I'm unable to post again today because 1) I have too much other stuff to write that I'm not allowed any fun for all of November, 2) I had spicy udon noodles for supper last night (I should really know better) and I'm still paying the price, and 3) I'm busy planning a move to New Zealand. New Zealand doesn't have next-door neighbours. All it has is Australia down the road a spell and some Polynesian and Melanesian Islands. But it doesn't have scary next-door neighbours who make it shiver in its boots.

So if any of you Americans who said you'd move here after a certain election result want to sublet a large one bedroom apartment in downtown Toronto, let me know. The cat, computer, 900 books, and 900 cds come with me. Everything else, the concept of true equality and a federal government that once again has a surplus rather than a deficit, is all yours. I'll be playing with the elves on the South Island (mmmmmmm ... Legolas ... ).

[***UPDATE*** Before another irate person gets the urge to send me a gracious, politely worded e-mail (link now deleted indefinitely) questioning my right to free speech, let it be known that I am an American citizen as well as a Canadian. But that shouldn't make a difference. I have as much right to be unapologetic for my beliefs as you have to click away when you run across something you don't like. Lighten up and if you don't agree, at least laugh at the ridiculous idea of Canada attempting to assimilate almost 50% of the States' population!]

I had decided not to write something long and boring, and I see I have already failed. Instead I bring you a repeat of something you read and just loved, something that reminds me of a simpler time, a time when my worries over the state of the world were like an annoying cat, not like the loud clanging and banging keeping me from sleep that they are now. So please enjoy again "Good Housekeeping" ...

Good Housekeeping

The strangest thing has happened to all of my shorts. I first noticed it last week when I finally dragged them out of their winter seclusion in my storage room that's so big it could be a bedroom for a very short roommate. Yes, I have a large storage room in my apartment. This is one of the many reasons why a bout with unemployment won't scare me away from it despite its hefty rent.

But to get to my point, I had to drag my shorts out of storage. Now, I have a very elaborate filing system. To the untrained layperson it may appear as if I have simply thrown those objects I am too silly to throw away into boxes (or never bothered to unpack them) and then piled the boxes in precarious, quivering piles in the very large storage room. When nosey visitors open the door to the very large storage room they invariably look at me with a quizzical mixture of horror and condescension.

In truth, the only entity aside from me who isn't displeased with my arrangement of the very large storage room is Noudnic the Cat. He gets very excited every time I open the door, which isn't that often, and he immediately bounds in, transmogrifying into the vicious untamed beast his ancestors were when they ran wild over the Elburz Mountains in the days of yore. This is when he's not sleeping on his back in the bathtub (I wish I had a digital camera). In any case, he leaps over mountains, lurks in caves, and dodges avalanches (caused by him, might I add). Once while hunting he attacked and eviscerated an entire colony of old hair elastics I had kept from the days just after the days of yore when I wore plaid and ripped jeans and had hair that grew past my titties. I'd saved them because I thought they might be useful one day. Brave, regal Noudnic.

This acknowledgement of the inherent usefulness of all used objects permeates my entire outlook towards happy housekeeping. It is my philosophy that if an object has been useful, one should simply leave it precisely where one used it last because it will undoubtedly be useful once again. This applies to all objects. CDs should remain outside of their cases in tall unsteady stacks on my desk because I play them on my computer. Plates should stay on the coffee table in front of the TV because that is where they are utilized. Envelopes from hateful bills need not be discarded: they, or the bills themselves, can easily be transformed into wacky cat toys in one smooth crumple-and-toss movement. C'est simple comme ‹‹bonjour››.

This is a philosophy, you realize, not laziness as some have deemed it. One of these naysayers is my future husband, Ajay. He objects to my practical house-keeping style, believing for some reason that special places should be found for every object in a household and that things should be placed in these places when not in use. It's a theory. And it's also very easy for him to accomplish such a meaningless task since he is a model/Bollywood star who has servants to do these things. So whenever he scolds me I simply say, "Well then, fantasy fiancé, send over some of your fantasy servants!" We are then both so stimulated by the charged atmosphere that we make sensual, passionate love in the piles of clean laundry on my bedroom floor. All of this probably goes a long way towards explaining why housecleaning remains a fantasy in my household, along with other fantastical things, like future husbands for example.

In any case, last week my goal was to extract my shorts and my expired passport from the very large storage room. I also thought I would take advantage of the opportunity to put some order in the room, much to Noudnic's distress. Fortunately I was saved from this task because the shorts were on top of the whole domestic topography. The passport was in the first box I opened, along with some term papers from my undergrad when I wore ripped jeans and plaid and I had hair that grew past my titties. I'd saved them because I thought they might be useful one day.

And so as I walked to the passport office in my brand new fashion sandals and my brand new fashion blisters, I noticed something odd about my shorts (Ha! You thought I forgot what I'd written in my first sentence). Their waist appeared to have shrunk over the winter. It's very strange. The shorts are no shorter than they had been last summer. I cannot explain this odd phenomenon. Perhaps there's something about the atmosphere of an overheated, closed storage room that causes cloth waists to shrink. I am completely flabbergasted. Has anyone else noticed anything similar?

'Cause You Liked It So Much the First Time ...

NaNoWriMo (track my progress on the metre in the top left and things that I actually get paid for are weighing down on my shoulders. One thing that happens when you only pay half attention to your personal e-mail for several days in a row is that you're late foe the party. So here, a little late, are three new Bunnies in 30 Seconds movies, almost pillage from Daniel until I noticed the e-mail from The Genius herself (Not really; I'm on a mailing list)

"Freddy vs Jason"

"Texas Chainsaw Massacre"

"Scream"