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Miles, poring over the snortlepig’s colouring book: “Tha’s Ariel. Tha’s Belle.”
Me: “We’re going to see those princesses at Disneyland!”
Snortlepig: “I’m going to go up and talk to them. And they’re going to say ‘You’re a very nice little princess’, and I’m going to say ‘Yes, but I’m not just a princess.’ And I’m going to tear off my clothes, and underneath there will be my Wonder Woman suit.”
Me: “Whoa. Awesome. What do you think they’ll say to that?”
Snortlepig: “They’ll probably say ‘I’ve never heard of you.'”
Comings and Goings
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1. We are down to one chicken.
Where the other two are, we do not know. The options are fourfold:
-Macy, the landlord’s sister’s dog. The landlord’s sister denies this. Macy looks enthusiastic and wags her tail, which is inconclusive. It does not seem politic to press the matter.
-The chickens across the way, who live in arguably plusher surroundings and include a particularly dishy rooster. This is the optimistic option, in which Arial and Lucida will come back one day trailing fluffy little chickens behind them. Naturally it was Arial and Lucida who trucked off, leaving behind Wingdings, the gimpy stoopid-looking one who was bitten by a dog. She is not laying, which in combination with her track record of dog-proofness may lend some support to the Macy theory.
-Tarantino the hawk, who circles above the orchard for much of the day with his eyes on Tiny Miles’ tender flesh.
Right now we’re rather at a loss. The obvious thing to do is replace the chickens, but I hardly like to fork out money and (slight) emotional attachment for creatures that may not live until the following dawn. If Wingdings survives the week, I suppose I can assume the malevolent chicken-eating spirits have moved on; but on the other hand, the likelihood of that has just gone down a notch, because:
2. We have acquired a dog.
Not permanently, mind you. We’re babysitting it for a friend. She being a boarder, it cannot live with her; and it usually lives with other friends, but – in worryingly vague circumstances – they decided they would like a break from it for a while, and so it has come to us.
Its name is Fargo, and it arouses no particular emotions in me. I like the colour, but not the shape, and I was never much of a dog person. But it seems a pleasant enough beast, and when we took it for a walk this afternoon I got resistance training and cardio, which is surely beneficial; so I am prepared to be affable to it. Not, however, if it digs up my basil.
3. We watched Superman Vs The Elite tonight, for Pig Night. The pig is fond of superheroes. In her mind, they have a clearly defined role: to catch girls. The bad men throw them, she explains, and they [the superheroes] love them, so they catch them; so they must be good, so why is Superman hitting that man? Deep questions indeed.
I particularly liked her reaction to Atomic Skull. “Why isn’t he dead, Mummy? He’s being hit VERY hard. Oh… he’s glowing his head, I guess he must be made of magic.” (Whereupon I suppose I ought to have explained the wonders of nuclear fusion, instead of elbowing Helpdesk Man and going “Heh – “glowing his head”.”)
4. I just finished an article about gender differences in fetuses and newborns. I found this study. Read it if you’re glum; it’ll cheer you up.
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That’s it. I am through. Enough shilly-shallying, enough meandering around the point and repeating the same formula ad nauseum. When Lana finally got around to telling Clark they needed a break, I told Helpdesk Man the same thing. A break from Smallville, that is, not Helpdesk Man; I like Helpdesk Man. But I don’t like Smallville. Mid-season 5, all the vaguely interesting elements have been rehashed to screaming point. Lex doesn’t like his father; we get it. He’s slowly turning evil; duh. Lana has doe eyes and Clark looks shifty and then angsts in private about his irritatingly holey rationale for not telling her his secret; yawn. I was thinking of inventing a drinking game based on the following buzzwords:
- A shot every time Jonathan Kent mentions How He Raised Clark
- A shot every time Lana flings herself embarrassingly at Clark, either for the purposes of making him ask her out (seasons 1-4) or tell her his secret (season 5), and another every time she pauses again while going down the stairs of the barn to let him change his mind, which he never does
- A shot every time Lex points out that he is his father’s son
- A shot every time anyone makes an ironic joke foreshadowing a) Clark’s eventual relationship with Lois, b) the Superman costume, c) Clark working at the Daily Planet or d) Clark and Lex becoming mortal enemies
- A shot every time Clark storms into Lex’s room flinging the doors wide
- A sip and a discreet cough every time someone showers in the room above the Talon
- A shot every time it becomes clear the plot of the episode is a ripoff of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
- Finishing up the bottle every time an episode does all of the above
Only trouble is, your liver would give out before the first ad break. I’m not saying the show doesn’t have some good concepts – Lex and Clark initially being friends, f’rinstance – but the writers seem determined to knock said concepts into our head repeatedly with a sledgehammer, and it is beginning to damage my calm. Plus, when the hairline on the forehead of the leading lady starts making you want to kill, you know it’s time to take a break from the show. So Helpdesk Man and I are returning to the X-Files for the time being.
I measured the small child’s waist discreetly at Bible study today, and only need to add the elastic and sew up one side to her frilly skirt. Feel v efficient. I have also gone through scads of old Suite articles to tweak keywords, add photos and perform other revenue-increasing bits of magic. Plus, this morning I got to send a fiery cease and desist letter to Associated Content, one of whose writers – a scabrous and misbegotten wench – has been ripping off my articles as well as those of a number of other Suities. It was fun. :p
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Did you know Dean Cain, aka Superman in Lois and Clark, is one-quarter Japanese? I had no idea. I found it out while perusing the IMDb user comments for said show… apparently his Of Colourness caused considerable outrage during the show’s run, as did the fact that he was, apparently, five foot nine – another factoid that had escaped me for four seasons, but hey, Lois didn’t notice he was Superman and she was an investigative reporter, so I’m not beating myself up over it. Anyway, I was somewhat surprised to learn of the vitriol surrounding him – my favourite quote, buried on page nine of the Comments, was “Hang up the Superman tight’s Dean, and go pick your nose!” Makes me proud to have a degree in Screen and Media. Anyway, how can you not love Dean Cain? He did this:
Which, aside from promoting pure evil, is all kinds of awesome.
In searching for that, I also came across one of the Internet’s more disturbing phenomena (in a quiet, reflection-of-the-society-in-which-we-live kind of way, not in a making-fluffy-dice-out-of-underprivileged-kids way): the Celebrity Wishful Romance Fanvid. For the uninitiated, this is where fans of a show decide that the lead actors have such amazing chemistry that they must be together in real life, despite the fact that one or both is married. So they edit together sappy clips of Teri and Dean, during and between takes, to a schmaltzy love song and garner dozens of comments about how Dean looks sooooo much better hanging off Teri’s arm than Teri’s actual husband, and how it’s Not Too Late. I once saw a similar video with Torvill and Dean (the other Dean, obviously, not Superman, although now I think about it the tights wouldn’t look out of place on an ice-rink); and another with Sarah Michelle Gellar and David Boreanaz. And really, how sad is that? Not only does it denigrate the actors the people profess to love by insinuating their onscreen chemistry isn’t the result of, yaknow, acting, but it seems the sign of a highly twisted psyche to desire vicarious fulfilment through the not-so-storybook situation of an actor cheating on her husband with her costar. I mean, sheesh, people. (Note to self: look up origin of the term “sheesh”. Google keeps directing me to kebab pages.) Anyway, Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle dated and ended up breaking up, and that sort of thing would surely be more disillusioning than the fact that actors occasionally marry outside their cast; no?
Anyhoo. This week’s challenge is to edit 20 of my older Suite articles – either content/keywording or pictures – and write at least one article based on solid use of the Google Adwords keyword tool. It’s a fascinating tool but one I’ve only used sporadically; and having just learned that a fellow Suitie earns enough to pay her mortgage with only 50 more articles than myself, I feel compelled to step up my professionalism a notch. Granted, she writes about taxes and finance, which probably has better CPC than articles about washing your hair with baking soda; but still.
I also gotta read a book a day to the snortlepig, and make a birthday present for her small friend who’s having a second birthday party on Saturday. (So it begins.) I’m broke and have a bunch of nice fabric left over from my patchwork skirt/sister-in-law’s baby quilt, and the small friend is about the same size as the snortlepig: so I was thinking of making her a wee twirly skirt. Which is, of course, yet another thing to sew, and with a deadline too; but hey. My current list of to-be-completed sewing items now also includes a Gibson Girl skirt and waistcoat; a steampunk/rockabilly chocolate brown skirt and corresponding tulle petticoat; a padded camera case; and two long-sleeved shirts for the pig.
In fact, I should probably go and sew something right now. Leaving you with the question: Would you rather be married to a man (or woman, as the case may be) with Superman-like abilities, or an average joe (or jane, respectively)? It’s a tricky question; on the one hand, constant feelings of inferiority and the probable impossibility of having biological children (although I’m not sure on the canon of that); on the other, free trips to Hawaii. And a husband who could do the housework in ten seconds flat, but then, what would that do to one’s personal oomph? I for one would always be tempted not to do anything useful, on the grounds that Superhubby could do it in a tenth of the time and I may as well leave it for him; which would not be healthy.