Tuesday, September 12, 2006

What to do when it feels like it's been raining for days.

1. Sit inside and read another Aubrey/Maturin novel, thanking your lucky stars that there are actually quite a few left in the series, and you needn't commit suicide through sheer black depression just yet.

2. Decide that you've been sitting around too long. You need exercise. EXERCISE, damn it! Decide to go work out.

3. Lie down under the industrial strength ceiling fan in your bedroom to dry off the sweat with which you were soaked at the very idea of working out in this humidity.

4. Wonder whether, if you lie here long enough in a sweaty t-shirt, you're going to start to become mildewed.

5. Wonder whether the answer to these and other questions might lie at the bottom of a dry martini.

6. Wander downstairs to make one.

7. Lather, rinse, repeat.

8. Start to surf various blogs. Become appalled by the bad grammar, specious reasoning, and general miasma of self-congratulatory fatuousness.

9. Decide to correct some of these flaws with some gentle advice. Decide that gentleness sucks. Correct all these and many other mistakes with great vigor, chastising sundry wrong-thinking miscreants, insulting their persons and their mothers' chastity or lack thereof.

10. Blog about it.


  1. Okay! So I fucked up the syllable count (and the meter, and the rhyming in the first stanza) in my sonnet! I was only an English MINOR. Cut me some slack, eh?

  2. Sometimes WATCHING exercise programs on television is the perfect work-out.

  3. But what's the point of having a blog if you can't be self-congratulatory and fatuous?

  4. Wait.

    Was this my day or yours?


  5. Dear Badger:

    I had already made my feelings clear about yon sonnet. I hereby commission you to write a Petrarchan (or Spenserian, I'm not particular) sonnet "To Tar-Jay," payment to be made in Maybelline lipsticks and Jane eyeshadows.

    Dear Blackbird:

    But what about those of us for whom it is too exhausting to lift the remote, let alone press the button?

    Dear KathyR:

    I am allowed to be self-congratulatory and fatuous on my blog, but the fatuousness stops here. Or if it doesn't, it should.

    Dear Joke:

    Every day is the right day!

    (all of) yours very truly,



Gentle Readers:

For the time being, I've turned off comment moderation. Please don't spam; it's not nice.

xxx, Poppy.