Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

My Friend Flickr, Take My Gmail Please!, And The Death Of A Sleeping Bag, (and I promise to get off the back medication as soon as possible)

I love Flickr, and I’m not referring to some horse story for little girls. Ladybug got me started posting my photos to Flickr, and I love it. Go here and click the arrows above the pictures to advance my slide show.


I can’t seem to give these gmail accounts away! If you want one, just e-mail me, remember to include the e-mail address you want the invite sent to in the body of your e-mail, and you’ll get one. That is, you’ll get an invite as long as you are one of the first five people to write me, because that’s how many invites I have today – five. I seriously have gmail invites coming out of my ass today, so get ‘em while they’re still hot.


So, I’m sick off work today because of a bad back. I know, that’s lame-a-roono. Yeah, you got that right – lame-a-roono. I think that’s the back medication talking.

I wanted to get all sorts of cleaning and whatnot done, because the Fiery One is getting home tonight from his work trip to the Philippines and Australia. I am managing to get a lot of laundry done, though, despite the pinched nerve that is sending searing shooting jolts of pain up from the middle of my back to the base of my skull. Now that he’s used to sleeping in beds that are re-made every morning by hotel staff, it’s über important to have clean sheets when he arrives home after being gone for over three weeks.

Actually, now that I think about it, those hotel bathrooms are cleaned every day, too, and I would be hard pressed to remember exactly when it was that I last cleaned mine. It’s not that I never clean it, and I actually clean it more than I ever used to, but when it’s just little old me puttering around this apartment, it just doesn’t seem to get as scary as quick. Not that I wait until the bathroom is scary to clean it, no.

Back to my cleaning efforts... I tried washing the sleeping bag in the apartment building washer. When I read the label on it, it said that I should use one of those large drum washers. There is a laundromat nearby whose sign bears the slogan “Home of the Giant Drum Washer”, and I would have trucked myself down there on a better back day, but today is not one of those days. We have a guest coming on the weekend, so I wanted to clean the thing before he comes. Actually, it’s more like I needed to clean it, because Gordon, bless his little bunny soul, peed all over it in an effort to tell me that where I sit should be where he sits. Lovely little guy, really.

So I stuffed the thing into the washer in a circular fashion around the agitator. It took a bit of elbow grease to get the whole thing in there, but I had high hopes. I went out to pick up some photographs that I want the Fiery One to see tonight while the cycle completed itself, and then came back ready to hang the sleeping bag out on the clothes line in the yard behind the building.

When I opened the washer lid, I cursed the machine for not finishing its cycle again, because there were white clouds of soap suds billowing up, but then on closer inspection, I realized that those were no soap suds. Those were large tufts of polyester stuffing. The semi-shiny, windbreaker type material on the outside of the sleeping bag had split open in long, even gashes along the lip of the washer’s drum.

Do I feel at all bad about it? No! Do I feel weird about the fact that I don’t feel bad that I destroyed a barely used, cozy sleeping bag? Yes! What makes me feel weird about not feeling bad is that I secretly harbored resentment toward that sleeping bag. It’s a sleeping bag, it’s an inanimate object – how in the hell do I forge enough of a relationship with a sleeping bag to develop emotional grievances with it?

Easy. The Fiery One and I went to a huge folk festival for some sort of honeymoonishness shortly after we were married, and there was something off, annoying, dirty, creepy, crazy hot, and depressing about the experience of the festival that year. This sleeping bag was bought especially for that trip, so I link it with that whole yucky weekend. And now it’s dead. And I am not sad about it in the least.


Oh. My. God. Listening to a baby giggle just made me tear up. I have got to keep this back medication thing to a minimum and on a short term basis.


And one last thing before I go to the links... I was spammed by a fanatical Christian! It's so bad, it rocks. I usually delete any spam from my comments as soon as it arrives, but this one is a keeper. In case you are much too lazy to check out my comments for yourself, here is the spam text:
Don't you want EVERYTHING Upstairs in Heaven? Everything possible and then SummoreSquared [sic]? Flying, roller-coaster-rides, skiing, fireworks, warmth, passion, friends... ? However, we FIRST need to repent to BE Upstairs when this brief candle of earthly life flickers-out.
Wow, heh? For more, you can go to the spammer’s link. Apparently, God is his concubine in heaven, or something like that.


Banned books.

Because women’s rights should not be taken for granted.

Meditate online.

Oh man, am I enjoying Under a Bell. It’s a blog. You will like it. Probably.

You have to feel a little bad for this West Indian restaurant owner.

Thanks to GPS, farmers are having more sex in their tractors.

My Boy's Back, And Gordon's Not What He Used to Be

Gmail If You Want To, And I Am A Victim Of My Own Clumsiness Again