*sings* "my own pers.on.al weirdo"

I had an interesting exchange today on the phone at work.

Me: "XYZ Library, Miss Y* speaking."

Caller: "Hi. What time are you open until today?"

Me: "Today...9pm we close."

Caller: "aah, this is the nice Miss Y?"

Me: [laughing] "Oh no, I'm terribly sorry, you must be confused. This is the horrible mean and nasty Miss Y."

Caller: "Oh you are so lovely. You are the one that does the storytimes, yes?"

Me: "Ah, the storytimes."

Caller: "You are wonderful. You are so gorgeous."

Me: "Oh okay, thankyou. See you later" [hangs up].

Now - do I email the boss with this as a compliment to Library staff, as she has instructed us to do more often - or as an incident to be reported in case I've a new personal weirdo?

And what is more scary:
- That a random patron thinks I'm lovely?
- Or that it may be one of the Dads who bring their toddlers to storytime?


*Pseudonym-city. Deal.

It's my blog...

And that's as close to an apology as you'll get for the following anecdote.
Go here, or here, or here, if you wanna read something more intellectual.

Today I spent the afternoon looking at art.
Oh so many different artworks! Nothing too boundary-pushing because it was, after all, an investment art show. Halls filled with people looking for something comfortable for the walls of their comfortable homes.

I saw etchings of famous artists, strange sculptures, grainy black and white photos, canvases bigger than 3 of me, paintings by an old highschool classmate, and at least 15 galleries represeting Minnie Pwerle.

And in the midst of all this bombardment of beauty and blandness and wonder, I turn around and my breath is utterly whipped away by a face that's looking at me with an expression of love, and I can see pure light behind the skin and the divine behind the eyes. And for half a second I am totally floored.
And then I realise it is my lover, Mr M, and I am again even more stunned by the moment that has just passed.
He moves towards me and I lean into him and nuzzle his neck with a kiss. I turn my head to the side to listen to something he says but find I am in a daze and miss every word.

Some days are crazy-making.

I love you Mr M.

Off on a tangent.

Huge day (and evening) at work.
Brain a bit zonked to talk about it this instance.

Here's a joke from my best friend from when I was about 10 years old:

"what do you call a mushroom that goes to parties?"

"A fun guy"
*snorts*

This was prompted by reading this:
"Native Truffles - Fun Guys
Next time you go for a walk in the bush, don't be surprised if you suddenly catch a whiff of bubblegum or peanut butter. It might be the left-overs from a picnic, but more likely, there's a native truffle lurking nearby. As winter approaches, these fungi form fat and fruiting bodies just below the soil surface, where they wait to be dug up and devoured by native animals."

Which comes from here.

And which lead me on to the wonderfully named Fungimap.
(check out the picture of the cage fungus, 'Ileodictyon gracile'!)

Marvellous stuff.

Gloves.

Many weeks ago (more exactly, and aptly, in the middle of Leather Pride Week) I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to do 3 wonderful cuttings. One, as mentioned previously on this blog, was the deepest cutting I'd ever done. The next was the most detailed, and a third was impromptu and yet just right...after all, what better accessory to wear to Inquisition than a new design cut red into flesh.
By the time it was all over my stocks of alcohol wipes, blades and gloves were running dangerously low. The alcohol wipes and blades were easily remedied. Gloves were more of a problem as it is a rare visit to Coles that yeilds my favourite small-sized gloves.

I like gloves. The latex ones exert an amazing pull on me. The feel of them on my skin and face can stop me in my tracks.
The smell of them.
The snap!

And then there are the cotton, silk and leather ones. Almost all I own are vintage simply because those are the only ones I find that fit my small hands. White ones with fabric-covered buttons, silk lined black leather, fancy cotton stitching, soft cream kid leather, old stiff leather handed down from my mother.
I love wearing them with very short sleeved tops. Arm exposed from wrist to shoulder.
I love thrusting my hand into them fingers splayed.
I love peeling them off while surveying a newly entered room.
I love wearing them and touching your skin, your arm, your face, but at the same time not touching you at all.

While I was fishing change from my purse to pay for entry to a club last night, the doorbitch noted my black Italian leather gloves. "You can't do much in them, can you." said she.
"Au contrair" I replied, "I can do a lot in them!".

And then there is Sarah Waters "Fingersmith". Not a shabby book. Reasonably engaging movie. But oh! Brilliant glove theme and scenes!

But back to the latex glove shortage.
With nothing to be found in the supermarket, Miss R comes to my rescue with a mention of a certain chemist stocking small gloves. I am soon the proud owner of a large box of small latex gloves. And lo and behold they fit better than my previous brand!
Throughout last week I found myself randomly trying them on. Or even just looking at the box and smiling.
I am amazed at the level of delight this purchase has created.
100 little latex joys.

But tonight I have even more exciting news.
Extra-small gloves!
Oh I do believe the fairy-glove-mother is smiling on me. In an impromptu visit to a tattoo shop this evening (which is another story all together), I acquired a box.
As I exclaimed to Mr M on the way home; "Look! They fit like, um, gloves".

So now I have gloves, blades and alcohol wipes.
Who's up next?
*rubs hands together in anticipatory glee*

And more cold weather food posting...

Had a wonderful roast last night at House of Femme - thanks to Miss R for the invite and to chef Miss B.
Lamb, roast vegies, red wine. So good.
Best gravy I've had in ages too.
In honour of chef's prediliction for cheese, we did a desert with 2 different cheeses.
(Stolen from Mr L and Miss A)
Stew some pear slices.
On puff pastry put ricotta cheese, pear slices, sprinkle with brown sugar, bake until done. We served it with marscapone.
Mr M reckons future changes should include more sugar, peeled pear, and icecream instead of marscapone.
Stories told at the table of strawberries soaked in balsamic vinegar, rolled in icing sugar and dipped in marscapone, were not believed by the others. But, dammit, I know that I will be vindicated if they ever taste it.

Tonight's cooking exploits included the following cake.
[Well, the batter made 2 loaves, so half a cake got sent to the Summer Hill Bordello aka The Velvet Vulva aka The Polished Pearl. And I'll take a loaf to work tomorrow and see how it goes down].

Cardamom coffee cake from The Moosewood Cookbook

1 1/2 - 2 cups Butter [this is an estimate - the recipe calls for 1 lb. *shrugs*]
2 cups Light brown sugar
4 Eggs
2 tsp vanilla extract

4 cups Plain Flour
2 tsp Baking powder
2 ½ tsp Baking soda
½ tsp Salt
1 tbs Cardamom powder [I ground cardamom seeds in the coffee grinder until fine - they were even stronger smelling than the bought powder then!]

2 cups Sour cream (or yogurt or buttermilk) [I like yogurt best]

Filling:
¼ cups Light brown sugar
1 tbs Cinnamon
½ cups Walnuts; finely chopped [I used almonds and wacked 'em in the coffee grinder for a few seconds]

Preheat oven to 350 deg. F. (180 c)
Grease and flour a HUGE tin, or two loaf tins.

In a LARGE mixing bowl, beat butter with 2 cups brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each. Stir in the vanilla.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cardamom in a separate bowl.
Add the flour mixture, 1/3 of it at a time, to the butter mixture, alternating with the yogurt. Stir just enough to blend after each addition. Don't beat or overmix.

Combine 1/4 cup brown sugar, cinnamon, and almonds in a separate small bowl.
Spoon approximately 1/3 of the batter into the prepared pan. Sprinkle with half the nut mixture, then add another third of the batter. Cover with remaining nut mixture, then top with remaining batter. Lightly spread into place.

Bake approximately 1-1/4 hours [yes, over an hour folks] or until a knife inserted all the way in comes out clean.
Allow to cool in the pan for 20 minutes, then invert onto a plate. Cool at least 30 minutes more before cutting into it.

Makes the house smell good.
Makes people happy.
Makes tummies full.

eat words eat meat

I am constantly in awe of people who are able to make themselves act a certain way to suit a setting or aim.
I can't. I just keep stumbling along. No facade. No calculated turn of phrase. No thought out response. Dammit.

I have been trying lately to not respond and work through stuff in my head first. Particularly things that make me angry. I've never been one for lashing out in anger. Or hell, even voicing it. (seems I must've taken some girl pills once). But I am at least trying to sort it out rather than push it down and away inside myself.

Sometimes I feel dreadfully inadequate in front of people who think more before they act, and can recall facts, quotes, and the punchlines to stories. In front of people who can remember what they learnt in uni. Sometimes I think I shouldn't be so harsh on myself. Some of these people are still in uni. They still breathe, everyday, their mazes of words. I on the other hand, hear the echo in my head of a dear lad I went to school with, who often said "fuck words foul me".

******************

The last few days have found my food and drink consumption matching this weather.
Rye bread, mackeral, herring, soups, glogg, beef, bagels, cabbage, sauerkraut, beer, bread, potato dumplings, mulled wine, absinthe.
My god.
It is rare that I shake my head at the night before. But mulled wine and absinthe creates a different Miss Y. It was fine at first. An ex's birthday dinner, laughing and chatting with the straights. Making sure I don't rub the new girlfriends' fur the wrong way. Matching wits with the crazy musicians. Slipping back into the teasing of an old best friend.
I came to the second venue during a loud comedic time. But even in that atmosphere I felt I was too brash for the gentle lads I talked with. Unable to rein in my expanding jangle of words or reclaim any semblence of intelligence I slipped away.
Overjoyed to find missed phone calls from my love.
Later collected off the shining wet street by a loud-music-crazy-steering-here-love-want-a-beer car.
We let our scattered energies calm each other and tumbled together into the rest of our night.