Reading: "Dragon's Egg". Watching: "Micmacs". Museums. Me. Web.

I bought yeast today.  I feel so domestic.

Around the time my son was born, I took a cue from my boss and picked up a whiteboard to write stuff on. It wasn't the biggest whiteboard ever because of the unusual shape of my office walls (joys of a early 1900s craftsman), but I figured it would work for what I needed. Bizarrely, though, I wrote on it once and was never able to erase it.

I couldn't figure out what I had done wrong; I had used the right markers, not a sharpie, but nothing would get the marker off the whiteboard. I never took the whiteboard down, but never wrote on it again, not wanting to make it worse. For about 2 and a half years, it stayed up there.

They put up a new film every weekday. Very clever. No links because YouTube is blocked at work.

has self destructed at 83 years

It was Thursday morning and I still remember it, Sunday evening.  It was a surreal dream.  I was having a conversation with a friend who has been dead for years now.  He knew he was dead, and we continued on with the conversation anyway.  And then there were these people from college, who were hanging out with me.  It was soon time to leave and they all got into the dresser drawers, like that one Seinfeld episode with the Japanese tourists in Kramer's apartment.

A confession: I don't know how to date. In part, I have to blame this on being a lesbian. Lesbians don't really date. We meet someone at a club, dancing, bodies sweaty, pheromones raging, bass pounding in our ears and chests and fingers. We go home with her, and if the sex is at all reasonable and she has enough of the right books and CDs on her shelves, we quietly arrange for enough of our stuff to be brought over that we don't really need to return to our own apartments, except maybe to feed the cat, at least until the lease is up.

Okay, that's both inaccurate and unfair.

Except that it's still true on some fundamental level.

And it's equally true that I don't know how to date.

Today everything Toronto came into sharp focus when I was trying to head to the library to get some things done. My way was breifly and delightfully interrupted by the St. Patrick's day parade. There, after the ambulances, shriners and irish dance schools, in between the local associations of County Donegal and County Armagh was the Philippine Heritage Marching Band, playing Ricky Martin.

Yesterday was my mother's 81st birthday.

They're running a documentary series about the "greatest tank battles".

Some of the old WW2 tank guys they interviewed were describing the way you can see incoming shells skimming over the ground, getting bigger and bigger...