Before I show you some more of my recent photographs, I have to confess that I am clothing retarded. It's true. Here's the facts:

  • Yesterday when I was standing at the bus stop on my way to work, I realized that my blouse was inside out. It was black, so the white tags were glaringly obvious. I had to pull my backpack up really high to hide the neck tag and keep my right elbow pulled in tight to cover up the side one. When I got to work, I ran into the bathroom, scrubbed deoderant crusties off the armpit parts, and switched it the right way around.
  • My underwear are inside out today.
  • My socks almost never match. Today they do, but one is dirty and the other is clean. The matching socks thing was so exciting, though, that I just went with it.
  • I am wearing the creaking bra, the one that sounds like a pirate ship.
  • A pair of pants I wear to work a lot are losing the stitching in one of the darts in the back. I am all out of black thread, so they have become my Long Shirt Pants.
  • I love my newest pair of jeans so much that I am starting to dress like a university professor. You know the type: they wear the same two or three outfits mixed and matched for years on end, and after taking a class with them you can easily list off each item of clothing they own. I'm becoming the woman in the flared jeans with the pink stitching on the pocket. No, wait, I AM that woman.

    I am going to require an intervention soon.


    Brunch is brunch is brunch is brunch. It is a semi-traditional affair most Sunday mornings attended by the Fiery One, myself, and a handful of other somewhat regulars. This person, who shall remain anonymous for the time being, has come along for the ride on a few occasions. I took this photograph because the light behind her was so bright, and the soft bits of it that outlined the features of her face were doing such a fabulous job of it.

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    The next photograph is a close-up of a lamp in our living room. I bought the lamp for the Fiery One about four years ago, and I remember thinking at the time that a lamp, especially and squeezable plastic one, was a strange gift for a lover. He has had the good graces to never admit to this. I colourized the photo, because the lamp itself is actually white and made of opaque plastic beads fused together. Orange just seemed so much more lively, and the colour also saved the picture from looking like a biology slide under a microscope.

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    The ceramic praying girl is something I have carried with me for at least thirty years. She was given to me when I was an infant. Originally, she had a cord with a small lightbulb on the end that clipped to the inside of her body, but around the age of four or five, I removed the lightbulb. I felt bad, as though she would feel forever cold without it, but the glow through her cheeks below her eyes creeped me out. She seemed more bent toward evil intent than child-like prayer in 1976-77.

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    This last one I'm just throwing in because of this red kick I'm on. A coffee shop I go to left some of its Valentine's Day decorations up for well over a month afterward. They were red. The candle holder it's hanging on and the wall are within the red to yellow spectrum. Mmmmm, red. With love.

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    Sounds of the World's Animals.

    Check out Rosie O'Donnell's flickr. And while you're there, take a look at people who do this way better than I do.