Revelation

Theory:

The Prime Mover exists! And she/he/it is messing with my head for giggles.

Evidence:

1) Shortly after spending an evening with a fellow ex-Catholic, happily denouncing Ratz and many other Catholic things as well, and subsequently contemplating impure actions with said fellow ex-Catholic -- thereby compounding the sin of lust with contributing to the delinquency of another ex-Catholic, though to hear him tell it he's landing in the fourteenth circle of hell because they'll dig new circles for him, the dirty thing, I changed my mind and went to get gas in my car. Who should pull up beside me but a giant van filled with ... nuns. Nuns as far as the eye could see. Skinny nuns, fat nuns, tall nuns, short nuns, young nuns, old nuns ... every kind. Both a bit on the nose, and overkill I thought.

2) I stated in conversation with a neighbor that the very concept of marriage made me want to change my name and move to Denver, where nobody would ever think to look for me on account of my well-known strong aversion to city dudes in cowboy hats. The next day, THE NEXT DAY, I got a letter from a woman whose last name I didn't recognize. It was a friend of mine from the alma mater -- who last stated she would nevah evah evah get married again (she came from one of those "marry the women when they're barely old enough to see over the steering wheel" communities, and had to get divorced to go to college. I haven't seen or spoken to her in about 5 years -- and she was inviting me to come visit her and her husband this summer in Denver.

Fafblog!

Back to Save the Universe, in their own words!


Fafblog, Fafblog, Fafblog!


Joy abounds, says me.

Reason #7,394 Not to Date Older Men

You end up having to call your mom the next day so she can explain his cultural references to you. Because you may know a lot of stuff, and even a lot of stuff about the earlier part of the 20th century, but for all you know a devotion to Buffy Sainte-Marie might be indicative of serial-killer status.

And if that's not ridiculous enough, your sudden interest in pre-hippie hippies intrigues your mom, and she asks where you heard of such people and things. Which creates the need for you to lie, because "the proto-geriatric I went out with last night said something about her" would open up a whole 'nother awkward conversation.


I have got to add other criteria to "smart with great speaking voice."

***I'll probably let this be the last TMI post, don't worry***

Awkward is...

Sitting through an impromptu TV-watching evening with the guy who still exists for you in the liminal space between significant and insignificant other, and knowing that all the conversations he's recounting and remembering having with you in the recent past really happened with some other someone. Because you don't know what in blazes he's talking about.

Sigh.

I don't even rate a liminal space; I'm just plain insignificant.

Stings the pride a little.

Well, thank the Smithsons for all the museums around here. I'll have more free time.

I, like, TOTALLY <3 XKCD, and Here's Why:

http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/emoticon.png

Introducing Triple-Yogh Days: Complete with a Random Bullets of Catch-up Preamble

Hello folks!

I know the long, infrequent blog-post with an opening apologia for the lack of blogging and commenting, and otherwise allowing the world at large to know that I yet live has become a bit of a cliché about the place. Yet I am loath to promise to do better, because I know how very lazy I am. And so here we are. If it helps, I promise I have been reading your blogs (those who have them), and wondering at your dedication.

Anyway, the R.B.O.C. which explains the post:

Two months or so ago, I went to the doctor with a mild illness. My BP was, as it had been every time it'd been taken since I was 18 years old, 120/70. Perfect!

Two weeks ago, I went to the doctor with another mild illness. This time my BP was, much to the consternation of everyone in the room, 230/128. Less than perfect.

There ensued many questions, the visible blanching of medical personnel, and the shouting of acronyms which would have been somewhat alarming had I not understood them. Since I did understand them, I was temporarily convinced that I was already dead, but for the paperwork. (Doctors never ask what jobs you used to have, just the job you have now. No reason for an English teacher to comprehend all that jargon.)

Since then I have been magnetized and polarized, and probably digitized as well. Seems as if everything is normal, except for the whole nearly-dead level BP.

So now I have to take pills which give me side effects which mimic what I should have been feeling with the Crazy BP, but bring me back to a normal pressure. Ironic, no? And there is more -izing to follow, which I hope will answer the question that is pinging around my brain; i.e., "WTF?!"

Temper tantrums about quitting smoking, and changing my diet and incorporating exercise only to THEN develop hypertension seem ill-advised at the moment. Which is not to say these tantrums haven't happened, they're just shorter than they would otherwise be.

Anyway, "show me a reason and I'll soon show you a rhyme" or whatever. That is to say that I need a plan rather than a reaction.

Thus, I have devised a new health plan I am calling "triple-yogh days." Because I need unity and completeness and nerditude right now.

Yogh the first: Actual yoghs. Other people have their habits that get them through the weird times. Most of those habits -- like alcohol, gambling, and random sex with strangers -- raise the blood pressure. Fortunately for me, I have the decoding of archaic and arcane language. Which is a blast and a half, and does not raise the blood pressure. Yay!!

Today I'm working on this from the Boke of Nurture:

Cast vinegre & powder þeron / furst fette þe bonus þem fro.
Crabbe is a slutt / to kerve / & a wrawd wight;
breke euery Clawe / a sondur / for þat is his ryght:
In þe brode shelle putt youre stuff / but furst haue a sight
592
þat it be clene from skyn / & senow / or ye begyn to dight.
And what ye haue piked / þe stuff owt of euery shelle
with þe poynt of youre knyff, loke ye temper hit welle,
put vinegre / þerto, verdjus, or ayselle, 596
Cast þer-on powdur, the bettur it wille smelle.
Send þe Crabbe to þe kychyn / þere for to hete,
agayn hit facche to þy souerayne sittynge at mete;
breke þe clawes of þe crabbe / þe smalle & þe grete,
600
In a disch þem ye lay / if hit like your souerayne to ete.
Crevise* / þus wise ye must them dight:
Departe the crevise a-sondire euyn to youre sight,
Slytt þe bely of the hyndur part / & so do ye right,
604
and alle hoole take owt þe fische, like as y yow behight.

I'm kind of stuck on "Crabbe is a slutt." How funny is that? It must mean something else, despite context clues, but it's fun for now.

Yogh the Second: Yoghurt. Don't fuss about the spelling now; it's about to get worse. Anyway, I may have a diet that is lacking in all the -iums: calcium, potassium, and magnesium. Yogurt provides 2/3 of that triad, and comes with yummy blueberries if you shop well. So, a heart-healthy diet doesn't have to be complete torture. Yay!

Yogh the Third: Yog(h)a. Because I am no longer allowed to exercise as I have been. And I do need to exercise, because I need energy. And you need to spend energy to make energy. I also apparently need to calm the hell down. So, exercise that is reputed to calm one the hell down = yoga. But I will say that yoga does hurt in a way that belies the soft voice of the instructor. Qualified yay.

And, in the service of calming the hell down, whenever one of my challenging wanna-be students makes me want to quit teaching and buy a soy farm, I hum this to myself:





Ben Vereen makes everything better.

Happy Easter!!!

I'm just back from visiting with the technologically challenged Heomodor, but wanted to pop up and wish you all a Happy Easter. I'll be back soon with news and other trivia, promise!