After dinner, I dropped by Luc’s place at Batavian for five minutes - seeking the eye of the storm that was about to culminate in a Celtic history exam Thursday morning. Though he hadn’t been expecting me, he was still kind and let me hug him, or better said, squeeze him, for most of those minutes. I wrapped my arms around his chest and leaned ( Read more... )

Killian came over after dinner to do some ironing (Hestia has blessed our hearth with an iron, while Killian must suffer the wrath that only an unironed shirt can wreak upon an otherwise presentable culinary assistant) and somehow we got onto the topic of sex. I believe that we were in fact discussing my preferences in men, and I, of course, ( Read more... )

This entry will provide a happier counterpoint to Thursday's downward plunge, or such are my intentions and hope. Alec came for dinner last night, ostensibly to meet my housemates. We made spaghetti, topped off with a loaf of braided bread, and easy green salad ( Read more... )

"Being productive" is not in my repertory these days. My amalgamation of Foucault, Saga of the Volsungs, and standpoint feminism is lately always falling victim to the swashbuckling charms of procrastination (well, I tell myself, the paper's only due on Monday, so I've got plenty of time as I've reserved the weekend for a writing marathon). In ( Read more... )

I renounce any claim to the profession of political blogger. Still, a person can only take so much. It’s almost 13.30 Central European Time and I’m on the edge of my chair, multitasking between Foucault (as usual), CBC, BBC, The New York Times, and CNN ( Read more... )

These politically incorrect nursery rhymes have no place on my blog, but I couldn't resist. I wrote them last night with Killian. Given that they won't live long past today, I suppose that their only literary benefit is a certain comical cynicism - assuming, dear reader, that you're of the Democratic persuasion ( Read more... )

Today in numbers ( Read more... )

I need a pastry cutter. And a potato masher. A rubber scraper. A set of measuring cups, US style. I'm baking bread and yoghurt cheesecake. Processed sugar rots my teeth and mind. Luc asked me when my first novel would be published and I told him that if all goes well, sometime in 2006, and then I remembered that it would probably scandalize ( Read more... )

To rid myself of the "it's not fair" syndrome, I set out for the library in the midafternoon (as more astute readers will notice, mere hours after my whining diatribe on Luc's new unbachelorhood). Objective: to expose the White Capitalist Patriarchy for what it is ( Read more... )

Not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair...at this point I've typed "not fair" so many times that it's beginning to look like a mysterious Gaelic word: "nót faír," whatever it would mean...and by the way, Scela Muicce Mac Da Tho is not a ( Read more... )