In which I am hungry.

Well, it's dinner time and I find myself in a house with no food (none belonging to me and of the dinnertime persuasion, anyway). This is, of course, due ot a complete lack of foresight on my part, but this self-awareness ain't going to fill my tummy. And so it looks like I'm having a can of soup and possibly some pasta. Mmm. There are some bits of salt and pepper squid in the freezer, but I'm a little concerned about how good for me deep frying is. Anyone want to weigh in?

Soup. It's what's for dinner.

Tomorrow I have to go on the unappealing search for undergarments that I can wear with very particular outergarments without said undergarments being immediately noticable. Sigh. When did getting dressed require so much effort? I am not expecting much success, especially in light of recent bad moods.

But as the Mr Whippy van finally decides there are no more kids on this street and moves on, I hear the jug has boiled, so it's time to whip up some culinary brilliance. Then I'm going to tempt fate by watching "What Lies Beneath". Before bedtime, no less.

In which I am making headway into becoming a grumpy old woman

Nothing like a rant to get the blogging mind back on track.

Today I'm complaining about the growing trend that seems to permeate film, and in fact is not that recent a trend, when I think about it. What it is, is the idea that it doesn't matter if the guy is tubby, short, hairy, or generally not that attractive, but the GIRL has no option but to be hot. No questions.

I don't know if I'd feel better about things if the guy were also required to be hot. Or whether, if they were both ordinary looking, I'd feel as though a victory had been won. All I know is that the current state of things irks me. The girls are required to look deeper to find true beauty, but the guys are allowed to do what they like. Have I put too much thought into this?

Well, possibly. And yet, I felt it necessary to put in a blog. I suppose it's something that seems to have bled into my life, lately.

Meanwhile, the other night I saw The Box. If I had ever seen Donnie Darko, I probably would've been more prepared (same director), but I haven't, so I wasn't. (Side note: before the screening the MC said "I'm guessing there isn't a single one of you who hasn't seen Donnie Darko", followed by laughter from the audience, like la di frickin DA, nerdlingers.) The first part of the premise was REALLY well done -- the moment when the button is pressed (because you know there's no movie without that happening, but you still don't want it to happen) was gasp-inducing. Anyway, it was all very tense and quiet and suspenseful.....and then it went a little odd. Like, paranormal odd. Like zombie vessels with nosebleeds, odd. I suppose it raised some interesting questions, but I would have preferred a little less of the paranormal, I think. I mean, SOME, sure, but I think there was a more interesting story in the bare bones of the premise that didn't need the hoo-ha.

Last night, after a soul-crushing night in which I discovered that people I've known for half the year as part of my dance class don't actually know my name, I missed my connecting bus and ended stranded in the middle of a major road with no taxis in sight. This is what I don't like about Point B - its transport system leaves a LOT to be desired. Anyway, what followed was a 40minute walk home alone at 11pm, with many a run-in with cobwebs and bitey insects. Needless to say I wasn't feeling my best when I finally made it in the door, and lay on the floor for some time watching Glee. Unfortunately, even this excellent show (I'll have to express my love for it some other day) failed to lift me out of my mood, hence today's grumpy blog.

Grumpily yours,
O

Random story #1

There are three golf balls on the moon.

The first was a practice hit, or so Neil had attested. This may have had something to do with the fact that it lay embarrassingly close to its original position, half-buried in the fine granules of moon-dust not far from the footprints the first lunar module left behind. The moon had felt the shift in its surface makeup, lightly, like an itch, or a fly landing on a person's cheek. It had recognised the extra mass of the golf ball, too, and in the end had accepted it with the philosophy of one who has witnessed a larger scope than could be disrupted by a mere golf ball. It appreciated the similarities, though, of the pock-marked orb that now made up part of its mass.

The second had been a hole in one, or close to. Few knew that several minutes of the first lunar landing had been spent arguing over the legitimacy of that shot. It now lay against the flag pole, next to a slightly incriminating footprint that suggested it had been nudged at some point out of its actual landing.

The third ball had rebounded directly off the pole, the result of a misunderstanding of the nature of the atmosphere. It had driven into a rocky area, where the relaunch of the lunar module had knocked a fragment of rock into a slow lob. Eventually, it had made contact with the ball, ricocheting off the latter and knocking it into a rocky gutter. The ball tipped, tripped, rapped and rattled through the low-gravity atmosphere, gaining momentum with each sluggish arc. It was surprised by its own progress; looking back it saw the earth-rise, upwards the diminishing speck of light that came from the engines of the lunar module as it powered upward, leaving the golf ball to its own devices. Abandoning, even, to an environment too ancient to even fathom its existence.

Eventually, of course, the ball would come to a stop, and the moon's orbit would continue on and on into each new space, taking with it the three new additions to itself.