April 2007

The pictures alone make me want to build myself one of these!



I ran across a link to The Gender Genie today.  Give it some text and it looks for keywords, weights them and tries to guess if the text was written by a man or a woman.  It works best with 500 words or more, so I gave it half a dozen of my longer blog entries, and it figured out I was a woman every time.

That’s okay, I’m comfortable with my feminmasculinity.

Our cable modem died last week, and a Shaw technician won’t make it out for a service call until Thursday.  You don’t realise how much you use the Internet until you don’t have it!  Helen had to go to a neighbour’s last night to place our weekly grocery order with spud.ca (they deliver organic grocery products to your door at prices similar to organic stores–we love them!).

If you’ve emailed Helen in the past week, don’t expect an answer until this weekend at the earliest.


My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Emperor Nate the Loquacious of Larkhill under Porton
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Thanks for pointing this out, Phyllis.  🙂

Mostly I miss Minuit in the mornings.  She was always a part of the morning routine.  I’d get up while everyone else was still asleep.  Minuit was usually lying on our bed; she may have cracked open an eye at me but I couldn’t tell, it was too dark.  But when I was done my shower there she’d be sitting outside the bathroom door, demurely looking the other way but with her ears following my every move.

I’d go in the walk-in closet and close the door so the light wouldn’t wake Helen.  Minuit would never come in with me–that’d be too uncatlike–but about a minute later she’d push the door open, squeeze through, and jump up on the dresser purring and rubbing her head on my arm any time I got close enough, and on the wall otherwise.

When I was dressed I’d sneak quietly out of the room but Minuit would be out already, waiting by the door to the kids’ room.  She’d sit there while I quietly kissed them good morning without waking them, then follow me downstairs right on my heels like an obedient dog.

And all through breakfast and until I walked out the door she’d follow me around.  No, “follow” isn’t the right word.  She’d “lollow” me around.  She’d pretend to lead, always walking ahead of me, but watching me the whole time with her eyes or ears trying to guess where I was headed next so that she could just happen to be going there herself.

Now she’s just happened to go somewhere I can’t follow.

47 … 48 … 49 …

Daddy, is it 80 after 40-10?


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