It must be time for Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

The message: we are, in fact, our brothers' keepers. At least, to some degree. Or, as someone once observed of Mrs. Dalloway:

. . . She was one of the most thoroughgoing sceptics he had ever met, and possibly (this was a theory he used to make up to
account for her, so transparent in some ways, so inscrutable in
others), possibly she said to herself, As we are a doomed race,
chained to a sinking ship (her favourite reading as a girl was
Huxley and Tyndall, and they were fond of these nautical
metaphors), as the whole thing is a bad joke, let us, at any rate,
do our part; mitigate the sufferings of our fellow-prisoners
(Huxley again); decorate the dungeon with flowers and air-cushions;
be as decent as we possibly can. Those ruffians, the Gods, shan't
have it all their own way,—her notion being that the Gods, who
never lost a chance of hurting, thwarting and spoiling human lives
were seriously put out if, all the same, you behaved like a lady.

Or, for that matter, a gentleman. Steve Martin is brilliant in this movie. Go see it soon; it's time, and it still counts as Thanksgiving viewing if you see it before the end of November. (In my family, it would count if you watched it before March, but we tend to run late on these matters. We also take our Christimas decorations down by July 4th, whether we need to or not.)

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MapQuest is beta-ing some lame new dysfunctional site. Google Maps keeps locking up on me ("did you mean that address in California?" "Well, didja?"). And Yahoo won't work at all—presumably because it won't give me directions until I log in. Very creepy.

I might have to resort to looking at one of those large dead-tree things.

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Helping her get the place ready for a houseguest—who happens to be my brother. And, you know: when the Sultan of Software comes to town, everything has to be just so.

Here, late at night, I can clean things with some impunity; that's probably why I elected to spend the night. But when my mother is around, the rules of engagement are different. It is paramount that she interrupt me every few minutes with some of the following types of concerns:

• "No! Don't put those piles of paper together. I had them sorted!"

• "Oh! Instead of dusting, would you fold laundry?"

• "No!" (This one's directed at the dog, but I swing around, wondering what I'm doing wrong.)

• "The way I usually do that is, I . . ."

• "You're not throwing that away, are you?"

Of course not. When you have a house that's cluttered up to the rafters, and you're trying to transform it into a livable environment, the last thing you want to do is throw anything away. Particularly when it's a partially used paper towel, or the plastic lid from a carton of cottage cheese.

Mandy decided I was probably playing some kind of fun game, and got in my way a lot until I lost my shit and yelled at her, warning her to not jump on me while I was doing housework. That subdued her for a while.

Meanwhile, I have obligations creeping up on me from my volunteer life. But for the next day or so, I'll want to focus on Matricide Avoidance.

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Iowahawk's got a new post up (car-related, rather than satiric or political).

I should have something like this. Perhaps not, though: I've noticed that small people tend to like big cars, and big people tend to like small cars.

Is that because some people consider their rides a type of avatar? If so, this gives the driver a chance to "try on" a new body type—metaphorically.

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In some cases, it can delay brain development by several decades. At least, that's what I hear.

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Master playlists. I do not like it when my iPod plays "Boogie Fever," and then follows it up with "Box of Rain."

And of course the scrolling system on the Nano is posessed by the devil.

I'm sure that whatever my forebears listened to on the farms in Nebraska was more user-friendly. This undoubtedly made it more fun to use outhouses in the middle of the night in the dead of winter.

In point of fact, life really has me down right now. I may go smoke a cigar to calm my nerves.

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Well, let's see.

I went to the mail drop. Then I went to the bank. Then I filled the car with gasoline (a full tank, mind you—not $5 or $7 or $10 in quarters).

Then I stopped by the jewelers and got a ring.

I priced a few digital cameras. Then I paid a bill.

Then I picked up a bottle of Junipero gin and a couple of Brazilian cigars.

Nope. Can't figure it out at all. Everything's normal; but isn't it a beautiful day? Blue skies (blueish-gray—whatever). Deer running around. The best peanut butter sandwich I've had in a good long time, washed down with 2% milk, and followed by a fish-oil capsule and a multivitamin.

Life is good. Really freakin' good.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 01:53 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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1 ah, payday! Bravo!

Posted by: caltechgirl at November 02, 2007 12:44 PM (/vgMZ)

2 I had almost lost faith.

Posted by: Attila Girl at November 02, 2007 11:47 PM (aywD+)

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