The Seated View

When I asked you to choose my next non-fiction adventure and the votes started rolling in for The Island at the Centre of the World – mor cast a phone vote - I discovered that after all that, I did know what book I wanted to read and it was Body of Work: Meditations on Mortality from the Human Anatomy Lab by Christine Montross. Naturally, I then engaged in a clever (?) bit of subterfuge and a deep cover agent volunteered to stuff the ballot box. The good news is that I didn’t have to – Body of Work squeaked by to win with one (real) vote. I do think that regardless of how bad I am at lying – and I’m very, very bad – I’d have problems convincing you that Jeffery Deaver , Mary Roach and Jessica Sachs all read my blog… (p.s. maybe my undercover agent can enlighten us about Jessica Sachs – I’m not sure who she is) Moving onto the book. Although I am going to get more verbose about it, it can be summed up neatly in the following two sentences: I know things now that I di

Thanks so much for all the birthday attention - it nicely met all my Attention Slut requirements for the day. Which, by the way, turned out to be absolutely wonderful. And was a nice contrast from this past weekend, which was a smidge frustration. To wit: This past weekend was Buskerfest. Again. Seems like they have it every other month or maybe it's just that it's so much "Fun" that time constricts. This year, it's expanded from the past 3 days to 4! Yippie!! By Sunday, it became necessary to go to the grocery store. It's halfway down that condo on the right. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, thought I and besides, I'm out of orange juice, hummus and cucumber. Necessities, y'know. As it was taking me some time to navigate the crowds - where's that compass and cattleprod when you need 'em? - I decided to take in a few performances. This one was good. But this one rocked! I think? I liked the cow, though. Mission accomplished witho

Here it is. Or rather, it'll be here tomorrow. 45. Forty-five. Femogfyrre. Quarante-cinq. Fünfundvierzig. Cuarenta y cinco. XLV. I'd hoped that by saying it over and over again, in different ways and languages it would lose its meaning. No such luck. (OK, so I had to look up the last two. I don’t speak that much Spanish yet and am more than a little iffy about the Latin – it’s been eons since I was even close to half-way decent with that. By the way? Latin is pretty much the only high school subject that I know I use on an almost daily basis). Ever since I was a teenager, I've looked forward to the magic of forty. I knew it would be magical because my mother told me so and she has never steered me wrong. Her theory is that as women near 40, they start coming into their own, become more confident, stronger and in general care less about what other people think and more about what's right for them. Turns out she was right - as I have watched

Today’s a bit of a cop-out – I’ve got a deadline that needs wrangling (the bleedin’ thing’s like herding cats) and all my wee grey cells are therefore occupied. Well, mostly they’re getting distracted by anything shiny that passes by, but I’m going to force the wee fuckers to focus and produce something worthwhile today. I hope. In the meantime... I forget who recommended Philip Pullman’s books to me – Bonnie ? Diane ? Someone else altogether? – but I’d like to say a hearty thank you! I started The Golden Compass last week and I am entranced, charmed, obsessed, etc., with the wonder of this world. It is an astounding book – Pullman has created a different world, both so familiar and so fantastical that I don’t want to stop reading. I suspect the next two in the trilogy will be acquired the minute I finish #1. Thanks for introducing me to this world, whoever you were. As for the rest of you? Go get these books. Buy, don’t borrow – you’ll want to read them again and

Picture this: I’m at a corner at the start of a quick run for groceries. The opposite light turns red and several cars, a van and a large firetruck stop in front of the crosswalk and I start to move across the street. Halfway – exactly halfway – the chair stops. Not the “clunk, one motor stops, I spin around in a circle” that has happened before . No, stop. Dead. Both motors. No clunk. I push the joystick, heart hammering like a piston. Nothing. I lean forward to look at the display – it’s on, in speed 4, no error message. I turn the chair off, noticing the distinct shake in my hand, aware that the countdown to red has started, that several cars, a van and a large firetruck are preparing to go. That I am seriously in the way. I turn the chair back on, it beeps, I push the joystick and…. it moves. I start breathing again, chanting justgetmeacrossjustgetmeacrossjustgetmeacross and miracle of miracles, it does. I sit on the sidewalk. Tremble for a while.

We’re about midway through the eighth season of Big Brother - yes, today is about a reality show, but be patient, there is a major rant coming - and for the first time in nearly 8 years of faithful obsession to the awful brilliance that is BB, I’m considering dumping the show. The remaining contestants are: Dick. I find him fascinating. There are times when he's walking caricature, an Id on legs and there are times when he is the closest real-life approximation of Tommy Gavin in Rescue Me I've ever seen - equally aggravating, yet at times so poignant it breaks your heart. On one hand, he is loving, generous, loyal, funny and smart and then every now and again he breaks into intense verbally abusive rages. He wears his heart and his hatred on his sleeve, appears to be rebelling against something still, is working very, very hard to reconcile with his daughter (Daniele, below) and when he used his hard-earned Veto to take her off the block it got to me (yes, I know it

I've been invited to Facebook a few times – the last a couple months ago where it was accompanied by a short message saying "it's a great way to keep in touch with friends!" and as my instant reaction is "that's why they invented the telephone. And email", I didn't sign up. However, this weekend my lovely sister - who can make me do anything - told me that she was on it and she found a bunch of friends through it and... well. I was bored, not in the mood to watch the Very Serious Movie in my DVD player and long story short, I lost most of the remainder of my weekend to playing around on Facebook. One note, though. In a moment of extraordinary techno-twittiness (it is too a word!), I apparently instructed the contraption to send an invitation to be my friend to everybody in my email account (i.e., to anybody I've ever emailed who are also on Facebook). Later, I was informed by someone who knows better than I did that Facebook is not

"... may your god go with you” - Dave Allen Last week's walk on the edge of controversy and the resulting comments were so much fun that I’ve decided to dive into another usually taboo topic. Politics? Nah, makes me too angry. I know! Let's talk about religion! But before I move on, I feel that a wee preamble is in order. My idea of controversy very firmly does not include disrespecting other people's beliefs - what can I say, I am both Danish and Canadian and thus tend to implode in a paroxysm of politeness at the slightest provocation. I fully respect faith and your right to believe in whatever you wish, be it the Christian God, Allah, Shiva, the Goddess or a purple polkadotted platypus. A nyway, back on track. You all know that I unashamedly adore pretty much any aspect of reality shows, but there is one thing that annoys me well past a zombie eye roll and right into incoherent sputtering and that's when a contestant st

An oasis of calm in the middle of the city...

I forgot what day it was, what with the Harry Pottering and… well, really, only with the Harry Pottering. I'm in the middle of chapter 31 and since about the mid-20s, I’ve had an overwhelming urge to go read something else for a couple of weeks, which is what I do when I love a book/series and it's coming to an end. Zoom through most of it, then take forever to read the last 50 pages, but I can't do that this time. Michele will kill me if I don’t hustle, because she’s been waiting since last Monday to speak to an adult about it and is not exploding with the waiting at all - I’m sure it’s merely altruistic interest in my health and well-being that she calls me daily to ask where I’m at in the book. Another reason for the desired break is the nightmares. Did I mention I’m a tad impressionable? Anyway, so there I was, hurtling out the door to a bright-and-early morning meeting - why must they make me think so soon after I wake up? - and all of a sudden, I realize it