In other news, and also via Boing Boing, I’ve just heard Stephen Fry say, “Language is the universal whore that I must make into a virgin,” quoting “Karl Kraus or somebody so like him that it makes no odds,” and fallen madly in love with him all over again. The transcript of the PodGram is here, but please don’t deny yourself the beauty of the man’s voice – download the PodGram itself straightaway.

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And my cameraphone…

This afternoon, struggling with a report I’ve been arguing with for two days (and finished about an hour ago), I was eying the drinks cart and wondering what else I could do with Patron Citronge. A quick dip in the Google pool led me to the Pegu Club Cocktail. There are several different recipes (this forum’s got a bunch of them); NovySan (having finished mixing a modified Long Island Iced Tea for himself) winged it once I gave him the basic proportions.

I hope he remembers the recipe, because it’s one of the best things I’ve ever had. Less sweet than a margarita, with a ginny bite like a martini (that’s a lime wedge, not an olive, just so ya’ know)… Yep. This is a good one.

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The first time I saw him, glowing in the light of an early-November afternoon, I looked at his price tag and said, “I can’t do it.” Not for $30. Especially not when he was made in India and may not be food safe.

But, oh, he haunted me, with his calm, kind penguin face, the proud tilt of his pour-spout beak, his gently curving wings… And so today, a month minus a day from the day we met, I returned to the Council Thrift Shop, and said, “If he’s still there, I’m buying him.”

And he was.

And I did.

But he wasn’t $30. Oh, no. He had a new tag. It said “20.” Anna had suggested I offer $15, and use him sparingly – I figured I’d ask if they’d take $15 when I took him to the cash register, but I was prepared to pay $20.

As it turns out, I didn’t have to. “Ten,” the clerk said.

I didn’t argue.

Tonight then, when I make a pink gin in honor of Repeal Day, I’ll shake it in a penguin.

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When I was 15, my mother sent me to a psychologist. She was a very direct, often abrasive German woman, with a thick accent and a collection of gorgeous suede skirts, and I hated her. At first. Eventually, though, I realized that making me angry was her way of getting inside my shell, and once she was in there, she did start helping me rearrange the furniture in ways that were, ultimately, beneficial. She ran me through a battery of tests, and at the end of it, she told me I was highly intelligent and clinically depressed. She didn’t want to put me on antidepressants, though – she didn’t like the side effects, and she thought exercise might do just as well. So, she told me to walk, half an hour every day, and she’d re-evaluate me in a few months.

She was right. The exercise helped. I haven’t always been good at remembering that, though, when I’ve started slipping back into the grey places – partly because it’s so difficult to know that you’re depressed. I’ve gotten better at it, though. I don’t want to live there again, and I certainly don’t want to take NovySan there with me. So whether or not I manage any other exercise, I’ve been walking, daily, and it helps.

The other thing it helps with is getting to really know this neighborhood I’ve lived in for seven years, but haven’t thoroughly explored. If you follow me on Flickr, or on Twitter, you may have noticed posts and pictures of things I see when I’m out and about.

Yesterday, it was this one:

I still don’t know for sure, but the Twitterverse has several theories:

The child was kidnapped:

The child escaped:

The child was ejected:

Or, the child was traded for a fifth of JD:

What do you think?

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I walked a little over two miles in these shoes today.

And now, I’m having a margarita for my feet.

Purely medicinal, you know.

Can’t help it being tasty, too.

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