By experimenting on ourselves, my wife and I have determined why models and body builders are often so fucking stupid. It’s not because those professions attract people who are any less intelligent than, say, law or medicine.

It’s the dieting.

We had a long conversation about this in bed last night, only I can’t remember the details, which is just as well because it was probably a stupid conversation.

It boils down to, the brain needs glucose to function properly. And if you’re dieting right, you’re probably cutting down on the carbs, and that means no sugars, and that means not only talking to the diet angels, but talking to them about very mundane things.

We had bananas at breakfast today, and some shortbread cookies our kid brought back from Scotland with our coffee just now, and a couple slices each of this Easter lamb cake they have here, and we’re ready for a crossword puzzle.

What’s it mean when you dream your wife and you are both pr0n movie actors, only she’s getting work and you’re not?

Kid home safe and sassy.
Diet over, for now.
Nice weather predicted for tomorrow, and especially Sunday.
Happy (E)Ostara fest, etc.

Also:
Turtle running laps in office.

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Having lived significant amounts of time in the States, England and now New Zealand, I have inherited a weird mix of colloquialisms and phrases. I am often unsure of where I even originally picked up certain words.

If I said to you: “Can you suss it out for me?” or “I need to get it sussed,” would the Americans among you understand this? You could probably figure it out from the context, but is “suss” a word you would use? I think I probably picked that one up in the UK, but I can’t really remember now.

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Been chasing snipe and wild geese all day. Now it’s quitting time and I have to disappear fast before they find something else for me to do. Elder Daughter comes home tonight. Theoretically, at least. Breathe deep, there there. She’ll be fine.

I was at a U N c*nference on n*rcotic dr*gs this week. Spent all day there today: in the breaks, everyone went out into the foyer and smoked.

And a security guy with a thing in his ear kicked me out for taking pictures, which is what I was there to do in the first place. Like Kafka crossed with Clint Eastwood. He spoke, not in a whisper, but in a growl. Smaller than me, but I didn’t give him any sass.

Mig, mig mig mig migmigmig.

Migmig, mig; migmigmig — mig mig mig: mig.

Mig, migmig?

Tuesday, I got brave. I faced my fears of getting lost and pickpockets (actually, I wasn’t afraid of the latter until my other half continuously warned me of them, that nerd), and headed into the big city. I took the train, which wasn’t intimidating (although the huge sound that bounces back at you when you pass a train going in the opposite direction made me jump every time), but upon my arrival in Paris came the make it or break it moment…

The Metro.

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