It's Monday morning of Canada's August long weekend, coffee is brewing in the kitchen, and everyone else in this apartment is asleep. Man, it feels good.

Starcat is staying with us this weekend. The idea was that we would partake in the folk festival happening a mere two blocks from our apartment. We sort of did, but we certainly did not dig out our flowy skirts and tibetan man-blouses or get hair wraps or practice our bow staff skillz in the park.

There really was a guy who spent a goodly amount of time putting up a tremendous imaginary fight, and although his parries and thrusts with his impressive bow staff were quite convincing, overall I would have to say that without another guy actually fighting him with another actual bow staff, the whole thing had me hiding my smirk behind a cement column.

The three of us (Starcat, the Fiery One, and I) have spent the weekend getting up late, dawdling over breakfast and coffee and books, wandering over to the festival mid-afternoon to listen to music and lie in the grass, and then having pints at the pub. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

It's been delightful, really, but having a guest in the apartment always poses a problem for the two sexually active tenants who are used to being able to have sex whenever they feel like it and for one sexually active tenant in particular who has a difficult time keeping her dirty mouth closed when fornicating with the other tenant.

The Fiery One and I were ever so clever when we simultaneously excused ourselves to go have a shower. Which we did. We really did have a shower, but it is new to us, this shower. The mechanics of maneuvering around in a new setting where everything was in different proportion from our old bathroom did attempt to dampen the romantic mood, but we persevered. (I do not mean that anything about our anatomy has changed in proportion with our recent move. I mean the dimensions of the bathtub). Despite the impediments of an unfamiliar bathtub, poor lighting, running out of hot water, and the inevitable acoustic echo that bathrooms are famous for, we emerged triumphant.

I am sure that Starcat didn't notice a thing.

Later, I know that our mutual friend, S, did indeed notice that I was pointing my camera directly at her torso and was paying no attention whatsoever to her head. Are you taking a picture of my breasts? she asked with an incredulous tone in her voice. Well, yes, and no, and not mostly. Only a little bit. They do enter into the top part of the picture, but it's really about your belly and your arm and only some of your breasts and that tattoo by your bellybutton. S got this look on her face like she wasn't really buying it, but she let me take the picture anyway.

I would love to have the film developed so I could show you that I am not merely a collector of lo-fi candid soft-core porn, but I think I wrecked part of my camera and won't be finishing up the roll of film until I get it looked at. I did something horribly stupid to it that I am blaming on the 33°C heat: I stuck my finger in it. It's true. I took the lens off, unscrewing it and laying it very gently beside me, and then I stuck my finger inside my camera. I absolutely know better, anybody who owns a camera worth hundreds of dollars should know better, and I am dreading taking the poor thing in to the camera shop and trying to pass off some cockamamie story as the God's honest truth. There is no way that I am going to walk into the camera shop and tell them about how I unthinkingly diddled one of my camera's most private parts. I am an embarrassment to SLR camera owners everywhere.

I've been thinking of a new tagline:
a little less fubsy, a little more waxing gascon.
I'm really just looking for an excuse to use the word fubsy. Perhaps I will make t-shirts that read I loves 'em fubsy, or I will start up a regular column written by a down-at-heels advice columnist entitled Fubsy in Fargo, or I'll manufacture a novelty coffee mug that has a little fubsy figurine anchored to the bottom, and the print on the side will read Everyone loves a fubsy girl.

Happiness this morning comes from learning about cranberry morphemes.

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"In the Bathroom Mirror" by Ralph Burns