Though I don’t have adorable kitty pictures this week, (not that I couldn’t have adorable kitty pictures at the drop of a hat, mind you) I do have a collection of random stuff that’s been floating in the ether at Casa Spector. (I know. I should really clean the freaking ether up here.)
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I had to give up drinking coffee a couple of years ago. For the most part, I was successful at this, though I have been known to poach coffee from The Dude at Saturday breakfast. (Saturday breakfast is a tradition Sven Knudson started about twenty years ago. A fluctuating group of malcontents show up at various restaurants to consume vast quantities of food – and to bitch.)
Anyway, I met a friend at Starbucks the other day. I haven’t been in Starbucks since I quit drinking coffee. Not unlike the alcoholic who should stay away from bars, I found just being in a place so redolent of brewing Sweet Nectar of the Gods was more of a temptation than I could stand for the first year or so.
My friend arrives and gets an iced coffee. Being the shameless mooch I am, I ask if I can have a sip of her enticing cold beverage. (Mmmmm, caffeine.) She graciously obliged.
I take a sip. And then I have that moment we’ve all had, (girls more so than guys I suspect) the, “Do I spit or swallow?” dilemma. Because what I have in my mouth is not Sweet Nectar of the Gods, but rather Satan’s Piss.
You know: The Devil’s Urine. Beelzebub’s tee tee. Lucifer’s pee. Mephistopheles’s piddle. This stuff is so foul I’m pretty sure they must have an EPA permit to sell it.
And I realize why Starbucks sells all those Vente, Grande, Mocha Swirl with a Half-gainer concoctions. Because if anyone actually tasted the coffee in them, they would be convinced, as I am now, that Starbucks is actually in league with The Dark Lord (no, not Voldemort) to corrupt the taste buds of an entire generation.
And speaking of Voldemort, I finished the final Harry Potter book this week. If you haven’t read the book – stop reading now. There are “spoilers” ahead.
I hadn’t noticed it before reading this book, but Rowling cannot be called a feminist. It struck me as I was reading that all the female characters are either 1) a Mom/housewife (Hi, Mrs. Weasley!) 2) a Spinster (Hey there, Professor McGonagall!) or 3) a villainous bitch (Too many to be named here). (And, no, you don’t get to count Hermione, who turns out be pretty much useless in the final book. Except for hooking up with . . . well, I won’t “spoil” it.)
Take Fleur, for instance. In Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Fleur is the representative from Beauxbatons to the Triwizard competition. So, she’s supposed to be no mean shakes in the wizarding department, right? And what does Rowling have Fleur doing in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows? Well, she’s married Bill Weasley and they’ve settled into a little cottage by the seaside where she’s . . . a housewife. Ye gods. (Oh yeah, she does get to be the flustered bride at her wedding to Bill in the first part of the book.)
Three years after competing in the Triwizard competition, I guess her ovaries have dropped and she’s now only good for magical sweeping and dishwashing. And Mrs. Weasley finally gets to use magic for a purpose not housefrau-ish, during the final battle at Hogwarts. But is she fighting Voldemort? No. She goes after Bellatrix Lestrange in a burst of motherly fury. Damn you, Estrogen!
Anyway, here’s a fun Potter link. Because I haven’t geeked enough in this post already.
And the lovely image on this post is a shot of my brain. (Thanks for the scanning, Brad!) I had an MRI on Friday. Woo hoo! As tests go, MRIs are better than, say, having a needle biopsy of your spine. But for those of us with claustrophobia, it’s really not a picnic.
I had a different kind of MRI this time ‘round. Last time, they just put me on the sliding bed, and just popped me into the machine. This time, they lowered what looked like a cross between the muzzle for Hannibal Lector and the mask from The Man in the Iron Mask over my head. I spent about an hour trying not to move. This was so much more difficult than I remember it being last time.
The MRI machine is really noisy. Even when it’s just idling, it sounds like the Tardis warming up. They took hundreds of images. When I was trying to pick out my favorite images for this blog post, I got to watch the images fly by starting from the top of my brain going down, sideways, and from the bottom up. Once you’ve seen your own sinuses, it’s really difficult to think you’re all that and a big bowl of spicy guacamole anymore.
And finally, I saw this over at Best Week Ever and it was just so damn odd I had to post it here.