As Shakespeare would say...

Wow. It's been a while. Not because I've been on vacation or any such thing - more's the pity. Nope. Simply.... because.

I'm still out there reading and commenting on other people's posts. Everyone seems so inspired and I love reading it all. I, on the other hand, seem to have hit the proverbial wall. Why I've been able to keep it up for so long and suddenly, in the immortal (or not so much) words of Emeri: BAM!!, I have no idea.

These two paragraphs have taken me two days, and I can't help but wonder if I'm all blogged out and will ever again find anything interesting to say. Hell, I haven't mutilated, sliced or bruised myself horribly in at least two weeks, so really, what is there is to say?

Obviously then, the question becomes why do I do this? Why do I want to keep blogging if there's nothing left to blog? Why do I like it? Why do I sit here and tell people all the drivel that wanders through my head?

And oh lordy people, there is much, much drivel flowing through my little mind. Yea indeed, drivel abounds, drivel washes through my head in waves. And when the tsunami passes, it dribbles.

Drivel dribbles. And alliteraition abounds.

I obviously don't do it for the fame, because god knows I'm not a popular blogger with my 10-12 comments per post (though I do love you guys, your comments never fail to amuse, plus I need amusing so comment dammit!), and 2 or 3 others who simply lurk (hello Divine Ms. M, hello Mr. Scoots).

I do it even less for the fortune - Dooce I'm not; Dooce the mommy blogger extraordinaire who makes a living off her blog (I actually typed "blot" there, Freudian slip perhaps? I liked her until the ads started popping up all over the place and I got sick of reading about poop, her poop, her daughter's poop, her dog's poop, the lack of poop - I swear people it was(is?) a fixation! Actually I started getting over the Dooce thing when she morphed into a mommy blogger. Me and babies? Not so much, eh? But I digress.)

I have a friend who's been trying to convert me to Twitter and I wonder if I wouldn't be better off there, cyberhome of inane drivel. But I just don't get it. Yeah, I'm that old that I don't get Twitting. What the hell is the point of it? Are people on Twitter called Twits, I wonder? If ever I become a twit, I'll do it all in haiku, I swear.


And so, in a fit of pique, and despite my rule of shutting the hell up if I have nothing to say (which come to think of it, pretty much covers the last four years of my life as a blogger, so lets change that to my rule about blogging to say I have nothing to say), I decided to unload upon you, my 3.5 readers, just to see if I could get back into the groove.

We'll see.
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In the Immortal Words of Supertramp...

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It's raining again...

I woke this morning to the sound of a torrential downpour and just laid there, listening, waiting for the sound to lull me back to sleep.

Surprisingly, sick as I am of the rain this summer, it's still one of my favourite sounds. Evah. I even have a CD of rain sounds. It's a love hate relationship we have, the rain and I.

As a child I loved rainy Fridays with a passion. Why Friday, I have no idea, but a rainy Friday was the perfect Friday.

Walking to school in Wellies and a yellow raincoat, jumping in the puddles, the sound of it falling on my rubber hat, the knowledge I'd be spending recess indoors, devouring whatever book I was loving that day - it made my heart sing. The rain is supposed to be melancholy, but for me, it racked up the anticipation regarding the coming weekend, it seemed so full of promise. I know, it's completely nonsensical, but then I've never been one to follow the rules of logic and reason all that closely. Hell, I'm the person who backs up towards a three foot drop when I'm sweeping - that should tell you all you need to know.


This love of Friday rain persisted into high school, and then, eventually, it petered out. Too bad really, it'd be nice if rain could still make me really happy - I'd have been delirious with joy this summer.

Please note: some seem to think that top picture is mine. I wish. I got it off the internet. Mea Culpa.
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Another of those things I love...

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This weekend marked the end of this year's edition of 1001 Pots. It's an annual exhibit/sale of potters' work - the biggest in North America featuring 124 artists this summer. It's held every year from mid-July to mid-August. Outdoors, because rain won't hurt the art, and damned if it didn't pour this year.

There's all manner of stuff - cups and plates:



Kitchenware:

Bowls and more bowls:




Cool, funny and not so useful stuff:








Amazingly intricate stuff:



And stuff to hang on your walls:






This year's new thing: the silica garden, where shards of broken pottery go to live another life. Eventually all the cages will be filled with broken pieces. It's quite cool looking.




Only problem is, it's over for the year, which, however makes my wallet that much happier and heavier...
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Friday Funny*

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Quote of the day

Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater. If you give her sperm, she'll give you a baby. If you give her a house, she'll give you a home. If you give her groceries, she'll give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she'll give you her heart. She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her.

So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit.


* Coz it's so much easier than writing a post and I'm lazy that way.

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Accident Prone? Me?

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After the Great Deck Debacle of July 2009, I once more decided to see if I could, perhaps, learn to fly.

Didn't work.

I'm here to tell you that 48 year old women can't fly. Try as she might, this one just can't get her butt airborne for more than a couple of seconds. Maybe it's the middle age spread. Or maybe the laws of physics apply more unilaterally the older you get, but there you have it.

No flying was gonna happen last Saturday afternoon.


Let me explain. We were at the cottage and surprisingly (as in bowled over and stunned into speechlessness) the weather was good. I decided to sweep the porch. See that little black square in the white area there? That's the front door. The porch is maybe four feet wide on two levels, maybe four inches high each.

So there I stood, sweeping, facing the door (yeah, I know that was very bright, blame it on the fact that I hadn't seen the sun it what seems like eons - she types as the rain pours down. Again.)

As I backed up bit by bit I got to the end of that level of the porch. This tends to happen when you back up. I took one more step back, expecting to land on the same level, but, oops I was past all that and my foot landed 4 inches lower. Yeah, you do see where I'm going here.

As I tried to regain my balance on the second level of the porch, I stepped off there too.

'Cause dontcha know, I'm still trying to learn how to fly.

And so I fell three feet straight down, tried to regain my footing, didn't (of course, because then there'd be no blog post would there?), and tumbled halfway down the hill in front of the cottage. The hill that is flanked by 42 (count 'em! - 42) steps to make it up to the damned front door.

Luckily I came to a full and sudden stop on one of the numerous rocks that jut up from the ground otherwise I'd have ended up in the street and probably rolled down the hill into the lake.

And you know how it is, lakes, mud, bleh, so thank whatever deities live at the cottage for that rock.

And no, there will be no picture of monster bruises because they were all pretty much medium sized. Thus, I'm once more coloured blue and green and yellow over numerous parts of my anatomy. People must think I'm abused.

I'm not, I'm simply pathetic.

I can't help but wonder though, when in my life was the last time I've been bruise and cut free. Pristine as it were. Probably the day of my birth.

Yes, pathetic indeed.

But I have finally come to the realization that I'll never learn how to fly. More's the pity actually.
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Friday Funny

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Because I have nothing interesting to say, because Mr. Jazz made me laugh with this one and because we all deserve a chuckle on a Friday:


Apparently the American Medical Association has weighed in on the proposed universal health care plan.

The Allergists voted to scratch it, but the Dermatologists advised not to make any rash moves.

The Gastroenterologists had sort of a gut feeling about it, and the Neurologists thought the Administration had a lot of nerve.

The Obstetricians felt they were all laboring under a misconception.

Ophthalmologists considered the idea shortsighted.

Pathologists yelled; "Over my dead body!", while the Pediatricians said, 'Oh, Grow up!"

The Psychiatrists thought the whole idea was madness, while the Radiologists could see right through it.

Surgeons decided to wash their hands of the whole thing. The Internists thought it was a bitter pill to swallow,and the Plastic Surgeons said, "This puts a whole new face on the matter."

The Podiatrists thought it was a step forward, but the Urologists were pissed off at the whole idea.

The Anesthesiologists thought the whole idea was a gas, and the Cardiologists didn't have the heart to say no.

In the end, the Proctologists won out, leaving the entire decision up to the assholes in Washington!
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