Elizabeth Twist

If you could have three wishes from a genie, what would they be? 
Submitted by tatteredhalo.

Long life, good health, deep insight.

or

An endless supply of cold hard cash, great sex on a regular basis, perfect serenity of mind.

or

The capacity to transform all trials and tribulations into genuinely amusing anecdotes, a steady supply of good company, and the ability to be interested in things.

Every profession's got 'em: those strange turns of phrase that come from the need for a common grammar, a collective language, or an expression representative of shared experience.

Two that I've learned lately:

When discussing how open they are about their beliefs and practices, witches will talk about being in or out of "the broom closet".

When discussing the readiness of a woman's cervix to expand so that she can give birth, labour and delivery nurses call it "favourable" or "unfavourable".

...but not grammatically correctly.This slogan courtesy of yet another slogan generator, suggested by Dant. (And I must say that despite the crime against apostrophe, I think the slogan itself is awesomely apropos.) And since I've got diseases on the mind today, this is the result of further unclean generations:

Two pox are better than one.

Clap music to the ears.  (Just surreal. Punctuated the way I think it ought to be, it would read: Clap: Music to the ears. Um...)

The best darn plague you can get.

Try leprosy you'll like it.

Looks like the spring weather is going to hold here in the centre of the empire, at least for this week. Weather's lovely, and not to be underestimated: nice weather definitely does make things easier. Lots of things are blooming, like magnolias:

magnolia sky, washington dc

And let's not forget the protests:

capitol protest 12 march 2007

When I first came down here last year, I really was amazed that this sort of thing wasn't going on all the time. Notwithstanding the rather peaceable protests of last month, I still wonder why, if the American public does indeed object to the war as much as they seem to, there aren't more people camped out on the capitol building's front lawn. Now that I've been here for a while and become used to the pristine everything's-okay-here-nothing-to-see-go-to-the-museums-and-enjoy vibe, these lone protest tents seem a little bit out of place, but also have a certain adorable hubris about them. Like a puppy that's trying to bite a giant's ankle.

While I was taking this photo, three or four groups of tourists paused to take pictures of each other in front of this sign. I couldn't tell if they were excited about the protest, or if they were just treating it as yet another tourist attraction: a novelty to talk about when they get back home.

I wonder if they'll stay long, or if, like the magnolias, they'll disappear almost as soon as they've blossomed.

Fact: The Host was the most popular film in Korea, ever.

Fact: The Host is a little too long.

Fact: The Host induces that particularly effective blend of emotions that only Asian films seem to accomplish (sad, funny, scary, sad, funny, exciting, sad, resigned), and that tend to leave me feeling both satisfied and a little somber.

My recommendation: see it. The monster kicks arse, and it makes me think that Korean filmmakers have it all together in ways are very promising for the future of horror. Run to see it if you're at all into creature features.

It's actually warm here in Washington. W. visited this weekend. She's my best friend; I've known her since we were 13. We had a fabulous visit. She's that person (everyone should have one) who puts everything into context for me: and since our friendship is twenty-three years old, she's got a lot of context.

purple tulips

This afternoon I walked W. to the train station, said goodbye, and took a meandering walk back through the neighbourhoods between here and there. Capitol Hill is full of charming aged row houses, and, new this weekend, crocuses and daffodils and about-to-burst magnolia trees. It's warm and people are wandering around with just-waking-up-from-winter looks on their faces.

My magic image of the day (and I do wish I'd had a camera for this one; the purple tulips will have to suffice):

On the lawn in front of a somewhat-scruffy-but-appealing apartment building, a guy had set himself up on one of those lawn chair loungers--the kind that it's tricky to get out of without tipping over, metal frame with plastic mesh over it. You know the kind. He was in the sun, wearing a faded blue t-shirt and broken-in jeans. Sneakers on his feet. He had a paperback in one hand, and he seemed totally absorbed in it. A can of something or other in his other hand. And on his lap, sitting bolt upright, an alert white chihuahua, whose bat ears honed in on everything and anything happening on the street.

Today, this is the image I will return to as I think about perfect contentment and how transitory and beautiful it can be.

How do you handle phone calls from telemarketers?

I tell them I'm not home right now, but if they like, I'll take a message. Works every time.

I am re-reading this right now:

Ted Mooney's book

 Author: Ted Mooney, originally published in 1981. Full of absolutely gorgeous prose, and loaded with all kinds of neat ideas. Plus, in the opening sequence, a woman makes love to a dolphin. Here's a smidge from the beginning:

It took Melissa nearly the full three weeks to grow used to sleeping in the bed that hung suspended from the ceiling of the flooded house, and even then, even after she had surrounded the bed with shower curtains to protect herself from water splashed or slapped, she would find herself awake in the night's stillest hour, listening to the pump's dull pulse as it circulated fresh seawater through the rooms, listening beyond that to the sea's slow suck as it entered the cove on which the house was built, and from the center of her insomnia she would gaze up through the skylight above her at the meteor showers that streaked the Caribbean sky, and she would think: I am going to die from the strangeness of this. By morning I will be dead of the aloneness and the strangeness.

I have re-opened the novel I started writing during last year's NaNoWriMo, which got sidetracked by life stuff. Zombies, vampires, plagues and Shakespearean drama are once more floating around my noggin in delightful combinations. If I work at it diligently, I figure I can have a draft done by the end of October, just in time to head into another NaNoWriMo. 2007's novel in a month project is going to involve nukes, Mae West, and the film It's a Wonderful Life.

I've got another job interview coming up this week. This is actually a followup to an interview that I was quite sure was the one on which the committee would make its final decision. Apparently their decision was that they needed more information. Plausible speculation suggests that it's down to me and one other person.

I wish I could say I'm feeling grateful and happy about it, but really I'm anticipating a massive blow to my self esteem. I wish my ego weren't as tender as it's proving to be. Or maybe "brittle" is the right term. Isn't that a phrase they use for diabetics, when they're starting to deteriorate because of the disease?

Fractious: that's the word the vet used to describe my cat's behaviour the last time I took him in for a blood test. That's a good word. Maybe if I work it right, I can hopscotch from brittle to fractious. And from fractious to fabulous.

I drink a brand of tea that I quite like. It's tasty, comes in organic options, and combines slightly unusual ingredients in fascinating combinations. (I would particularly recommend the ginger, which includes black pepper as part of the blend, but because I'm about to make gentle fun of this product, I won't mention the brand name here.)

I have even gotten used to the fact that each bag comes with a cute phrase printed on that annoying paper tab that dangles from the string attached to the bag. "Love is compassion," these bags-o-wisdom tell me. "Live to share." Not constraining themselves to three-word aphorisms, I have also been told by my tea that "Inspiring others toward happiness brings you happiness." That's probably true, I think, blissfully preparing another yummy cup.

Until yesterday. Imagine my surprise when the message was this (with apologies for the stain--that tab fell into the cup, as they almost always do):

or else!

Suddenly I wasn't in happy wisdom land any more: I was back in grade 8 gym, doing laps around the track. I was reminded that I still haven't finished that article I promised I'd write back in October. In short, I didn't feel enlightened: I felt...bad. Deep down inside.

I have been chastised by my tea.