Melancholia

I have had this blog for about three years.  Or is it four?  I like it.  I am not dedicated to it.  It has never been my dream to be a writer and I more or less started it on a whim.  Sometimes I just don’t feel like I have anything to say, so I disappear for a while.

That, my friends, is not something they recommend in the good blogger handbook.  It is not how you get followers or comments or views or any of the other things that the statistic page makes you care about when previously you had not been aware that they were even things.  I don’t get a lot of views.  After however many years, I have 99 followers, and maybe 10 who interact regularly. (Love you guys!)

Post-Election Hangover

So.  For those of you who aren’t local, there was an election in my province last night.  The results shocked the pollsters, who somehow got it all wrong.  End result?  More of the same of what we had before.

I made pretty cookies!

I took my macaron class last weekend.  It was good fun.  And instead of building up to it, I’m going to put my photo right here:

I put them with the tulips because I was feeling arty.  Aren’t I clever?  Don’t they look good?  Well guess what?  They taste even better.

Tango Mondays (Ramblings of an Unfocused Mind)

That there is probably the most misleading post title I’ve ever written.  But I can’t say that I care.  (I’m afraid I’ve become a bit apathetic about the old blog lately.  Can’t really explain it, but I like to think it’s a phase.)

I am not currently tangoing.  For one thing, I’m home alone.  For another, I don’t even know how to tango.  I took some lessons once.  They didn’t go well.  In fact, if they had carried on, they may well have ended my marriage.  And I wasn’t even married yet then.  Either that or we might have eventually learned to tango.  That would have been cool.  I’d like to know how to tango.  Like the parents on the Addams Family.  Hmm.  Maybe we should try tango lessons again.  Ack!  No!  See, folks, this is how you get yourself in trouble even though you know better. 

Isn’t it Romantic?

So, in book club the other week, we read this book (I’m not telling you what it was, because I’m going to give away the ending here and I don’t want to wreck it for you.)   It was a lovely book about star-crossed lovers dealing with a major impediment to their being together.  There was some magic involved.  The ending was somewhat convoluted and a little melancholy, but the gist was that they more or less sorted it out and kind of/sort of died/became immortal and were thereby able to live together happily ever after.

Forever.

Because they were immortal.

Until the end of time.

What happens when I’m cooped up at home for a week and a half on medical leave

So, my evil gallbladder has been annihilated, and good riddance.  I survived the terror that was surgery and learned that being stabbed by a doctor does not change the fact that you have been stabbed.  It still hurts and your body still has new holes.   (I did not ask to keep the gallstone.  For some reason, this is a question that I have been asked several times.  Only by guys though.  Odd.)

I’m pretty sure these guys don’t have gallbladders either.

Another surprise was that when they told me I’d be able to go back to work after a week and a half, I somehow took that to mean that I would be completely healed and better after a week and a half, but I was wrong (which, in retrospect, I should have known, considering I’ve had paper cuts that took more than ten days to heal.)  It just means I am well enough to go back to my desk job.  I am going back to work tomorrow, but I am still being held together with tape, which is a disturbing thing for me to look at in the mirror.  I am also still very slow-moving and if I bend to the floor to pick something up, my belly button feels like someone stabbed me again, which is irritating.  But I improve every day, so I’ll not complain about that any more.

I really thought I would be writing a lot of blog posts for you while I was on leave.  All that extra time without anything else to do – my expectations were high, I tell you.  But the thing is, I was on pain killers.  I was napping a lot.  Also, when you aren’t doing anything, it’s awfully hard to think of things to write about.  For me anyway, since my blog is mostly just show and tell.  And being confined to a small apartment meant I didn’t have much to show or tell.

Also, laziness begets laziness. 

I Am Not Your Wife, Sister or Daughter. I Am A Person.

Reblogged from The Belle Jar:

I don't have to tell you that Steubenville is all over the news.

I don't have to tell you that it's a fucking joke that Trent Mays and Ma'lik Richmond, the two teenagers convicted of raping a sixteen year old girl, were only sentenced to a combined three years in juvenile prison. Each will serve a year for the rape itself; Mays will serve an additional year for "illegal use of a minor in nudity-oriented material."

Read more… 981 more words

I read a thousand things a day that I already know. Then I'll read one like this that slaps me in the face and makes me say, "Well, yeah. Of course."