In Which Our Heroine Refrains From Quoting Sappy French Poetry (And Aren't You Grateful)

21 July 2004

It rained this morning in the Twin Cities. Do you want to know why it rained this morning? Because I have functional outdoor faucets. Also it is an odd-numbered day. Therefore I could have watered the lawn. Therefore it rained.

Of course.

It seems to have stopped raining, and that's a good thing, because I hope to get downtown to see the iron sculptures for Aquatennial, and I think they might be outside.

I watched "Evita" last night, one of three movies I picked up at Blockbuster in the "Mark's not very interested" category. I've been listening to the soundtrack on Timprov's computer all week and thinking a lot about what people want out of their governments. That movie was the first time I was ever capable of being disappointed in Madonna. She was fabulous. I don't think anyone could have done it better. And instead of going on to revive musical theater movies in America (or, heck, even trying), she wrote some lousy children's books (because who cares if it's lousy if it's for kids?) and did her "ghetto cowboy style" thing. Bleh. Before that I had no expectations of Madonna. Now, disappointment.

Ah well.

I have to say that there's one line I'm dealing with much differently now that I've heard it differently. "One guy doesn't dirty his hands" is much different from "one guy doesn't dirty his pants." Go figure.

Now I'm reminding myself that it's only Wednesday. I can get some work done and read and so on; I don't need to make bars or boil eggs or fetch veggies or anything for a few days now. It's only Wednesday.

I'm going to work longhand today. It was working well for me last night, getting me through some scenes that were otherwise not clicking well.

It has been a weepy week for me. You can't predict what will cause the waterworks, and you may as well not try. Sometimes I'm not even particularly upset/moved/etc. It's just that my body has decided it's time to cry again. The nice thing about e-mail is that nobody has to stop and go, "Oh, no, are you okay? I'm so sorry! I didn't mean anything by it when I said I liked that book...that like...uhhh...are you okay?" I can just blow my nose and go on having a sensible discussion. Still, I can't say it's the best thing in the world, and I'll be glad when my body decides to play some other silly game with me instead.

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