I heart Pablo Neruda

because I too love someone without problems or pride.

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:

I love you as certain dark things are loved,

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries

hidden within itself the light of those flowers,

and thanks to your love, darkly in my body

lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you simply, without problems or pride:

I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,

so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,

so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Thank you, ee

The world needs more poetry. For your reading pleasure, here's a snippet of an ee cummings poem:

i love you much(most beautiful darling)

more than anyone on the earth and i
like you better than everything in the sky

sunlight and singing welcome your coming

Don't click on me.

If you get an IM from me saying "Click on this," well, don't.

A colleague of mine sent me just such an IM, and I made the mistake of clicking on it (it looked like a Web page!) (and he always sends great links!) (that are sometimes even work-related!).

Up popped a dialog box that said, "Do you want to download this .exe?"

"Sure!" I said gaily, and clicked the Dumbass button.

"Really?" The dialog box asked. "Because the publisher is unknown, which means he probably hangs out in dark alleys wearing a bulky black coat with lots of watches inside that 'fell' off a 'truck'."

And I said, "Oh hell, all publishers do that. That's just good business!" and clicked the Download Anyway, You Fool button.

And then nothing happened.

So I tried to download it again.

Yeah. Ten years at Microsoft and I am still as clueless as ever. (Nb: This is no fault of Microsoft's.)

So either my virus software caught it, or the smoke's about to start pouring out of my machine.
Anyway. Word to the wise.

Update: I just heard that people across the company have been clicking on this thing all morning, so at least I know I am not alone in the clueless boat.

Rainer Maria Rilke

wrote this for you:

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the othersfall: again and again the two of us walk out together under the ancient trees, lie down again and againamong the flowers, face to face with the sky.

16 leeks, or why I prefer the self-checkout line

When you cruise through a manned checkout line with 16 leeks, you're going to get some questions. And you can either buy in and be a good little Social Contract Girl, or you can scowl and mutter None-a your goddamn business, not endearing yourself to the checkout person, who's really just making conversation and trying to make a long dull day go by faster.

Do you see why it's hard to be me?

So when the QFC in my neighborhood installed the self-checkout line, where you are checker, checkee, and bagboy all at once, I practically sang hosannas right there in Frozen Foods. I don't really like talking to people about my produce, particularly when I'm only buying 16 leeks and some toilet paper. It raises uncomfortable questions.

The answer, of course, is "potato-leek soup and backup TP," but no one ever believes that.

Also: If you haven't yet read Bob Harris's Prisoner of Trebekistan, do it. Do it now. Great book.

The truth is out there

Check out this site - digitally manipulated photos, made to fake up artifacts of aliens, unicorns, cyclops, and more. Many of the photos are really good, and some are downright funny. There's a terrific cave-painting photo in there, too.

I'm into cave paintings, these days, because I decided I wanted to do an encaustic series of faux cave paintings starring Tyra Banks and the crew of America's Next Top Model. Who better to be the bitch goddess than Banks, after all?

Valentine's, schmalentine's

I have never been able to write a Valentine's Day card that I was even remotely happy with. It's something about being sentimental on command, I think, that just stifles me.

Doesn't mean the love's not there; faithful readers of my old blog know all about the mad love I've got for C. It's a wonder the man puts up with me, but he does, probably because he was dropped on his head as a child. Thank God for my butterfingers mother-in-law.

But Eden over at Fussy wrote what might be the perfect Valentine's Day message for me and C, and so I quote it here, and will be stealing it later today:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue
I know I'm a pain in the ass
But then, so are you

Alert the media

The other day I was fooling around on C's new weight bench, and I decided to impress him by showing him how much I could lift.

You know where this is going, right?

It wasn't dramatic. I didn't drop the bar or seize up or anything. In fact, it felt fine -- that is, until the next morning, when I moved my neck in the shower and saw stars. And now? Now, my friends, I look like a turtle. And I am in PAIN. The only reason I'm not all hopped up on muscle relaxants is that I have meetings this afternoon. Meetings that must be attended! The bane of my existence: meetings.

I am in so much pain, I think C should get me a puppy. That's how much pain I am with: the kind that can only be soothed by adding another soul to the household. Arf.

Ow. Even that hurt.

Also, go to YouTube.com and check out the God Inc. videos. Hilarious.

OK, I am lame

Like you hadn't figured that out already. But here's the thing: Jenny Crusie made me a mod over on the Cherry Forums, and then I had to read three work in progresses from three critique partners, and then, well, I don't know what happened then except I was up to my ears in critiques.

Meanwhile Pere languishes. It's the whole cobbler's shoes thing. But! I just realised that Hades is friends with Sisyphus, who is a smartass son of a bitch and the LAST person Hades should be going to for advice on love. Hijinx ensue.

And then there was this stalker-type guy from 1991 who was compulsively reading my site - this one and Odious - and I admit it, it freaked me out. But now I have come to terms with the fact that if he shows up at my door, my husband C will pummel him into a bloody pulp.

In other words, asshole, "I never want to hear from you or see you again" means "I NEVER want to hear from you or see you again." Got it? Never isn't over yet.

OK. Now we're past that, we will resume a regular posting schedule. Without stalkers. Bye Darin. Stay lost.

Really, I am blogging

Yesterday morning, I wrote this HUGE funny post about not writing. I dragged all kinds of friends in - I quoted Eileen and Heidi, I made fun of my rampant neurosis, I romped all over the page.

And then I thought, You know, people are always complaining about how Blogger eats their posts. They don't seem to know how to CTRL+A to select all, and then CTRL+C to copy, just so if they lose a post they can get it back, lickety split.

And then, like the trusting fool I am, I CTRL+A'd, and on my way to hit CTRL+C to copy? The entire thing disappeared.

Let me rephrase that: the entire fucking thing fucking DISAPPEARED on me. No amount of "Recover post"ing helped, either.

So you'll just have to make do with this.

I promise I'm coming back. It's just my process.

AND INCIDENTALLY. Apparently hitting CTRL+C and then hitting one of the arrow keys is exactly what deletes posts. Not that it works that way in any other application. Thank you, Blogger. Thanks. No really.