yes, yes, the usual high-pitched squealing noises were made. Don't judge me. Comments on this blog, in all their incarnations, delight me beyond measure. My sincerest thanks to those kind enough to take the time to type a response. Yay, you!

Speaking of high-pitched squealing noises, look!!!


This my friend Nina's new baby. Isn't he just a puddin'? Puppies are good. Puppies make so many things seem more bearable. Like change. And Weight Watchers.

Hm? Oh, thank you for asking. It's going okay, though I can't tell a difference in myself. I hate that. That's change I want, for once. And can I see it? Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo. I've lost 28 pounds so far [12 1/2 kilograms, if you like the metric system better] and I'm trying to find the joy in that. Unfortunately, I still have to lose the equivalent of my coworker, holding a bag a groceries, in weight.

Daunting thought, huh? Oh, it's not as terrible as the volume of weight I had to lose at my heaviest weight. Then, I had to lose a football player. Not a linesman, but a quarterback or a kicker, at least.

Btw, I refer to American football, not the much older sport my country has dubbed "soccer." I don't know. We'll Google it later.

Fall is coming. Change is coming.

Thank God for hockey season.