Words

The struggle of literature is in fact a struggle to escape from the confines of language; it stretches out from the utmost limits of what can be said; what stirs literature is the call and attraction of what is not in the dictionary. ― Italo Calvino

Herself is trying to write Things.  It is difficult.  There are too many, and yet not enough, words.  It's a struggle.  Yet, a worthwhile one.

We shall keep you posted on progress.

Not a Scandal

Let's talk a wee bit about something thoroughly distasteful that his happening in the news lately:  the "celebrity nude scandal." Although I have deliberately avoided most of the reporting, my understanding is that some hacker apparently broke into the iCloud, and stole -- and subsequently made available to the world -- nude photographs of a variety of (as far as can be determined, solely female) celebrities.

This is not a "scandal".  It's a CRIME. And a violation of privacy.

The one thing that I find more repellent than the crime itself, is the shaming that has accompanied it:

"Why would anyone take nude photos of themselves? What a bad idea.  And if you did, why would you put them on a computer with internet access? Or in the Cloud? You take naked pictures of yourself and then complain when they end up published? Give me a break. They should have known." 

Let's just imagine for a moment that instead of a nude picture, it was financial information.  How many of you have credit card information stored somewhere? Or a pdf of your tax return?  Would the degree of "shame on you, you should've expected that" be the same?  Methinks not. People might shake their heads and wiggle a finger at you, reminding you that there are thieves everywhere and you need to be careful.  It would not have the same vitriol, the same schadenfreude, though.

It all comes back to sex.  It's as though the critics are saying: shame on these women, for being sexual creatures, for enjoying and appreciating their bodies, for -- gasp! -- sharing pictures of their bodies with a lover, a husband, a friend who would like them, or even just keeping the pictures for themselves.

Why is that so terrible?

There's nothing wrong with a nude photo.

What is wrong is stealing it and publishing it.

End of story.

That's What You Do

Herself, to Offspring the Third: "Do you think it's weird that I adopted a 10-year-old dog?"

Offspring the Third: "No. He needs love. That's what you do."

Indeed.

That Bass

Today's very catchy earworm:  All About That Bass, by Meghan Trainor.

I know you think you're fat
But I'm here to tell ya
Every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top

Yeah my mama she told me don't worry about your size
She says, "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night."
You know I won't be no stick figure silicone Barbie doll
So if that's what you're into then go ahead and move along

Ah, to have the self-confidence imbued in the lyrics, and the unbridled cheer of all of the individuals in the video.

Perhaps someday.

Madam Malkin Would Not Approve

No self-respecting graduate of the esteemed institution of Hogwarts would wear a crop top. Ever.

Unseasonal

Spotted at the local Big Box Store this past weekend.  Yes, on August 30.  AUGUST.

All kinds of wrong.

Interment

We buried venerable cavy today.

Herself's in-laws, who are truly lovely people, readily assented to Herself's request to lay the last of the guinea pigs to rest in their yard.  When Herself, Beloved Husband, and Offspring the Third arrived in the morning to do so, Father-in-law had made a lovely little wooden box for the occasion. Herself arranged Moose carefully inside, together with the ashes of all six other guinea pigs whom she has had for different times over the past fifteen years -- Beach Boy, Harry Potter, Skittles, Rupert, Tobby, and James -- as well as the memorial items she had for other family pets ( two aquatic frogs, two Chinese hamsters, one small snake named Speedy, one regulation hamster named Spot, and a hermit crab). The box was just the right size.

She closed the lid.

She took the box out to the garden, where Father-in-law and Beloved Husband carefully nailed the lid shut.  They then lowered the box into a perfectly square, deep hole that Father-in-law had dug adjacent to the graves of Mother-in-law's cat and tiny chihuahua.  Herself and Offspring the Third filled in the hole. They placed a sign at the head, leaving it blank until Herself decided what words to put upon it. Beloved Husband put a few flowers on the site.

It was finished.

Everyone went inside and had breakfast. Mother-in-law fixed Offspring the Third's favorite breakfast burrito especially for him, and picked all of the yucky bits out of Herself's bowl of menudo before handing it to her.

Herself was incredibly grateful to her in-laws for their thoughtful kindness.

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Herself is sad -- not only for Moose, but for the end of an era. When the Offspring were young, there were many small pets.  Now the Offspring are nearly grown, and the small pets are nearly all gone. (Of all the small animals, only the ancient cranky cockatiel remains.) It was as though Herself buried a part of her history right there in the garden.

She is once more aware that her heart is broken.

Yet the only cure for a broken heart, she knows, is to love more, and again.

 Be at peace, tiny animals.  Thank you for your time with us.