My Quiz

Since my dear friend Clair has created a quiz, I felt inspired to do the same. Enjoy.

http://www.quizyourfriends.com/yourquiz.php?quizname=060128194522-719065

Oh, yeah, and this is my 50th post!! Yay!

"Of Cannibals"

Michel de Montaigne once wrote an essay with that title. I am merely borrowing it and make no claims to brilliance.

It's strange -- is it not? -- to think of all the double standards that we have. Or at least, some of the ones we used to have. For instance, most of us would say we are opposed to cannibalism and have always been...but did you know that there was once a fad of cannibalism that streaked through Europe and all the way across the pond to America under the guise of medicine?

Yes, indeed. Let me explain. In my class entitled English Literature II, we were reading Aphra Behn's Oroonoko; or, the Royal Slave. Our professor, Dr Van de Brakk, supplemented our reading with a few passages from Montaigne's Of Cannibals.

This, for me, brought back memories of just about every book I'd ever read on ancient Egypt and mummies and archaeology. We living humans have not, until recently, treated mummies very well at all.

Mark Twain once wrote that he saw Egyptians use mummies for train fuel (though given his penchant for tale-telling, who knows if this was true or not).

Ground-up mummies were made into paint or tint for artists; though they reported that it went on wonderfully smooth and had a rich colour, it soon cracked.

And the worst, of course, is the cannibalism I mentioned earlier. Mummies were ground up finely and mixed into a "medicinal" powder, to be taken internally.

This began, I think, sometime around medieval times and lasted for quite a while. It was supposed to be a cure-all, a wonder drug. Hah! Cannibalism is cannibalism, my friends, no matter how long someone has been dead. And we condemn the Donners? *eye roll*

It is but justice that when some people crawled into the long tunnels leading to the tombs where many mummies were buried together that their own torches caused the resin-soaked mummies to ignite and, consequently, burn the living invaders to death in the process.

I shall say no more on the subject except to apologise that this blog was not more cheery.

True/False Round Two...et caetera...

Well! So! Certain personages want to know why I have not posted and/or answered comments...the answer is forthcoming.

First, the background story. As you faithful readers know, I have recently joined a gym and am attempting to integrate more physical activity into my daily life. The Dear knows I need it!

Also, there is an ice rink very near my house, and I love to skate. I am REALLY, REALLY bad at it though, and it's been a couple of years since I've gotten the opportunity to improve. So over this past weekend, I decided to jump into the fray of an open skate on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon.

Saturday was chilly but bright. I gathered up my courage, the courage to be able to march, wobbling, on the thin blades of my skates up to the rink, get on the ice, and make a humongous fool of myself. I was just about to talk myself out of actually doing it when, over the very loud loudspeakers, there came the strains of Gretchen Wilson's Here For the Party.

I laughed aloud. "Well," I said to myself, "now is as good a time as any to get on the ice. At least you will be able to blog that you got on the ice to a song you knew...even if the majority of your acquaintances seem to think it's wicked (and wicked in the American sense of the word, no less)."

So I bravely grabbed hold of the side of the rink and slid onto the ice, precariously staying upright only by the dubious strength in my arms, hands, and fingers. At first I only skated tentatively back and forth in front of the seating area on the side because that was the only part of the rink's circumference that had a ledge I could grab onto solidly, with my whole hand and not just the tips of my fingers. After a while, I moved on to the rest of the rink, staying always right next to the rink's side, hanging onto the ledge with one hand while I tried to convince myself that I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. My body didn't want to trust my mind.

"Lean forward, relax, and push off with your feet," I kept telling myself. "Lean forward, relax, push off," became my little mantra.

When I could convince myself to comply, I did great! Eventually I was able to skate all the way around the rink without holding onto the side. It was awesome! After two hours of that, I was tired and the rink was closing, so I drove home.

The next day, Sunday, I went over there again. This time, however, I was not so fortunate. At first, everything seemed to be going well -- I stepped onto the ice more bravely this time and was soon skating back and forth without holding on (except for when I tensed up and felt as if I was going to fall).

Then my inherent love of speed caught up with me. See, I always used to get terribly bruised when I skated before -- not because I just couldn't stay upright, but because I wanted to go too fast and always ended up sliding round on my bum or my knee or my hip, depending on how severe my falls were. I would build up a little confidence and then just let 'er buck, whizzing round the rink as if I'd been skating my whole life. Then my overactive mind would scream at me, "STOP! You're going TOO FAST!" and I would tense up instinctively, preparing for the crash I knew was sure to come.

The crash would never have come if I hadn't tensed up, but of course I couldn't talk myself out of tensing up any more than I could ever talk myself out of being motion-sick. And I tried -- oh, believe me, I tried! My mum can do it, except when she's on a boat/ship, but I never could. Hmmph.

Anyway, this time skating was no different. I built up a little confidence and let myself go. Pure pleasure would flood over me every time I felt a bit of a cold breeze on my face; I just knew I was flying! I LOVE going fast!

Then...disaster. I was working on building up my speed again so I could stop pushing off with my feet and just glide, when all of a sudden a little bloke in a hockey helmet who reminded me of John Biebe's youngest cruised right in front of me. He was gone in an instant, but unfortunately, so was my concentration. I wobbled wildly, reaching out with my leather-gloved hands for something, anything, anyONE, to stop my impetus toward the hard hockey-stick-scuffed wall of the rink. Alas and alack.

THUD! was the sound of my rather plump little body hitting the wall full-out, and CRACK! was the sound of my unfortunate ankle that took most of the force. No, I didn't break it...only sprained it. I guess the tight ankle-supporting figure skates carried some advantage after all.

So there you have it, my friends. My grand excuse as to why I have not been writing lately (and it would also explain why I have been limping slowly round the college campus for the last week or so).

Am I a liar or a truth-teller? You decide.

Memorable Quotes

Woo...the first week of classes is over! And I survived. Kind of.

I have here for your reading pleasure some of my professors' most memorable quotes from this first week of my last semester. Enjoy.

"You will sometimes disagree with me. We will read The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and I may say something you think is all washed up." -Dr Van de Brakk in my English Literature class.

"This guy named Christian wakes up one day and finds himself in the City of Destruction. The City of Destruction is going to be destroyed, believe it or not." -Dr Van de Brakk, trying to encourage us to read The Pilgrim's Progress for English Lit.

"One of my friends was getting married and had a stag party. Now I do not approve of scantily-clad women jumping out of cakes. Why ruin a good cake?" -Dr Harley telling us a story from his youth, during our Hemingway class.

"Picture a Plains Indian leading a horse carrying a scalped cowboy into Dodge City to take care of him." -Dr Dayer attempting to simplify the story of the Good Samaritan for us poor unenlightened mortals (New Testament).

"Bad, evil Indians!" -Dr Van de Brakk's sarcastic comment regarding the stereotypical view of American Indians in the dime novels of the Old West during the 19th century (for Adolescent Literature).

"OK, so how many different ways can you arrange four playing cards? That's right, 24. And now, if you take three cards out of the four, how many ways can you arrange those three cards? Absolutely right, 24!" -Dr Shessey during our class entitled The Nature of Math. This one requires a long and complicated explanation and it was a trick question besides. I don't like math. But it is a good quote, ay?

"When you see a snake in your yard, is it a good idea to get a mongoose to kill it? Well, maybe. But then you've got to live with the mongoose!" -Dr Dayer characterising the nature of the Roman army.

"Romans lost battles, but they didn't lose wars. That's why they lasted for 1000 years! They might take a blow or two, but...Maximus Decimus Meridius, they just kept on going!" -Dr Dayer, again characterising the nature of the Romans.

At that point in class, I just burst out laughing and had to clap a hand over my mouth to quiet myself because people were looking at me strangely. I went up to him afterward and told him that that quote was going to go on my blog. He laughed and said his family had a tradition of reciting the whole "My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius..." speech.

Hmmm...let me see if I can get it right.

The scene starts after the re-enacted Battle of Carthage, in which the gladiators beat the Legionnaires when the opposite was actually supposed to happen. Commodus, the man named after a toilet (no, I'm kidding), decides that a meeting with the "hero" who kept the gladiators together and led them to victory might be just the thing to cap off a delightful afternoon of carnage.

Maximus bows low as Commodus approaches, fishing around in the sand for the broken-off tip of an arrow so that he can jump up and kill Commodus as soon as he gets close enough.

"Rise! Rise!" Commodus gestures, loving the adulation he thinks he's getting at this point.

Maximus is disappointed when young Lucius, daughter of Commodus' sister Lucilla, runs up to join his uncle.

"You fight well, Spaniard," says Commodus (I think?). "I don't think there has ever been a gladiator to match you. And as for this young man," he continues, indicating Lucius, "he insists you are Hector reborn. Or was it Hercules? Why doesn't the hero reveal himself and tell us all your real name?" (Side note: apparently Commodus had a problem with consistency...)

"My name is Gladiator," Maximus says in a dark growl that sends a shiver down my spine every time I hear it. He is hoping that Commodus will be satisfied with that answer and leave him alone. But then he does the unthinkable and turns away from Commodus (kinda dumb if he wanted to stay incognito).

"Slave!" Commodus screeches, pushing Lucius away from him. "How DARE you show your back to me!"

Anyway, long story short (because I don't remember all the dialogue), Maximus is forced to remove his helmet, which leaves him with a bad case of helmet hair. I'm not kidding! Watch the movie and you'll see what I mean -- for about two seconds he looks exactly like a murderous version of The Little Rascals' Alfalfa. Of course, the hair/makeup people fixed it, and in the very next frame his hair is once again perfect and glistening.

He intones, with a dark glare at Commodus, "My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius. Commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife...and I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next."

Commodus, by then, looks as if someone had just smacked him in the face with a three-days-dead carp from Hamlin Beach.

The crowd is cheering, "Live! Live! Live! Live!" in order to persuade Commodus to give the gladiators the thumbs-up and let them live (though I read somewhere that the signals were actually reversed -- if it were a thumbs-up, that meant the gladiators would die, whereas if they got a thumbs-down, they'd live to fight another day, poor things).

Commodus, ridiculously, puts a finger to his lips to try to shush the crowd. (Yeah...don't think that's gonna work.) They keep chanting, so Commodus gives the gladiators a thumbs-up with an expression on his face that says he can't believe he's doing it.

LOL...I love it. It's funny, too -- whenever somebody brings up Russell Crowe, people kind of scrinch up their noses, look all hyper-critical, and say, "Oh, yeah, that Gladiator guy. Jeez, he needs to grow up. What a [insert insulting word or phrase here]."

People! Gladiator came out in 2000, OK? It's 2006 and RC is now a husband and a father, well on his way to becoming more mature than he was six years ago (despite any jokes you may hear about telephones). Get over it and move on -- he has!

Ahem. OK. I'm done. Really.

Good grief, how did I get on this subject again?

;)

Randomness

OK, lots of topics for today, in random order.

#1: a question. Why is it that people who are considered intelligent enough to write school textbooks are not quite intelligent enough to make them interesting?

#2: also a question. Why must these people persist in using those little numbers in superscript to indicate their sources that are listed at the VERY BACK of the book and that probably have little to no relevance anyway?! Notes at the bottom of each page are annoying enough, but superscripted numbers are even worse! At least the notes at the bottom of the page take up room on the page so I have to read less (unless of course the teacher tests us on the notes too).

#3: a blessing! Jess sent me an awesome, awesome book and a beaut blue scarf for Chrissie! And some candy canes. Yay!!! I can't wait to read the book and am wearing the scarf right now. And I already have been nibbling the candy canes. ;) THANK YOU JESS! YOU ROCK!

#4: wow, I was so happy about that that I forgot what #4 was supposed to be. Hmm...oh, right, now I know what it was. SFL has been bugging me about the consumerism post I was supposed to have written quite a while back. Well, SFL, you are out of luck, because I lost the slip of paper on which I wrote down my little inspirations for the post. All I remember of that list was my foolproof way to avoid the salespeople who stand in the middle of the mall and harangue you as you walk by.

"Oh, ma'am! Excuse me, ma'am? Can I ask you a question? Let me see your hands. Hmm. Do you use lotion on your hands, ma'am? They look like they could do with some TLC. Here, sit down at my booth for a minute and I will make your hands feel softer than they have ever felt before. Have you ever heard of RestoraLotion? It's made of minerals harvested from the floor of the Indian Ocean and natural plant botanicals from Zimbabwe. Here, let me rub a little on the back of your hand. Doesn't that feel amazing! I use it every night, myself. I wouldn't use anything else. This lotion is an amazing buy at only 19.95 per bottle! Plus, since you are such a great customer, I will give you this amazing free gift: Madam Parnelle's Hot Wax Treatment for Cuticles! Just warm it in the microwave, smooth it on your cuticles, and then wipe it off when it's cooled. It will..."

And on and on it goes. Usually I try to avoid these people and have been fairly successful in the past. Just lifting your chin and striding past them with a faraway yet purposeful gaze is usually enough to make them seek an easier target; however, there are those persistent salespeople who will not leave you alone and who you cannot get away from short of being absolutely rude.

So! The sure-fire way to avoid getting snagged by the RestoraLotion people? When within 25 feet of the booth, begin the following series of manoeuvres: look surprised, reach into your pocket, pull out your cell phone, flip it open, and proceed to have a very loud, very involved conversation with an imaginary friend. Don't immediately hang up once you've passed the stand, however, or they will catch on; continue to talk until you've gotten at least 50 feet away. Don't forget to make the conversation realistic, or they'll never buy it. If you do it successfully, however, you will feel like a consummate professional.

Try it -- it's fun.

What am I thinking??

God help me, I have joined a gym. I shall die.

I don't think so...

This is not a Truth or Fiction post (though I suppose it could be, given the circumstances). I just felt the need to blog.

At work, I have been labelled the Tree-Hugger (as well as the Deerslayer). Now, I am really not an ultra-radical liberal; not at all. It is only that I think trees are far more beautiful than high-rises. What's wrong with that, I ask you? Would you rather see a forest or a tract of houses called Sleepy Hollow? (Yes, there actually is a housing tract here called that and I think it has very disturbing connotations...LOL, but I digress...)

OK, so here is the reason for my post today. On a news special the other day, I heard that we have more acres of forest today than we had in, I think it was, 1920. My left eyebrow immediately and sceptically winged its way toward the heavens.

"Oh, really," I said sarcastically to news anchor John Stossel (I am not known for my witty repartee).

I don't think that what Mister Stossel was saying is true. Not in my area of the world anyway. If it is true, the forests he was praising must be just-planted forests consisting of three-inch-tall trees that are not environmentally helpful.

Or if Mister Stossel is right, was National Geographic's recent reporting of the ever-widening hole in the ozone layer above Antarctica (now the size of the continental US) totally misguided and misinformed? Hmm, I don't think so.

What do y'all think?

Truth or Fiction, Round One

Hmmm, that doesn't seem like a very appropriate title now that I think about it. Most fiction definitely contains a lot of truth. I'll have to think of a better title for this little game.

The game I am speaking of is one that I just thought up. I will occasionally be posting some short blogs with little stories, some made up and some actual happenings. It is up to you, my readers, to take a guess as to whether the stories are real or not. Have fun.

OK...my first story.

Last night the oldies and I stayed up until almost 11.30 p.m. watching an old movie about an itinerant preacher (Sheffey). My father went to go fetch a snack part way through the movie; he came back with a box of Wheat Thins. My mum decided she'd have some too. Then Outlaw, our big fluffy Maine Coon, decided *he* wanted some too! Outlaw stepped up to my father and pawed at his jeans pleadingly. My mum smiled and jokingly held out a whole cracker for Outlaw, knowing that he likes his food cut up in tiny pieces. Outlaw began licking the salt off the underside of it, and I started giggling. Then he shocked everybody by turning his head and using his shorter side teeth to actually bite off a corner of the cracker and chew it! He did this several times; all the while my mum and I were laughing our heads off. I know it doesn't *sound* quite as funny now, but believe me, it was hilarious. I guess poor Outlaw was very hungry. I've never seen a cat do that before.

So, dear readers and commenters, is this true or did I make it up? I await your comments.