Melancholic, phlegmatic, sanguine, choleric. Check.

Aura Cacia makes this wonderful sugar scrub that's a nice addition to the bath. You can get it unscented, too.

Routines = comforting. The March air was delicious, too. Schlep, dump, rejoice. If you're not using Catalog Choice to cut down on your junk mail, you might want to consider it.

It was, apparently, classic rock day at the co-op. There's nothing quite like picking out your treasures to the strut-thump of "Back in Black," or sashaying around a corner in accord with Jim Morrison, because hell yeah you're a twenty-first century fox! You hear that, gourmet cheeses? You just don't know who you're dealing with!

*g*

No, seriously: have been jonesing to try a new cheese, and picked out one with the delightful moniker, "Red Dragon." That doesn't sound at all like cheese. It sounds like something vaguely illicit that should be consumed in the back of somebody's air-brushed van, to the strains of Procul Harum. Will report back on the Red Dragon experience and let you know if it measures up.

*snickers&*

Later, tried to be social and failed miserably. Much of being social seems to constitute pretending one is fine, happy, gracious, a good person, etc. No allowances are made for the fact that somebody might be a festering compost heap. To be fair, since I was mostly quiet, I don't think anybody realized they were dealing with a festering compost heap, which is just as well. Escaped as quickly as was decent. It's probably good for me to be with people, but am just not up to the Edith Wharton charade at the moment, so, will probably go back to my plan of just avoiding everybody unless I absolutely have to deal. I do solemnly swear that I will not take out my horrid rages on any innocent persons.

*sighs*

In the midst of my endless search for compelling fiction, started Connie Willis's Domesday Book. It has potential, though am not sure I like the heroine overmuch - she's too damned perky and confident. Is it wrong to hope she gets taken down a peg or two? Probably.

*wry smile*

Anyway, this university has a history program that involves sending people back in time to different eras to do ethnographic studies. Despite the fact that the medieval period hasn't been cleared by the IRB, one professor itching to jump the gun and get somebody back there teams up with a really ambitious undergrad who wants to go back for reasons that aren't entirely clear yet (she may just be young and annoying - we don't know). The rest of the book is her diary of the experience, hence the title. Like I said, has potential, but don't know if I can stick with the perky. Given that she's entering an era of plague and burnings at the stake, there's hope.

It's snowing again, large, fat, wet flakes. Hopefully all the capering squirrels I saw yesterday still have winter rations, and a cozy bolthole. Squirrels are smart, I know; they can handle it. It will be interesting to see if their human counterparts come to the library today, or stay home in their own cozy nests.

Poet du jour = Billy Collins. Love!

Poetry II, electric boogaloo: Tesla, baby. W00t! Am fascinated by Tesla. Don't know if it's the madness, the electricity, the shared ethnicity, or what. But the guy was singular, and I like singular people, so, by extension, I like poetry about singular people. Also, David Bowie plays him in The Prestige. What a hoot.

Still not a lot of flowers, but the Hillary and Obama signage has sprung up overnight, like Queen Anne's lace. It's going to be an interesting spring in Metropolis, weatherwise and otherwise, that's for certain.

Have to get in gear for my 7.5; a bientot.

That is vaguely moodily all.