Lost
I thought this was weird.
I lost my frog.

Then I read the explanation, and realised it was not weird, but strangely heartbreaking.

Still wondering
I don't know why this continues to haunt me... the recent Events down south. But it does. I cannot help smelling Doom from our lower border every time I turn that way.

This has, apparently, been linked from everywhere already: "You Could Have Had My Vote" -- a letter from a conflicted Republican.

I still don't understand. But the yards and yards of comments, for and against, are interesting, and mostly less bile-filled than one might expect.

I hope all the disillusioned Americans purportedly fleeing up here are prepared to turn and stand with us when their former nation leaps on us the way Michael Bryant thinks "pit bulls" are inherently prone to do. Of the two, I think the former much more likely. Statistically speaking, of course.

This. That. The other.
Permit me to take this moment to share some things with you.

Non-political: Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me. Despite the title, work-safe. Brightened this morning more than I can express. I can't remember the song it parodies, but there is a nostalgic smell of "eighties" about it. No -- go watch it. It's rather sweet. Pinched off The Usual Suspects.

Also non-political: Go Fug Yourself -- celebrities live, shameless and unbelievably badly-dressed in public. Like People magazine, or perhaps InTouch, only free and cattier, and therefore funnier.

Political: "OMG. WTF?" The Flabbergasted Eagle. Add "Canucks" to his list, tho'.

And, while yer at it,
Sorry, Everybody. You'd think, wouldn't you, that if the entire rest of the world thinks a certain individual is a fool and a nincompoop, that maybe, just maybe, a bunch of people who voted for him might, perhaps, let it drift across their minds that maybe they might have overlooked... something? Even, Gods forbid, be wrong?

No, of course not. Instead, they write (those who can) impassioned screeds about how they don't give a fuck what the rest of the world thinks, and anyway, the rest of the world is probably fictional anyway. And they are not stupid or ignorant, either, they're Right!

Then again, I have long -- lifelong, you might say -- experience of that, so what'm I trying to suggest, here? Never mind. The site warmed a few cockles of my wizened little heart, at any rate.

It was a rather nice day for the end of the world
I have been silent, readers, if readers there are -- and for that I am sorry. I must warn you, though, the silence is likely to continue some little time, mostly. Still waiting for the return of the laptop; still trying to struggle out of the Pit of Despair dug by the knowledge that over half of our southern neighbours really are somewhat less endowed with brains than the average, and still depressed over the fact that our dog appears well and truly headed into outlawry.

Most of all, need purpose! No bodybuilding show; fatness continues, general seasonal affective disorder and joint pain and weariness combine with laziness to keep exercise levels lower than I would like. Sure, there are other purposes besides useless cultivation of the body... but none have presented themselves.

Unless, ah, reading a lot counts. It's quite lovely, really. This is what I think of as Me, the Constant Weader. Book in my hand morning to night. Successes: John Le Carre, oh most definitely. We rented a BBC miniseries of Smiley's People, starring Alec Guinness. First off, though it is several days long and very quiet -- you can almost miss things happening, because they mostly only happen in slight, sympathetic twitches of Guinness's eyelids -- it is brilliant. Guinness is -- er, was -- an actor who could really act.

Then I went to the library, and went on a Smiley orgy. I'm out of Smiley books now, but it was good. And I suppose there's all the other Le Carre after that. What else? A whole lot of Love and Rockets cartoons -- graphic literature, whatever -- which, sadly, I confess I didn't really like; and, finally, Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon. I didn't understand the mathy parts, and frankly didn't make much of an effort, but the story was ripping.

Now I've got Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal riding round in my pack. Picked it up from the library, but have not yet cracked it; word is it is brilliantly funny, and I hope word has not exaggerated.

And show opens tomorrow night. Dress/tech tonight. Caryl Churchill's Top Girls.

I'm not looking forward to it. Don't think any of us is. We don't feel ready; I personally feel my costume sucks for several reasons, many of them being polyester; and I'm just... not... in the mood.

Must be more of that seasonal affective disorder.

I'm jealous of my cosmopolitan trousers
I bought a pair of trousers recently, at a consignment shop. I like used clothing. It's cheap, like me.

These pants, which are one of the three pairs which currently fit my fat, and mysteriously-expanding-like-a-mushroom ass, are khaki, with wee zipper pockets at the hips.

I've worn them several times, and even washed them twice, once after I bought them and once after I spilled something on them the first time I wore them. I had not, until yesterday, used the zipper pockets.

Yesterday, though, I wanted to bring some change to work for coffee. "These pants have pockets somewhere, don't they?" I thought, feeling around. "Are they sewn shut? No, zippers!" I unzipped the left-hand pocket -- and there was something in it. Something small and folded. Had I used the pockets already and forgotten?

No. There was a 5-Euro note folded up small and tucked in the pocket. My pants are better-travelled than I. What worldly adventures have these pants known, I wonder?

We are still fretting about the upcoming "pit bull" ban, and whether or not Onyx will end up being called a "pit bull" -- in which case, if we have to pay $75 a year for a "dangerous" dog license and get an extra $300 000 in liability insurance -- if our insurance company will even consent to continue coverage -- we will not be able to afford him.

Here is another view of the "problem." Do not watch this if you are not somewhere where you can sob at will; it is heart-rendingly horrible and sad.
The Pit Bull Problem

Life goes on
The recap:
My knee shots are finished, and now my knee has resumed a warning clicking. I wonder if it might be that with more fluid in there, the flappy cartilage can now swim about at liberty?

What with the lack of exercise (lazily, I allowed "knee shots" to serve as an excuse for slacking on all kinds of things) I've gained enough flab that I no longer fit into most of my winter clothes.

Which makes me angry, afraid and depressed.

I did a gruelling, fast-paced, high-rep circuit workout last night, and a run this morning, and now I hurt.

In other news, the bathroom has half a hardwood floor, and the top half of walls painted a pleasant cream. (The bottom half will have tongue-and-groove wainscoting, and is at present still sporting a rustic look of framing and furring.)

The dog may soon become an illegal dog, depending on how Ontario's pit bull ban plays out. Bryant is a jackhat. He has refused to speak, apparently, to any of the recognised experts (the Ontario Veterinary Association, safety councils, the Canadian Kennel Club and others) and is allowing sensationalist media idiocy to press through the ban. Despite evidence from places that already have bans (Britain, Winnipeg) that they are 1) unenforceable, and 2) just make the kind of idiots who have and breed uncontrollable, aggressive "pit bull" crosses move on to other sorts of fighting dogs (Winnipeg saw a big increase in Rottweiler attacks after their ban).

Blah. I can't rant about this any more. We rant about it daily, chez Compass; A. is furious. The thing is, poor little Onyx isn't even related, much, to the big American Staffs and bull terriers who are generally crossed with other big gnarly things to create yer average drug-dealer's ideal "pit bull". British Staffordshires fought 200 years ago, sure -- but so did lots of other dogs which aren't being banned. And since then, they've been bred as pets -- just like loads of other terrier and bull-terrier sorts of dogs, which are not being banned.

And in any case, regardless of that, there's no reason to ban any breed. What's needed is tighter policing of owners. A nasty person can turn any dog nasty.

Why, oh why, when I break with over three decades of devoted cat ownership, do I need to pick some cute little fellow with tough-guy relations and a bad media rap to fall in love with?

Next week, I'm off to my childhood dentist to finish off the root-canal saga with a nice filling.

And I think I need to get A. this for his upcoming birthday. Go, check it out! Could anything be more marvellous or more necessary? Brilliant!

Stumbling towards decrepitude
My, but it's been quiet round here, hasn't it? Well, I've been sick. Kof. Snif. I mostly feel better, but I sound like hell.

Lounging around with a box of tissues (extra-soft; specially purchased) combined with my one escape from laziness to put me into knots of pain that are still echoing. I did a leg workout on Saturday, the first in I don't know when. Then I basically didn't move for three days, with the result that the expected DOMS transmuted itself into tightness and savage spasms which actually made it hard for me to sleep last night and the night before. Actually, last night was a little better, since I begged A. to rub my afflicted hams with Traumeel before bed. He actually massaged the twitching fibres till I yelled in pain, but it did seem to break up some of the knots in there.

My, my, but I feel old.

The second shot has been administered to my knee. Again, the joint is clicking ominously (normally, the click-clunk sensation precedes a lockout episode and Great Pain) but hopefully, as before, this will pass when the general puffiness goes away.

I've gotta get back into the gym. What with the leg thing, though, I'm now suffering from severe pain aversion. Activity: very poor (I walked the mutt last night, though). Diet: getting better. I'm on the Food is Boring diet now. The fluffiness occurring after my non-comp decision was getting way out of hand (to the point where I could no longer fit comfortably into my favourite clothes). Since I can't afford to buy new clothes, clearly something had to be done.

Current diet, every day:
1) rolled grain (barley, oats, rye) -- 1/3 cup dry, cooked; optional additions -- plain yogourt, a teaspoon of brown rice syrup, a tablespoon chopped dried fruit. 1 egg, ? cup egg white, scrambled; optional additions -- a bit of cook cheese, hot sauce or salsa.
2) 4-5 oz sweet potato, cooked, 3.5-4 oz chicken. Small piece fruit.
3) 1/3 cup dry measure rolled grain, cooked, as above. 3.5-4 oz chicken, or can low-sodium tuna. A cup or so of fibrous veggies. Small piece fruit.
4) repeat either 1 or 2.
5) 1/2 cup cooked grain, 3.5-4 oz chicken or other lean meat, or 6 oz lean fish, a cup or so of fibrous veggies. (Actually, 5 has not been so virtuous, as I've been "finishing" things in the fridge. It's been quite a bit more varied, and usually included a small and low-fat/calorie dessert, with the result that I've forgone...)
6) protein shake, or half protein shake scoop plus 1/4 cup Quark cheese.

I'm avoiding seasoning as much as possible, and trying my best to drink 3 litres of liquid, preferably water, every day. Not doing too badly, despite Meal 5 and lack of exercise; in a week, I've lost 2 pounds of water puffiness.

And, indeed, food is very boring.

On an entirely other note, according to a very silly quiz promoting The Bachelor's Cooking to Hook Up Cookbook (I'm wincing just thinking about this), I am Progressive Girl. Apart from the Susan Sarandon thing (er, no!) it's pretty flattering, really. Of course, I am really more like Academic Girl, but without the sexy curled-in-the-stacks air and the litsnobbery (I will read Cosmo, but I won't buy it; I can get through all the editorial content in a supermarket lineup, so why shell out the cash?).

Germ-o-rama
It figures. I give up on competition for the present, take it easy for a couple weeks... and my bod crumbles. Let's see, now; we've had the abscess, the knee, the root canal -- and now I'm sneezing round with the Cold of Doom. Yukh.

Fairly quiet weekend. I did clean the living-room. Yes, only the living-room -- from top to bottom. Everything moved, everything dusted, scrubbed, vacuumed -- I found a mummified, horrible digestive by-product Thing behind the chesterfield. Animals are so disgusting. (Mind you, all that dust and muck probably didn't help ward off the budding cold.) Now it's sealed off, all doors closed. I don't even want to sit in there and spoil it, now!

Beauty isn't everything
This is so funny, I had to pass it on. (Nicked from the bookblog Beatrice.)

Ellen Fein, who has probably done as much damage to female self-image as Helen Gurley Brown through her self-help humour book The Rules and its sequels, got a divorce. Why?

Her teeth. A dentist to the stars messed up her cosmetic veneer job, which -- she says -- caused her constant pain.

We know the truth, though. Her husband, after seeing her come towards his Greatest Treasure for the first time with her gigantic man-eating Chicklets gleaming in the darkness of the boudoir, could no longer enjoy relations without fears of castration.

And rightly so. Read the book; it's true.

Important accessory
If our laptop ever gets fixed, of course. I'm pleased to see that the favourable review compares with mine -- though I have the adult model of Felis catus.

Er. Models.

Feeling mighty quibbly today. I'm off shortly for the first of my knee injections (eee-yuck) and the canal of my afflicted root will be roto-tilled tomorrow. Not, however, by the grim Germanic lady who first examined me.

The more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I felt. No special equipment (after my mother said, "Dr. D. doesn't do root canals any more, since he doesn't want to invest in all the computer software for measuring the root and things"); indeed, a very "bare bones" sort of an office... unkempt assistant spritzing disinfectant about in a jaded manner... I thought the dentist herself seemed fairly solid, and probably has done root canals in less luxurious situations than this -- but do I want a grim Eastern Bloc operation when I could be enjoying all the luxuries of Western medical decadence?

A friend of mine told me about another dentist, a Root Canal Specialist who is, she says, of such notable accomplishment that other dentists from all over Southern Ontario refer patients to him. I called today, mentioned her name, and to my lasting astonishment, got an "emergency appointment" -- for tomorrow.

I feel so relieved. I hadn't realised until after I called and cancelled the other appointment how it had been preying on my mind. I trust my dentist at home implicitly, but have had such terrible experiences with others, that I think I do now have a little bit of dental phobia lurking in the shadows of my brain.