Blips on the Radar, and a Bit about Fighting Boobs
Messed up a batch of fudge this week. Now have an excellent Ziploc tub of chocolate sauce to eat alone or on ice cream.
Got a long-term temp position, and lost it, all in the course of a week. Apparently I am not enough of the sort of person who thrives on stress, and they didn't think I'd survive tax season. Hey, I survived graduate school, with my intellectual self-worth intact, no less. But I guess that's not my call. But I'm not bitter.
Did a little research for an upcoming conversation in my fic. At a pivotal juncture Elisabeth is quoting T.S. Eliot, and I wanted the right bits from "Prufrock" and The Waste Land. I should mention, by the by, that Elisabeth is much more of a Lymond than I am. I mean, I do quote things at random and sometimes even at length, but I am not quite so adept at using poetry and philosophy for subterfuge as Elisabeth is. Giles, who after all was born during the height of the New Criticism, merely says: "Would you leave Prufrock out of this?"
Like me, however, Elisabeth has Fighting Boobs. I have been made aware several times in the course of the last eight years that when I get mad I throw my shoulders back and stick out my chest like a little bantam cock. When you're male, you just make the bantam cock analogy and move on; but when you're female and your chest has two fleshy protuberances on it, it becomes funny. No wonder nobody takes me seriously when I get mad. Unfortunately for Elisabeth, I have given her the same problem. If she's going to be a mirror to Giles, I figure her struggle for dignity should be an equally losing battle.
Given that the story's written by a person who once lamented, "My life has donkey's ears!", it shouldn't be too difficult.
Messed up a batch of fudge this week. Now have an excellent Ziploc tub of chocolate sauce to eat alone or on ice cream.
Got a long-term temp position, and lost it, all in the course of a week. Apparently I am not enough of the sort of person who thrives on stress, and they didn't think I'd survive tax season. Hey, I survived graduate school, with my intellectual self-worth intact, no less. But I guess that's not my call. But I'm not bitter.
Did a little research for an upcoming conversation in my fic. At a pivotal juncture Elisabeth is quoting T.S. Eliot, and I wanted the right bits from "Prufrock" and The Waste Land. I should mention, by the by, that Elisabeth is much more of a Lymond than I am. I mean, I do quote things at random and sometimes even at length, but I am not quite so adept at using poetry and philosophy for subterfuge as Elisabeth is. Giles, who after all was born during the height of the New Criticism, merely says: "Would you leave Prufrock out of this?"
Like me, however, Elisabeth has Fighting Boobs. I have been made aware several times in the course of the last eight years that when I get mad I throw my shoulders back and stick out my chest like a little bantam cock. When you're male, you just make the bantam cock analogy and move on; but when you're female and your chest has two fleshy protuberances on it, it becomes funny. No wonder nobody takes me seriously when I get mad. Unfortunately for Elisabeth, I have given her the same problem. If she's going to be a mirror to Giles, I figure her struggle for dignity should be an equally losing battle.
Given that the story's written by a person who once lamented, "My life has donkey's ears!", it shouldn't be too difficult.
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