18 June 2001

It's not stormy here. That's why the blues.

I am not sick. I wouldn't dream of being sick, in fact, because I have too much to do, both work stuff and fun stuff. Not sick at all. Pay no attention to the throat. The brain feels fine (of course, it has no pain receptors...did you know that? Free fact for you. Your brain cannot hurt, no matter what.), and the brain is in charge, right? So I'm not sick. I'm going to drink cups and cups of lemon chamomile tea just for fun. Chased with cranraspberry juice, because I like it so much. But it won't be foolish for me to run around spending a normal day doing everything I can think of, because I'm not sick.

Indeed.

I'm going to finish Sabriel this morning, and my (longish) letter to Liz, and my edits on Fortress. That's my plan for the morning. The afternoon gets other stuff.

Ohhhh. Last night Timprov made Cuban black bean soup. It was so nummy. Now we're trying to figure out what the rule is for recipes, because he got the recipe from a cookbook. It was changed rather slightly. How much does a recipe have to be changed before it's a different recipe? Before it's Timprov's and not Crescent Dragonwagon's? (I'm not kidding. That's the cookbook author's name. I really hope she changed it herself, because if her parents saddled her with that....) If you have an opinion on this, let me know. It doesn't usually come up with me, because I'm physically unable to let a recipe alone. I have to twiddle with it. If it's cooking. If it's baking, not so much so, although I tend to add and subtract things like chocolate chips and nuts at will.

Two of the top headlines today are about Chelsea Clinton graduating from Stanford, and about graft and corruption in the world of cricket. (The game, not the children's magazine.) Did nothing happen anywhere? This is supposed to be big news? I'm supposed to care about this? And one of our editorial writers yesterday started going off on how "nobody" was considering the idea that one or both of the President's daughters might have a drinking problem. First of all, I'm not sure what news sources she was using, since everyone I read considered it, even if only to reject it. And second, margaritas with your dinner are not a drinking problem, they're a culinary experience. Problem? Yes. The laws.

You know who else I feel sorry for, besides rock stars these days? People who are trying to be punks. We saw one on Mission Blvd. the other day, a girl who must have been 15. Do the math. Her parents could have been punks, too. That's so sad. "Look, I'm all rebellious with spiked up pink hair and a nose ring!" Yeah, whatever, kiddo. That's real cute. Go play with your little friends.

(I don't patronize seven-year-olds who are being reasonable. So I feel like I can be forgiven for patronizing fifteen-year-olds -- and even fifty-year-olds -- who are being ridiculous.)

So sad, when nonconformists actually have to not conform, rather than just dyeing their hair pink. I mean, it seems like pink spiky hair is a nonconformist's birthright. It ought to always be something that would make everyone's parents freak out. But it's just not, and pretending it is won't help.

You know who else I feel sorry for? People whose throats hurt (even though they're not sick) who get sludgy cranraspberry juice. Cranraspberry juice is not supposed to be sludgy. Not thick.

Wait, that's me.

I'm going to schedule another minute of feeling sorry for myself into my day before I take care of everything else that's on this morning's agenda. Don't you be sick, either.

It's my little brother-in-law's birthday. His golden birthday, in fact. But I already wrote about him lately, so I'll just wish him a happy birthday.