In the Top Five! My ranking for "Hello Kitty Vibrator" on Google today? I'm in the top five! Hurrah. See, kids, if you set your mind to something, you can do anything. My mother would be so pr...no, never mind.

Room with a View That lady is sweeping the snow again. Yes, a cigarette is dangling from her mouth.

I'm Easily Amused I know many of you are probably past this stage, but I still like to look at how people have found my blog via the big search engines. Yesterday, someone searched for "Church of Hello Kitty". I was...ahem...number 1! My rankings for "Hello Kitty Vibrator" haven't increased, but I'm hoping that people will continue to search for the Hello Kitty vibrator and find that my site contains a great deal of information about the Hello Kitty vibrator, although doesn't contain much information about Hello Kitty herself or vibrators in general. In fact, I do own lots of Hello Kitty stuff, but I'm going be stay mum about vibrators, in the spirit of Hello Kitty, who, as you may know, has no mouth. She has, as you well know, her own vibrator modelled in her own image. Hmm...I think I have found the link between "Hello Kitty Vibrator" and "Church of Hello Kitty". Also fun is to ocassionally look at the translations that readers have requested. One online translation service translated "Mellow Kitty" into "Kitty Mûr", or "Ripe Kitty".

Look What I Can Do! I was completely chuffed to see my name in print in asssociation with MJ Milloy's feature in Hour this week on Warshaw's. My blog was one of many sources wondering about the emptier and emptier shelves at Warshaw's and the not-quite-convincing "Closing for Renovation" signs in the window.

Trash in the Trash I learned never to be too proud to pick through an interesting pile of garbage. I have found chairs, lamps, wool carpets, pedestals, wooden ironing boards...all really good stuff that *doesn't* come from IKEA. This morning, I dropped my car off at the dealer for its 30,000 Km check up. The dealer is in Verdun, which I've discovered is a decent place for church sales. Walking to the metro, I passed a pile of books. They didn't smell and they weren't wet, so I started to dig. I found some classic 50s pulp fiction paperbacks. Here's a sample of the titles: Pirate Queen--"She could fight like the devil and love like an angel." Gretta--"About a woman whose weakness was to love too many men." Pirate Wench--"She could outfight, outlove any man in her crew." "Filled with looting and loving!"--N.Y. Herald I, a woman--"I look at every single man to see if he looks at me. I can see at once if his eyes are alert and gleaming (1). I notice at once whether he is a man (2), whether he is contemptible or all right, whether he has courage or is afraid, and I secretly desire--I secretly desire every single man who understands my femininity." (1) Like a dog's. (2) To make sure he isn't a dog. Apparently, I, a woman was made into a film starring Essy Persson and the New York Post called it "Sensational!"

The Chemical Brothers concert last night was incredibly pleasurable. They played stuff from the last three albums, and opened with Come with Us and It Began in Africa. As I manouvered my way nearer to the front of the stage through the mosh pit, I was overwhelmed by the smell of laundry, perfume, and cologne. "Everyone smells so clean," I thought to myself as It Began in Africa started to make me move just a little bit more freely and frenetically. It was an interesting juxtaposition of a track that hearkens back to our primal home--a deep, dark, mysterious, exotic and decidely black place--and the sweet-smelling, all-white, oh-so-healthy crowd. They were beautiful. We were beautiful. And happy. We glowed. We moved. We waved our hands in the air and pretended that the kajillion watt lights that flashed in our faces was the sun. We closed our eyes and watched the effect of the lights on our retinas. Purr-fect!

I think I've decided that I prefer summer to winter. I used to find humidity opressive and was never much of a sun worshipper (which dermatoligists say is the number one cause of aging skin anyway). Still not a fan of humidity, I must admit that being able to wear sandals and a light silk jacket and trouser concoction whilst sipping wine and eating sushi at the CCA last night made me feel pretty delicious. I think it's because my toes were painted and they wiggled appreciatively in their new found freedom. It'll be back to close-toed shoes tonight as I head over to Metropolis for some block-rockin' beats and the Chemical Brothers. This time, I must remember *not* to stand directly in front of the speakers, even though I adore the vibrations of the bass moving right through me. If I'm shouting at you tomorrow, you'll know why.

I celebrated summer last night by inviting folks for an impromptu barbq on my back patio. My music pals brought their instruments over and we had our first gig in my living room as friends talked and laughed and completely ignored us while sitting outside. Just like in a real club. Cool.

What's the Meta For? Metaphor: Denoting a word, phrase or action that is analogous to it. Metaphors are often used to describe real life, and in fact, stand in for *reality* as it were. "She's a french fry short of a Happy Meal" means "She's stupid". Where is this going? Did I just reread my Intro to English Lit. class notes? Nope. I stayed home pretty much all weekend. And that, ladies and gents, is a metaphor for my life. My life is a metaphor for itself. Lemme 'splain somethin' to you.... I had a fantastic weekend. I didn't make any specific plans to do anything. I just did what I wanted to do. Usually, my weekends are jam-packed with events and friends and things to do. Stay home on a Saturday night? What do you think I am? Some kinda loser? Well, that's what I did. I stayed home. I cooked. I cooked an elaborate Indian dish that required the frying of spices and the pureeing of onions. I read. I wrote. I watched Mad TV. I went to sleep at 1:00 a.m. instead of 4:00. I was on a roll. Sunday I continued a project I had started a few weekends earlier: cleaning out my cupboards and generally getting rid of a bunch accumulated *gah*bage. I cleaned out the fridge. I cleaned up the front yard. I cleaned the back patio, lit the bar-b-q. Roasted red peppers (is there anything more perfect?). Made another fairly elaborate chicken in wine and mushrooms thing. Fixed a lamp. The whole day was glorious. Especially the roasting the red pepper on the bar-b-q part. As I was I was the kitchen counter slicing mushrooms, I realized that all this solitary cooking and cleaning and fixing and sorting was really metaphorical. Representative of efforts I'd been making mentally. So, my cleaning and maintaining physical house was a metaphor for my cleaning and maintaining my mental house. Mental house. ~giggle~ And as that churned around in my brain for a while, I was trying to figure out what was *really* the genesis for what. Did cleaning out the hall cupboard give birth to mental health (my mother would agree)? Or did the desire for mental health generate a cleaner cupboard? Is my mind a metaphor for the clean and orderly cupboard. Or is the clean and orderly cupboard a stand-in for yours truly? Is my whole life is a metaphor for itself? Never the ding-an-sich (the thing-in-itself). Perhaps I read too much of the French postmodernists as a child. Maybe I just like to roast and eat red peppers. There is no denying, at least, that roasted red peppers are the food of the gods.

I Wanna Be Your Number One I'm really chuffed to report that when people are searching for hello kitty vibrator on yahoo or google, my blog gets hit and is usually in the top 25 or so. Must mention hello kitty vibrator much more often. hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator hello kitty vibrator ~beaming~

Can Maggie Come Out and Play? I can't believe what a bit of sun and warmer temperatures can do to my mood. It's now after 1:30. I got work at about 11:30. I checked my email. I didn't send any serious email. I couldn't. I just traded barbs with friends overseas about what actually goes into a drink called a Double Submarine (Beer, with a shot glass of tequila in it--like an Irish Car Bomb, which is Guiness, with a shot glass of Bailey's in it. Don't ask. Just wonder). Then, I heard that the Chemical Brothers are playing next Thursday at Metropolis. I bought tickets, and then I told two friends, and they bought tickets. And so on. And then I got hungry, so I heated up the rest of the nummy salmon I had last night and am just finishing up my salad. I'm really hyper. I just want to go outside and run and stuff. Help me.

Daylight Savings Time: The Long and the Short of It The clock sez midnight, but my body *knows* that it's really only 11:00 p.m. I *must* go to bed. I have a hair appointment at 9:30 a.m., but chances are good that I'll miss it 'cause that means that it's really 8:30 a.m. and I can't remember the last time I was anywhere that early in the morning. Ever since I cut my hair short, I've had to go see my coiffeur at least every five weeks. Every time he cuts it, it's a little bit different. He's suggesting that I start to go for a bit of length again. I'm beginning to think that while I look well-groomed and spunky in short hair, I was, ummm, *luckier*, with longer locks. You tell me: longer or shorter? p.s. Poohbah asked me when I was going to post pictures. This seemed like a good excuse to do it.

Another *Massage* Device This new "hand massager" was just drawn to my attention. Find out more here. Now, get back to work!

Warshaw's to Close? Last Friday, me n' my gal pals met for lunch (at SoupSoup on Duluth--delicious!) and then meandered down St-Laurent looking for stuff to buy. A great place for picking up stuff has always been Warshaw's. I have carpets, pillows, pots, candle holders, and a ton of other things that I've purchased there over the years. If you're a browser, Warshaw's is perfect. Pick up a bag of nuts or dried fruit. Have a look at the plants and the pots. Up the pillow and carpet aisle. Down the plastic and pots and pans aisle. Up the dishes and ceramics aisle. Skip the food aisles and head over to the big table at the back full of more stuff--singing ostriches, ceramic rabbits, decorated notebooks, crystal candleabras. When we walked in, the aisles were empty. "Oh, they must be preparing for a shipment of new stuff," one of my pals said hopefully. My other pal immediately saught a Warshaw's employee with a friendly face and asked, "Hey, how come this place is so empty?" "Do you want the official answer or the real answer?" he replied. "The real one," we said. "This place will be closed in a couple of weeks." Indeed, when we go to the cash, the cashier was in a foul mood. It seems that of the dozen or so checkout counters, only three had working cash registers, and hers required that she give her cash drawer a hard hip check to close it. "They're not going to repair these," she said. I'm gonna miss this place...

Remembering Rusty I have this problem. I adopt stray cats. Not all of them. But some. Rusty was a stray I adopted a few years ago. He was an exceptionally affectionate orange cat who slept under the cherry tree in my back yard. Over the course of a summer, we got to know each other and he began to run up against me and eventually let me pet him and pick him up. After that, we were hooked. Before letting him in the house permanently, I took him to the vet to have him neutered and vaccinated. My friend, the Grand Poobah, graciously accepted to help me give Rusty his first and much-needed flea bath. Rusty settled in. He had a bit of a wheeze when he breathed, and snored when asleep. One of his ears had a tear in it. He had feline immune deficiency (kitty AIDs). But he was a snugglebunny. This was the period when I was freelancing, and I would joke with my clients that I would send my large, orange street-wise cat to their office if they didn't pay up. His picture circulated among my clientele. One day, Rusty went out to play and never came back. I searched for days, calling and calling him. I never saw him again. I was reminded of him today as I was working from home. When working on the computer in my office, my back faces the window. On the windowsill is a small transparency of Rusty. It's a picture of him peering through the mottled glass of the main door downstairs, waiting for me to come home. I noticed the transparency when I stretched a bit and looked out the window to see whether the rain had abated. It hadn't. I leave the transparency there, hoping that maybe Rusty will see it and be reminded that he had a little bed here. He's the only creature whose snore I really miss.