I’m guessing this entry will get google hits for all the wrong reasons.

Ladies, I’ve found the best bra ever. I trumpet this here because, as an extra-extra buxom lass, I know how bloody hard it is to find a decent bra. So imagine if you will:

• Front hook closure

• Excellent back support
• Won’t give you scary alien quadraboobs
• No “I hate women because you tempted Adam” underwires
• Adjustable straps that don’t fall down

The only flaws are: the top of the hook area may stick out a teensy bit, but not nearly as much as with other bras that do this (it is not really noticable), and it only comes in white.

Are you ready? It’s the

Glamorise Magic Lift Plus Posture Bra

I get mine here, but there’s a list of outlets (and not much else) at Glamorise.com.

Sizes go up to 54I. While I’m not telling my bra size, I will say that I’m pretty sure it can handle the biggest of the boobies.

For the record, I also have one of these sexy little numbers, and it gave me pneumoboobs–I swear they were never that pert–but it hurt my back a little. Still good for showing off.

As anyone who owned shares knows, I delisted from Blogshares several days ago. At the time, there was a veritable stampede to do so, mostly because of this post (which I note is no longer on the site):

BlogShares works like every other search engine and index on the web. It finds sites listed on a public service (weblogs.com) and adds them to the database. Your site is not you. You want to play, you have to register. Your site is just a title and a link. Just like these search engines and indices you can use a robots.txt or web server directives to prevent the BlogShares bot (USER_AGENT : “BlogShares Bot / xx”, xx = version number) from spidering your site. When you ping weblogs.com, you give these details for the world to use. That’s your opt-in. That data is free game for anybody to play with. BlogShares provides an opt-out mechanism because I want to be nice not because I have to. Weblogs.com isn’t for any particular purpose, you opt in to it you opt into everything associated with it. If you email me about this matter I will not spend any time explaining it to you.

I already had my doubts before this. I was somewhat uncomfortable with someone trading on my name. When I found out Seyed was going to have premium accounts for a small fee, I got very uncomfortable with someone making money off my name (why his copious ads did not bother me, I cannot say). Then he posted the above to the front page, and that was the kicker.

If you are using the resources built by a community, it is important that you respect the members of that community. You are not entitled to use anything they have built without consent. It was Seyed’s sense of entitlement that finally turned me away from Blogshares.

Heads up if you would like to delist: there are no longer instructions available unless you go to the forum. Here’s the link, just follow the instructions in fooljay’s post.

I have just made my first Vegemite (and cheese) sandwich. Not for me, mind you. I won’t touch the vile stuff. I was noting the date on the jar was a mere two weeks away, when Bill said: “Don’t worry about the date, nothing will grow in that stuff.” Reassuring.

It looks like thick, delicious, chocolate frosting–bringing a number of potential practical jokes to mind.

Want a donut?

If I should lose you
The stars would fall from the skies
If I should lose you
The leaves would wither and die

The birds in Maytime
Would sing a lonely refrain
And I would wander around
Hating the sound of rain

With you beside me
No wind in winter would blow
With you beside me
A rose would bloom in the snow

I gave you my love
But I was living a dream
And living would seem in vain
If I lost you

Nina Simone
1933 – 2003

Made dumplings a few nights ago. They were wonderfully heavy and chewy, and on the second night became Dumplings of Mass Destruction. Perfect. Lemmee see if I can remember…

2c flour
2 green onions, finely sliced, green parts only
Handful of chopped parsley
Salt and pepper to taste
Most of a container of plain yogurt
1 egg
1 tsp baking soda

Er, I think I added a little milk for more moisture. Dropped the sticky buggers on my soup for 20 minutes. Yummmmmy.

I’ve had brief flirtations with cooking from time to time, but finally, I understand. It has, at last, gotten into my blood but good.

About, oh, 15 years ago, I worked in a small personnel office for the local rag. Therein worked Mary, the Assistant Director, who dreamed of running a bookshop on the coast (I think she finally made this dream come true). Mary was sweet, wise, and a bit high strung. When I once expressed my love of food processors and culinary shortcuts, she stared aghast and said that she couldn’t stay sane without the promise of chopping and slicing at the end of the day.

While this savage beast is only marginally soothed by the cutting and the sharpie-sharp, I do enjoy practicing my knife skills–which are getting slowly better every day. There is a certain joy to be taken in the delicate matter of a finely sliced clove of garlic, and a deep satisfaction in cooking something nutritious and yummy.

Besides, Bill does the cleaning.

(in no particular order)

1. A nap on the couch with a cat on my belly

2. Taking off my bra at the end of a long day
3. Hummingbirds
4. Star Trek
5. Successful cooking experiments
6. The sound of a skateboard thumpthumping down the sidewalk
7. Old photographs of strangers
8. Sorry!
9. Elevator smooches
10. A finished project

I have always been a fan of schedules. There were manic days in my teens when I would try to schedule my life down to 15-minute increments. Oh, yeah, I was able to stick to that, riiight.

Following my hyper-scheduled phase was a time of complete disorganization and rebellion against slotting time for anything. It was brief.

Over the years, I’ve experimented with many systems, and read a lot of books, and am very near to something that suits me. That was key: I figured and played and worked and juggled until I developed somthing uniquely mine. I tried a bit of everything until I had what I wanted.

For me, routine isn’t just about getting more done (though I do), or staying organized (though I am, more or less); it’s also about staying happy. An organized morning is a stress-free morning. Knowing what I’m doing next saves me from boredom and my old enemy: depression. I’m not exaggerating when I say that routine helps me cope with the world.

My routines do not dictate my days, but rather they punctuate them. They are not made out of whole cloth–they began with a seed and developed. For example, I knew I would be happier in the mornings if I showered at night. There’s the seed. Then I thought it would be nice if I had a valet hook and put my clothes out. Eventually, I had my time alloted from bed to door, saving me a lot of grief. When I got married, any established routine was adjusted and honed, until Bill and I had a nice, regular, morning groove, where we each knew where we needed to be to get out the door on time, without rushing. I never listed my morning routine (who reads at 5:30am?), but rather practiced it into being.

When I get to work is another matter. There are about seven things I need to do every morning, from checking backups to checking email. I put them in an order that felt easy to work with, wrote them on a small post-it, and stuck it on the side of my monitor. It’s developed and changed, but it’s still what I use every singe morning so there’s no “what do I do next”, and none of my daily chores gets forgotten.

I have a couple more small routines stuffed in the day like bookmarks, keeping me at the right place, making sure I get enough sleep and eat a decent dinner. What they give me the most of is comfort. My fairly structured life is easy to lean on, easy to trust. It’s there for me to return to when I have special things to do that are off the path I’ve beaten. My rut is a cornerstone of my sanity.

This is an experiment. Click here! Click like the wind!

To see if it makes things go up (though it probably won’t, considering my visit rate these days), check here.

PS: Hi Caff!

It took me a while to like Duncan Sheik. Mostly because his name is Duncan Sheik. I mean, yeesh. But I got over the good looks and the “I was high and giggling when I changed it” name, and grew to enjoy his moody brand of pop.

Kelly’s b-day present was a set of tickets to a show, and last night we filed into the Aladdin to see Duncan croon. Except he didn’t, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

First: the opening act. I had to search quite a bit to find her name, because my mind had blocked it in self defense. It cries out even now for the blood of Melissa Bathory. A very low-rent Nelly Furtado, the decent jazz band was completely wasted on her. She can sing, but she sounds just like everyone else, so why bother? Her songs are tripe, her personality bland, and she was unable to connect to the audience at all. Gah. If I were captured by enemy troops, one set of her and I’d spill my guts.

Then there was poor Duncan. Not that he was bad. Actually–he was great. Sheik has an easy rapport with the audience that rivals the legendary Neil Finn. He just has a conversation. He laughs a lot. His band is in on it too, and together they’re a tight unit. But Duncan was so very sick. I’m guessing flu. He smiled and joked and really gave it his best–but he still lost bars to his traitor voice, and lyrics to an exhausted mind. I felt so bad for him that I was wishing the audience wouldn’t call for the traditional encore. Stupid audience, couldn’t you see the guy was dying? To his credit, he kicked ass on “Genious” and “Fake Plastic Trees” for a denouement. I’d like to see him again on a better day.

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