That Virginia Woolf biography I'm reading -- it's killing me.

It drags on and on and on. VW mopes and writes and gets sick. She is jealous and petty and brilliant. She is a genius. She knows it.

Every time I read something that resonates with me, I fold over the bottom of the page. The book has so many folded-over pages that it doesn't close anymore. These resonances, they are excerpts from her letters, her books, little pithy observations on the part of the author (whose trite analyses are starting to get to me). Her comments on writing and being a writer are my favorites.

What am I trying to prove to myself? That I want to be VW, that I too could be brilliant and yet flawed? The thing is, the printing press doesn't save her. Nothing does. She is brilliant and yet flawed and she throws herself into the river and kills herself.

Hot cross buns

My first time baking with a yeast sponge!

I adapted one of the recipes from Chocolate and Zucchini. I was a little timid about using the active yeast, especially since my instant-rise yeast has been acting a little strange lately. So I proofed the yeast first in milk and sugar.
Half of the buns had to be raisin-less because raisins are anathema to a certain Mr Q. And instead of glaze or flour crosses, I rolled out some marzipan and mixed it with a bit of lemon juice. As you can see from the picture, the marzipan cracked as the buns expanded.
Oh well. They were tasty, especially with butter and jam, and I was so proud of myself! And, in sum, this is housewifely-est post I have ever written. Excuse me, I must go purge now.

I do not post that often when I am sleeping well. But I have insomnia again (sigh), so here we go.

One of the songs from The Sound of Music has been running through my head: "I have confidence in sunshine, I have confidence in rain ... Besides what you can see, I have CON-FI-DENCE IN MEEEEE!" This since some resolutions made somewhat hastily in the shower: firstly, I decided that I will not allow my mother to bully me around anymore. She has been doing this for twenty-odd years, and I've put up with it -- not because I'm a pushover, but because I want so badly to please her. Secondly, I got sick of waiting for an e-mail from Hannah. Yes, it was a struggle to be open with her. Yes, I deserve a response. But, come on. The information was volunteered by me; she didn't ask for me to pour my problems on her. So I shall suck it up and accept the fact that she is too busy fucking Christopher to return e-mails and that is that. A fair-weather friend she shall be.

So I resolved that I am strong, that I don't need to seek the approval of my mother or Hannah or anyone else in order to be happy. And I sang that silly little song to myself in bed, over and over again, until I could no longer tolerate Mr Q's little sleep-snorts and my throbbing lower back and had to get up. No, I am not confident in me -- no, not yet-- but maybe I will get there someday soon.

The final shower-revelation being that I would never have come to any of these resolutions if it hadn't been for all these stupid health problems. So I guess, in a way, it's something to be thankful for. The end.

Publishing

I want very badly to be a printer-publisher. (Note the dash, which is not a slash.) Ever hesitant to jump into things unprepared, I have been looking at different programs. There's a two-year program at SAIT which would put me in good stead ... but so expensive and TWO YEARS ...
I can see it though. Can't you? A slowly-built, beautiful little shop of equipment: a Vandercook proofing press, maybe something a little bigger too eventually. Book presses and type cases and a scary but efficient guillotine that we'd only turn on when we had to. Big windows with shutters set in cedar shakes, salt air and wildflowers outside. There would be the smells of ink and paper and glue and coffee. And this would all be within driving distance of a city, just a small city, but a city with life and culture and dreams. And AUTHORS would come to me, beautiful brilliant authors with wonderful worlds in their minds and words to share, and I get to be part of it, even though I haven't been through the trial of fire called learning to write. I want this life, and I know that I can have it. I just have to somehow make that first big step. And not be sick anymore. And make my mind stay inside my body. Somehow.

Sun protection panties

It makes no sense. I bought a few more pairs of the old standby, the boy-cut panties from MEC. The labels caught my eye before I ripped them off: SPF 15 sun protection. Say what?? I mean, no, of course I don't want to sunburn my ass, but why does my underwear have sun protection?



UPDATE: I ordered the thongs from the website and they too have sun protection. Hmm.

I wish I had some vegan friends. This, I suppose, is not something that everyone wishes for, especially those carnivorous dinner-party types who invite vegan friends to their soirees.

Nevertheless, there are so many awesome vegan and vegetarian cookbooks out there. I've been appreciating them lately, but only Mr Q and I enjoy the fruits of my labour. I made some vegan cupcakes a few weeks ago. They were delicious and rich and -- except for a slightly heavier texture because of the whole wheat flour -- they really tasted like any other cupcake you would come across. They were even approved by Mr Q, the resident cupcake expert. I brought some to the Slavs as a birthday treat. Funny how they were raving about how good they were ... UNTIL I uttered the V-word.

Damn Slavs. We're so different when it comes to dinner parties. While I like to serve something easy and flavourful and light, they're all about the seafood and roast beast. So when they come to my place, they're self-righteously disappointed by the pasta dishes and nibblies. Then, I'm wracked with guilt at their place when I see that they've spent the day in the kitchen.

All in all, I place the blame fully on the shrimp: either there isn't enough of it (because I'm not serving it at my place) or there's too much of it (because I'm not eating it at theirs).
Hence the wish for vegan friends.

The boy and I have been watching old episodes of The Muppet Show and Mary Poppins lately.* I loved Mary Poppins when I was small. My sister and I weren't as mischievious as the Banks children, but I dreamed that to our house Mary Poppins would come floating down on a cloud, feet turned out, heels pointing down, purpose in every breath. I still love the movie today, even the cheesy animatronic robins when she sings about spoonfuls of sugar.

And The Muppet Show is great too. The best episodes so far have been Elton John and Dudley Moore (Animal: "Duuuuudley ... kill! kill! kill!"): weird and entertaining for all ages. You can never tell which guest stars will make good shows, though: all in all, Charles Aznavour was waaaaaaay creepier than Alice Cooper.

*This is nothing new for us, our two favorite movie genres being kids' movies, mafia movies ... and ... *ahem* our THREE, our THREE favorite movie genres being kids' movies, mafia movies, Tarantino films ... and ... of course, our FOUR, our FOUR favorite movie genres being kidsmoviesmafiamoviesTarantinofilmsLordoftheRings ... ohyesandwelikeMontyPythontoo.

Irma(70)

This woman looks amazing. Are the sauna sessions what keep a gal so fresh and fashionable?