a wolf angel is not a good angel

The other day I finally did something I’d been planning on doing for months. Yes, I went to Ikea and bought bookcases. Special sale! 20$ each! I also got a side table for my reading chair. I’ve put two of my three bookcases together — they take about half an hour each, and then my hands are all sore. Yes, half an hour is short and it’s silly to complain, but it’s from Ikea. Ikea should be faster and more painless. (The side table took about 3 minutes.) Of course, I’ve only done two of them, despite having really intended to do that third one this evening. But I was at my parents’ house, and then I stayed there, and now I’m home but it’s almost midnight.

Still, soon I shall be able to move all my books from my linen closet (and random boxes everywhere, and the floor) to my bookshelves. I am undecided about cookbooks, since they are doing fine in my buffet so far, and the bookshelves are all across the room from the kitchen anyhow. Now, given how long it takes me to get things done, who knows when I’ll actually move my books, especially as I sort of feel I ought to organise them at the same time. Except I don’t know how to organise them. Alphabetically by author? Separate fiction and non-fiction? I am heavier on fiction, so there’s almost no point. Or this could mean I need to buy more books, to fill in holes in my collection or some such. I can accept that.

Did my last post (on principles) show up in people’s feeds? It didn’t show up in mine, an occasional (and really annoying) problem with bloglines (I assume).

While in Maine, my mother and I saw a puzzling t-shirt. It said something like ‘traitah 18′. As we discussed what it could possibly mean, a woman explained it was some Red Sox player (forget the name) who had taken a lot of money to play for the Yankees instead. Fair enough. As a Montrealer, I have to support the Red Sox over the Yankees. I think I’m even supposed to support them over the Blue Jays, I forget.

The next day, having forgotten or been unclear, I asked my father if he’d transferred, or chosen to transfer, or what. He’d chosen to transfer. My father said he would take $10 million to play for the Leafs.

So the next day, we discussed: would you take $10 milllion to work for people you disagreed with for five years? The PQ/BQ? (Mother: no; father: no; me: sure.) The Conservatives? (Mother: maybe; father supports them; me: maybe, depends who was leading them, etc.) The NDP? (Father: no.) He pointed out that I was saying what I’d sell my principles for. Which is true.

Who would you sell your principles to for $10 million over five years? Who wouldn’t you? I wouldn’t sell them to a pro-life group, a creationist group, a crazy right wing Christian group. I don’t think I’d sell them to PETA, because PETA pisses me off a lot, plus then I shouldn’t have pets. I wouldn’t sell them to an anti-immigration group.

Housework can’t kill you, but why take a chance?
Phyllis Diller

One cannot review a bad book without showing off.
W. H. Auden (1907 - 1973)

Art is one thing that can go on mattering once it has stopped hurting.
Elizabeth Bowen (1899 - 1973)

Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 - 1832)

via pretty much everyone now.

Is there anything more dull and annoying than trying to rip and convert your dvds? Especially when they’re tv shows, so you’re trying to figure out which tracks are the episodes and which are other random things? There are 4 episodes per dvd, but 7 long tracks. Once they’re all converted I guess I’ll know for the next dvd. If people have advice or whatever, I’m using DVD decrypter to rip, and Auto Gordian Knot to convert to avi, and I’m working on Buffy season 1. I want to eventually get all 7 seasons done, so faster is way better.

There’s got to be some more convenient way to do it, but my googling has revealed me nothing.

Today I decided to teach my sister to recognise sexism in ads. Fine if she loves all the fashion magazines, but enough with the unexamined reading of them. I pointed out the women who typically had their mouths open, looking through their lashes or out the sides of their eyes or anything but directly at you. The ads which focussed on the women despite naked men in them. I pointed out that a lot of things weren’t inherently sexist, but the biased use of things was. We went from ad to ad, pointing it out, looking for things. She’d find some, or bring one to ask me what I thought of it. I complained about the idea of the [whatever] making up your identity — dissolving into makeup, not existing without the right glasses, hidden faces, etc.

A Lacoste ad, she said, wasn’t sexist. And I said no, the first one (a 20s-ish picture of a man jumping) was not. But look at the related, modern one. A woman — but unlike the man, she wasn’t moving. She was just in the air. Men *do*, in ads; women just are.

At dinner, she pointed out a fashion spread. Look, she said, all the men are moving, doing gymnastics, while the women are just watching them. I feel much better about her reading these magazines now.

I swear, something I ate for dinner tonight — or my delicious sundae (I’m betting on the hot fudge sauce) — had hidden alcohol in it. Both my mother and I — despite her claims to the contrary — are drunkish. And we had nothing alcoholic, at least not deliberately.

This is very odd. But the sundae (and her milkshake) were very good.

After having dinner, my father and I were walking to the car (so I could go to the bookstore and fill up on my passion for blank books and logic puzzles), and we came to an intersection. The light was against us, but cars were only coming in one direction, so we walked halfway through the street and waited, like any normal person would. Either traffic would lighten up or the light would change, whatever. But then, as we’re waiting, one of the cars driving through just . . . stops. All the way at the other side of the intersection. There was no traffic or anything, and her flicker wasn’t on to turn. We had no clue what she was doing.

As it turns out, she was stopping to let us cross.

So I am going back to Maine. Apparently, for a while, the water was 70. 70! What’s up with that? (A: Global warming. But despite that, I would love water that warm. 60 is fine too, weather demons. Please be kind.)

I dropped Matilda off with my *grandparents*. It was very funny. She sniffed every piece of furniture in the living room, then went quickly room by room until she found their cat under the bed. He made some “Being tortured! Save me!” meow, followed by a hiss, so she left the bed and decided to pretend he wasn’t there. Being a cat of impeccable taste, she chose their very very comfortable couch to sleep on, which is where I left her. Indoors and safe, not with people she hates. As it turns out, she likes lots of people, just not if they’re near people she dislikes. She loves exploring new homes, preferably ones with animals (who are not, however, allowed in her place).

It is now 4:10, and my parents are going to pick me up at 5:10. My clothes are packed, except for shoes and sunglasses. My books are mostly all backed. My computer, of course, is not even a little bit packed. I cannot find my camera case, but then I’ve not been taking photos anyhow, so I’m sure I wouldn’t there. I can borrow someone else’s.

I cannot wait to sleep in the car. I love sleeping in the car.

It occurs to me that I’ve been feeling somewhat nauseated for quite some time now. Not, generally, *sick*. Just a teensy bit off, all (or almost all) the time. It is remarkably unpleasant, especially during those periods when I am also hungry. I would like it to go away now.