Angel Cakes

Today I had one of my favorite conversations ever. It went exactly like this:
Him: I'm writing a song about you. It's about how you're my angel.
Me: I don't think I can be your angel. I swear way too much.
Him: It's called "My Fucking Angel."

The Art of Self Pleasure

It frigging rocks being 40licious. For the obvious reasons, of course, but also because you learn how to make your own self happy.

I worked about half of the last 48 hours. I won this really nice environmental award from the company, and didn't really get to celebrate it with anyone. I was feeling slightly catatonic, very grumpy and somewhat forlorn when I got home and it took 90 minutes to decide what to do: laundry, rent a movie, or one other thing that I can't remember.

So I rallied. I did three of my favorite things. I poured a glass of wine, popped a pot of popcorn (topped with Brewer's yeast and Silverwater Secret Spice) and watched online versions of The Office.

I am so fucking happy.

The Best of Bread

I knead you to knead me

Today was a long, long day. At least 12 hours at work preparing for this huge annual meeting. I got a lot done. It was kind of fun, actually. I always like scrambling around before the party better than the actual event.

A little more than a week ago, I was in the English countryside, baking bread. Loz and I rode bikes to the store several thousand kilometers away to get yeast and a couple other things. I screwed up the kilograms/pounds equation for the flour and ended up having to double the recipe. I did not get the Fahrenheit/celcius thing exactly right either. Some things the book said to do were physically impossible.

Yet, six hours later, we were rewarded with two gorgeous loaves of bread, as this must have been a very forgiving recipe. We ravished them that night, and the next morning with kippers from Orford, and even had some left over for his father.

Twelve hours at work vs. six hours making bread. There might be something profound in that but I am not sure what it is.

English Cream

Ice creams or condoms? You decide!

Good news and bad news

The same picture every tourist takes crossing Abbey Road. I don't care.

The good news! I got my camera back! It's a testament to the lovely people at British Airways and the Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX. I don't care what you say about them, they're OK by me.

The bad news: I cracked my Go-Go's Greatest Hits CD.

Physics, 40liciously

Graffiti, San Francisco style. "Love is what you'll get from me"

Love travels in many ways. Particles, as when we make each little decision, sound and action based on love. Waves, which are the compiled aforementioned particles. We can ride these waves, we can let them wash over us. And then there's laser beam love, which you can aim hard and true at someone.

I get that we have control over how we emit love. But we don't have control over how someone else sends it, or how we receive it. It might land with a thud. It might end up mangled, twisted around the gritty axle of an 18-wheeler. It might land on our plate of mashed potatoes instead of on our ready, doily-wrapped, glitter-sprinkled heart. It so rarely looks like we want it to. But it's still love after all, right?

The Buddhists equate desire and attachment with suffering. If I'm attached to how love should look or land, I will surely suffer. Instead, I'm trying to be delighted by whatever lands in my mashed potatoes.

Home

The reason that this post does not have a picture is because I left my camera on the plane. As they say in Merrie Olde Englande, "pants."