Yesterday was quite the awesome, reference-wise. Heavy on the science/engineering/medical front, where I held my own masterfully, with help, but with a redemptive art auction price question that was actually sort of cool, and where I could really shine. Usually those questions are folks bedazzled by Antiques Roadshow, and firmly convinced they've got a gold mine up in their attic. The patron in question might actually have something interesting. Plus, I got to learn a little about Vietnamese painter Le Pho who, apparently, really enjoyed painting peonies. Peonies, en francais, sont "les pivoines," which is just plain pretty, n'est-ce-pas?

At any rate, it's nice to be engaged at work, and to feel one has made a difference in the beautiful-crazy world.

After, ballpark! The Metropolis Moonmen suuuuuuck, and that's a big 10-4. But coach_bruce and I were, at one point, the only people in our section, good circumstances for conversations philosophical. And I got to have a pretzel with mustard. There's really nothing on the planet that can't be enhanced with a mustard-soaked pretzel, served with a side of ballpark. Also, dusk turned up to watch the game in a fetching shade of blue that faded to black as she silently observed the fracas, then retreated in bemused dismay.

Life is so very, very beautiful, isn't it? I will not quarrel with Virginia Woolf's assertion that it is very, very dangerous to live even one day, but I shall argue that it's breathtaking, too. Which is, of course, exactly what she meant.

*smiles*

Have been up and painting, a different project this time. White paint is difficult. How many coats are enough? How white is white enough? Do you eventually have to reach a point where you say, it's never going to be as white as I want it to be, and go on? Or do you keep layering on the white in hopes of reaching perfection? An interesting predicament.

Poem du jour = House, Billy Collins. It's a repeat, but a darned good one. Billy Collins = love.

*fuzzles*

Interesting language/perception experiments. Also, "leebish" is just plain fun to say. Methinks shall steal it.

*g*

In matters ridikkalus, scuppies. Come on.

*eyeroll*

Your heroine hates how everything needs a cutesy name. Seriously. This is actually kind of ironic, in light of the language experiments, above. But why is it necessary to figure people out and peg them into categories that we can then conveniently label? People are ever so much more interesting than any arbitrary boxes into which other people put them. Or, for that matter, into which they put themselves.

Alternet had a treasure trove today; observe:

Happy Earth Day. All rhetoric aside, here's some concrete-practical.

Yet another book for my waitlist. Most amusing in this excerpt? The list of what you can and cannot say in a book published by Steeple Hill.

Candid commentary from a sex worker who is not ashamed. Not for the prudish, and probably not work-safe in most environments. Some may find themselves delighted by the segue into the erotic, as the essay draws to a close.

*glances at clock*

Plenty of time to perform my civic duty, and, perhaps, create a little more art before the daily. But first, we dance! Because it's a sunny Tuesday morning in Metropolis, and Elvis Costello beckons imperiously.

*g*

That is fancifully all.