September 30, 1998
Opposable thumbs are very useful.
I find this to be a truth every time I damage one of mine, even slightly. And it always proves true. So I've been running around with my thumb sticking out and basically avoiding doing things that involve thumbs and washing of thumbs and changing of band-aids.
So, last night, when John finally picked me up around 8, we went to Cucina! Cucina! for dinner, instead of home. A lovely chopped salad with flat bread with roasted garlic and a blue style cheese. Yum. We dropped by the bookstore on the way there and I managed to score three copies of Harvard's Education. Problem was that, at dinner, I found out that two of the books had been labeled with some other label, and that the receipt had the wrong title for the book. So, it looked like their records would not reflect the fact that I had bought three of the Suzanne Brockman books. So, after dinner, with much encouragement from John, we went back to the bookstore and told them of the error. The lady fixed the problem by returning the three books I had bought, and then ringing up the one book that was marked correctly three times.
While John said I would regret it for the rest of my life, if I hadn't made the effort to correct the problem, I'm not that sure if he was wrong; and if he was right, what that meant about me.
We took Fezzik for his walk after going to the effort of fixing the Range Rover. John had tried bleeding the clutch the night before, but we had to stop as it was getting late. So, tonight, he went to the extra effort of doing several more things and making sure that the clutch actually worked before we stopped. After many years of practice I've gotten pretty good at working both brake and clutch pedals while John bleeds of the hydraulic lines of bubbles.
The walk felt really good. I have a feeling that the constant, steady exercise does a lot more good for my body than the heavy pounding of the hour and a half of soccer I used to do. I feel much better with the regular exercise, and my weight isn't any higher than when I was doing the harder stuff. So, I'm starting to be convinced that this might be the healthier way of living. We'll see. I may yet to get my brace and try soccer for a while, while still doing the regular walks. Together, they may do more good.
Most of today was work, mostly wading through MFC documentation in a vain effort to find what messages are being used for minimizing an application, finally found it at about 4 p.m., and, as usual, it was pretty simply once you knew it. Bob and John agree, MFC programming usually is nasty, take six hours and get about three lines of code... here... there... and in this obscure function you'd never know the name of unless you stumbled upon it by accident.
I hate that.
So my afternoon was almost entirely eaten by that, didn't even really get my journal entry done. I did get to play in Fiat a bit. Good, solid characterization stuff, thinks that Sephar would do and does and is built to do. That was good, and I was pretty glad of it.
I knew that Genevieve had planned for all the three captive angels to just pass out with the gas, but Sephar wouldn't cave in, wouldn't stop fighting the gas or the cage they were in. Finally ended up ripping Daimonique's collar off, in part because she was unconscious from the gas, so the pain wasn't going to get to her anyway, and it would make other things easier later. First, not having Chephirah's Cherub attunement going spang with the pain, second, making Daimonique fully effective wherever we were ending up, and thirdly bypassing all the problems of psychological barriers in Daimonique if Sephar failed a few times, first.
It's turned out okay.
It also turned out that it was good to have the screen time then, as later on Sephar was just lost in Hell. So that was okay. Good play balance.
<laughter> I got an email from someone telling me that they thought I had perfect breasts, around an apology about it being just not the thing that one can really say that easily. That was sweet. But I have to say that I was utterly reminded of the scene in The Princess Bride, where Buttercup is about to kill herself with a knife to the heart (which is incredibly stupid and incredibly hard to do) and Wesley says, "There is a shortage of perfect breasts in the world. It would be a shame, your Highness, to damage yours."
Hey. I'm still firmly of the opinion that I have no breasts to speak of and am, pretty firmly, happy with that fact. Rotten, painful, bouncy things in the way they'd be for fencing, running, soccer, anything... I'm pretty happy with not having anything to speak of.
Though, I guess, I've just spoken about them pretty damned thoroughly.
A number of my readers have called me on the whole concept of 'worthwhileness' of efforts. That the quantity thing isn't the way to go, the how many and how much and how much 'better' thing just doesn't count and that it shouldn't be a main consideration. Quantity versus quality call.
I'd like to say that I am not worried about quantity, about the numbers, about the amount of fixing I might do. It would be more... uhm... noble or something. I'm not exactly sure what. Something more ineffiable.
Probably, realistially, it would likely make me far more happy to not compare. I've stopped comparing recently. And I've seen all the pitfalls that comparisons make and can be. It's the root of despair, I think. But I am human. I sometimes compare. I sometimes worry about quantity, about how big, how much. A size queen, if you like. Of sorts. Sometimes I care, and sometimes I ask, and sometimes I come up with the fact that it does matter to me. Not always... sometimes.
And the moods change with time and focus, attention and thought.
It is more useful and more productive to simply not compare, to measure my worth against others is always a futile thing. There, I've said that, but I also know that I do it anyway. Sometimes.