"I felt like the moon, the stars, and all the planets had fallen on me."

If I tell you that, right now, I'm sitting at Suzan's computer, nestled into a comfortably cluttered computer room in a small house outside of Atlanta, Georgia, you know where I am. If I tell you that I'm in my pajamas, with my hair disheveled and eyes still heavily shadowed with dark circles, you know how I look. If I tell you that my throat is painfully raw, and that most of my muscles are aching, you know how I feel.

It's really a pity that the entire process of feeling ill prevents you from enjoying the niceties that occasionally come from snagging the latest and nastiest bug to go around. Who in their right mind wouldn't enjoy being allowed to curl up on one's spouse and having one's hair lazily played with while watching Buffy reruns?

I woke up this morning with a feeling of…quiet panic. I opened my eyes when Tenzing jumped onto the bed, hinting in his oh-so-subtle way that "breakfast would be nice soon, Mom," and thought, "agh! I have to get up, get started, do…"

What?

My brain, still numbed and sluggish from sleep, ran through the possibilities that, given recent events, were likely to be true.

The phone was ringing. It wasn't.
Code work—I only have a few days before… Oh. Wait. I've already moved Quarto live. That rush is over.

As a teenager, I accidentally gained initiation into the secret society of solitary theatregoers. When, one rainy Saturday night, I could not convince anyone to join me for a screening of a movie I wanted to see, I found myself walking up to the ticket window, handing over cash, and guiltily whispering, "Just one ticket, please."

The first set of photos from the madness that is working tech staff at dragon*con…

Thanks to Andrew for passing this little gem on to me. I got quite a snicker out of these.

Ever notice how much we crave understanding from others? It is one of the guiding forces behind our interactions with other people. Failing the ability to allow another to truly see through our eyes, we resort to words. When we talk, we take the best option available to us: we fence with words to (gently or forcefully) turn our conversation partner so that they see the world from a perspective as closely matching our own as possible.

Words aren't magic, though they sometimes might feel like it. For those of us unable to communicate through art or music, they're our best hope of closing the gap betweeen others and ourselves.Sometimes they just can't suffice.

That seems to be my theme for the year: words that just don't manage to say it all, despite my best attempts to make it so.

Having guests over is one of the best (and, unfortunately, well-worn) excuses for laziness that I've found in quite some time. Got a project that needs tending? "I've got guests coming" is one of the prettiest reasons to toss one's code by the wayside for a few days in favor of infinitely more fun activities, such as sitting up late and gossiping.

Tsk. Can't be having this, folks. Those silly referer logs; they tell me when you're linking to my site. Next thing you know I'll be thinking that the referers mean that someone's actually reading this site, and if I thought that, then I'd feel infinitely more guilty about not posting many updates.

Oh, wait. I already feel guilty.So, yes. I'll tell you a story, see, and you'll all (all three of you!) feel better, having gotten your fix for the day.

Screen names are unchanged, for those of you needing a little inspiration in your life.

Painful experiences supposedly get better with the passage of time. Everyone's heard the adage that the pain of labor is forgotten shortly after the arrival of the child, and supposedly this sort of adage applies to lots more things than just labor.

I've got one word for you guys: liars. Tonight, while ostensibly digging for knitting and crochet patterns, I found a folder that I hadn't opened in quite some time. The first sheet of paper contained a grid of some kind, and when I looked closer, I started laughing.

[original on flickr]

I wonder about people who are crazy enough to do online journaling of any kind. Are these people safe to be seen in public with? Can they be trusted not to drool on themselves (or others near them)?

Every now and then, in the 0.000076 seconds between thought and thought-quashing, I think, "It would be interesting to have something along the lines of a blogmeet."

I've decided that the best way to handle such a deeply bizarre situation as this one is to treat it like the ludicrous thing it is; something so dumbfounding and jaw-dropping that, well, all you can do is just laugh, because there isn't a rule in the rule book for this sort of special circumstance.

Everyone over the age of twelve likes to fancy themselves the keenest, most astute judge of human nature to walk this earth, myself included. Luckily enough, most of the time, the fact that you're deluding yourself only sends you out on a couple of bad dates or leads you to bet on the wrong sports team in the Super Bowl.

One of two little recipe notes that Jody gave me a week or two ago and suggested I try. Exact measurements—bah, do what seems right for you. Experiment. Play with your food. It's fun.

Saffron rice with peas and pimentos

Good quality jasmine rice
Water (twice as much water as rice)
about 6 saffron threads
2 cans green peas
1 small can pimentos
chicken thighs

Again, more from Jody. As always, short on exact quantities; modify, adjust, and generally tweak as needed.

Scallops Harmonic

Large sea scallops
Small bottle of sambuca
whole milk buffalo mozzarella cheese (this stuff is CRACK)
shallots
clarified butter
cracked black pepper
sea salt

Mince the shallots, and turn on your broiler. Season scallops to taste.

Let's compare… As always, usernames not changed, for purposes of ridiculing the guilty.

Saturday night, ten-thirty. I hide my nails from view, not from shame or modesty, but to keep light and careful fingers on my wallet and cell phone. We are standing less than a block north of the county library, at the 'hard rock' stage of Big Spring Jam—which, notably, is not held in the spring.

(It took me a year to find out that the park in downtown is named Big Spring Park. Thus, the festival is named after the park it is held in, and does not—as I originally assumed—point to the inability of local officials to distinguish spring from autumn.)We are playing at sanity tonight, Danielle, Jeremy, and I; we are avoiding the testosterone insanity of the mosh pit for a cushier, less-cramped view a few hundred feet back. Instead of jostling for room and oxygen up front, we are standing on the tiny strip of grass that separates the parking lot from the street.