Chapter and verse

Pinched this off Bob, who pinched it off Dr Wannabe...

1. Grab the nearest book.

2. Open the book to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the text of the next four sentences on your blog, along with these instructions.

5. No cheating by going for a "cool" book...it has to be the nearest one.

Here's mine:

"And he closed the book, and he gave it again to the minister, and sat down. And the eyes of all them that were in the synagogue were fastened on him. And he began to say unto them, This day is this scripture fulfilled in your ears. And all bare him witness, and wondered at the gracious words that proceeded out of his mouth."

As Misty would say, there's a quarter pounder with extra mayo for the first person to guess the name of the book. And if you can tell me what chapter and verse, there's a lovely slice of dill pickle to go with it.

And no Googling. Although I wouldn't say no to a bit of ogling...

A tale of two anaesthetics

Many years ago... what? No. This was after the wheel was invented, thanks for asking.

*ahem*

Many years ago, when I was bearing my wee bairns, it was discovered, that when in fact I should have been in nasty, horrible, rip-the-head-off-anyone-who-came-near-me labour, I was in fact... not. I, apparently, lack the appropriate enzymes, uptake gizmos, biological whatever-it-is to properly process pitocin, that darling little hormone that causes labour to start and progress to the point of popping out a wee 'un.

So, t'was nothing else to do but to go under the knife. Luckily, there was no anaesthesiologist available who was qualified to perform an epidural, because if there's anything worse than hearing they're going to cut you open, it's that they're going to cut you open while you're awake. Ew. So they knocked me out.

They did rather a good job of it the first time. Too good in fact. The nurse in the recovery room had to wake me by screaming my name at me (it sounded like screaming to me) and I was so groggy that when my husband placed the baby next to me on the bed, I couldn't even lift my hand to touch her. In fact, I could hardly see her, I was so groggy. The fact that no one in the room who was fully conscious (i.e. everyone but me) was intelligent enough to give me my glasses didn't help. Nor did the post-surgical searing pain as the morphine (good stuff, that) hadn't quite kicked in yet. They could have handed me a pair of bowling shoes and I would have been none the wiser at that point. "Twins!" I would have mumbled, as they wheeled me off to the maternity ward, "I wasn't expecting twins."

Fast forward four years. Second baby, same scenario. No labour for me. Out they put me again. And again a general. (Relieved I was, I can tell you.) But this time there was no slowly coming to in the recovery room being screamed at by a nurse who was probably not only annoyed by the fact that I wouldn't come to but also that I was making her late for her coffee break. Oh, no. I thought I'd save them all the trouble of waking me and woke up on my own. In the operating room. Tube still down my throat. In fact, I think it was the sputtering and gagging sounds I was making that alerted them to the fact that the patient was not, in fact, still unconscious as she was meant to be. The first words I heard that time were not my name but a somewhat frantic, "Oh my god! She's waking up! Get that tube out of her throat!" The only thing that kept me from panicking was the fact that, while I was conscious and could hear plainly enough, I was still paralyzed from head to toe. Couldn't even open my eyes. Couldn't speak even after they took the tube out. The drug that knocks you out is separate from the one that paralyzes your muscles, it would seem. And it's darned hard to panic and run around the room flapping your arms, when you can't even blink.

The good thing was, I had a lovely nurse who refrained from screaming anything at me, even my name, and very kindly explained what was going on, reassured me that everything was fine and that, in fact, my obstetrician was very pleased with me as I'd 'done a very good job.' Which struck me as quite funny, because I'd done nothing but lie there unconscious while all the serious work was going on. So I laughed. Only inside my head, of course, as I was still incapable of making any sound. So, it would seem that even general aneasthesia can't knock out my sense of humour. Which is nice. Because I was going to need it when I met my roommate later that same day. But that's another post.

My teenaged soundtrack

Monkees - Daydream Believer

What I was listening to in grade 5 (10 years old).

Grade 7 (12 yrs old)

The Beatles, in Hey Jude

Grade 7 (age 12)

Grade 9 (14 yrs old)

ccr bad moon rising

Grade 9 (14) (this video doesn't date from 1970, though)

Grade 11 - 16 yrs old

Elton John - Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

Grade 11 (16 yrs old)

Just after graduation

Ballroom Blitz


Summer after graduation (1974 - 17 yrs old)

I rest my case

7:03 a.m. to 4:27 p.m. - 9 hrs 24 mins of daylight in St. John's today
v.












7:15 a.m. to 4:14 p.m. - 8 hrs 59 mins of daylight in London today

And there's no snow yet because it isn't cold enough. So nyer.

/gets flashlight so as to find shovel

Blinded by the light

Oh, that Twisted Chili. In response to one of my previous posts about battling to get changed in a darkened locker room, he commented, "I thought you'd be walking around with one of those head torches strapped on anyway - it must be damned dark up there by now!"

Damned dark? Up here? Whilst we are considerably north of much of the planet, we are by no means far enough "up there" to be in danger of experiencing polar night any time soon. We can't even see the Aurora Borealis from here. At a mere 47 degrees, 37 minutes north latitude, we're not even as far north as London, England, which is 51 degrees, 32 minutes north. It gets darker earlier at this time of year in England than it does here. But. And herein lies the problem, England is the happy recipient of onshore winds that pass over the Gulf Stream Drift, which is a warm current. Newfoundland is the unhappy victim of the Labrador current, which is cold. Hence our wetter, windier and colder climate. But not, my friends, darker.

You can lead a horse to Wagner but you can't make him drink

Saw The Stendhal Syndrome* by Terrance McNally last night. It's a very interesting set of two short plays, Full Frontal Nudity (American tourists encountering Michaelangelo's David for the first time under the guidance of an Italian tour guide) and Prelude and Liebestod (the inner thoughts of the conductor interspered with brief glimpses into the thoughts of the concertmaster, soloist, conductor's wife and besotted fan of the conductor, whilst he conducts the aforementioned pieces from Wagner's Tristan und Isolde.)

I thoroughly enjoyed both plays. But apparently, that's very much in the eye of the beholder. It never ceases to amaze me how differently people perceive theatre (or anything for that matter). My companion found the language in Prelude and Liebestod, in which the conductor relates a bisexual bondage scene from his youth, citing it the most sublime sexual experience of his life and bemoaning the lack of anything since approaching that intensity, a bit too vulgar for her liking. I didn't find it offensive in the least and wondered how you could relate a story like that without being vulgar. Another friend, who'd seen the play earlier in the week, found that story quite arousing and said she'd left the theatre "walking funny."

And it's not just we locals who can't agree on what we've seen. When I went online to find a bit more background for this post, I found diametrically opposed reviews of the Off Broadway production starring Isabella Rosselini and Richard Thomas.

John Simon of the New York Times Theatre section detested the plays, calling them "hokey." He disliked everything about the plays from the subject matter to the characters and the actors playing them.

Matthew Murray of Talkin' Broadway - Off Broadway held a view more similar to mine. Other than finding fault with some of the actors, and mitigating that with the opinion that they would improve once they'd, "... settled into their roles." he was quite complimentary to the play itself, concluding his review with, "... missing too many McNally plays, including The Stendhal Syndrome, would be an unfortunate loss."

Elyse Sommer of Curtain Up gives the play a glowing review and thinks McNally succeeds admirably in poking fun at dead serious art.

But then, they couldn't agree on what to say about Isabella Rosselini, either. John Simon said, "[she] has inherited neither her father’s talent nor her mother’s looks, does justice to her undemanding roles and delivers the guide’s Italian phrases meticulously." Ouch! While Elyse Sommer stated that Rossilini was charming and looked and sounded like her mother. See? Eye of the beholder.

But all that aside, I really enjoyed the unusal staging of both plays. Full Frontal Nudity has four actors, three tourists and a tour guide, facing the audience with the premise being that they are standing in front of the statue of David which is sitting just in front of the first row of seats. Photographs of the statue were projected onto a screen upstage, with the photo changing to suit the dialogue (full vantage, close-up of the eye, or the hand, etc.). It worked very well in our theatre, as the stage is at floor level and the audience is seated on risers, so that the actors upturned faces were very visible. I'm not sure how well it would have worked in a more convential theatre where the actors are up on a stage.

Prelude and Liebestod had the action viewed from the perspective of the orchestra, so that the conductor was facing us, with the soprano sitting back on to the audience and singing to the upstage wall, the conductor's wife in a stage right "box seat" facing the real audience and the besotted fan in a stage left stall seat, again facing the real audience. The words to the music, first in German and then in English, were projected onto the screen that showed photos of David in the first play.

I don't know. I enjoyed myself. Whether the scripts were hokey or too vulgar or not. I'd recommned you see it if a production comes your way. I can tell you one thing. It sure made me wonder what was really going on inside our director's head at choir practice today...



* Not to be confused with the horror film of the same name.

It's fun to stay at the YYYYYYY MCA!

So. Finish my workout. Head for the locker room. It's in complete blackness. There are two electricians installing a new ceiling fixture. Fine. The locker room is big enough that I can get changed without compromising my modesty. *ahem!*

Except for one small detail. I can't get to the clothes I need to change into because it's too dark to see the combination lock on my locker. And it's a dome-shaped thingy, no point on the spin dial like I had in high school to tell what number it's at. I have a mini Maglight on my key chain. Which is in my purse. Which is in my locker. What to do?

Use the light from my Timex Indiglo watch to see the lock. I'm genius, I am.

S-noooooooooooooooo!

Ack. It arrived overnight. It's all melted again, but it'll be back. Oh yes. It'll be back...

EXTRA! Hag has heart

My hit counter just clicked over on my 13,000th visitor. Which is kind of mind boggling for such a silly little blog with only 225 posts that only began a little over a year ago. I got 2 whole comments on that first post, which was pretty exciting.

I'd like to say who the 13,000th person was, but they're only identified as "United States," not even a city mentioned, so that leaves a lot of wiggle room. They got here by searching "old hag dream." So, welcome unidentified American person who may being having nasty sleep paralysis incidents. Hope you enjoyed your stay.

And speaking of mileage and old hags, I think my doctor is trying to tell me something.

I had my first EKG* today. A baseline, said the doc when she ordered it. That's my third baseline test of one kind or another in the last little while. What's with this baseline thing? Are they trying to tell me this is my personal health zenith and that it's all downhill from here? Why do we need to measure this stuff? So we'll know just how fast I'm deteriorating? Are they trying to tell me I'm on the luge ride to oldhagdom?

*sigh* Well, it sure beats the heck out of the alternative. And luckily for me, black is a good colour for me. Now to find me a darling little apple basket and I'll be all set. Apple, my pretties?

*You'll be pleased and perhaps more than a little shocked to find that I do, in fact, possess a heart.

Barenaked Ladies - Easy

One of my favourite Canuck groups.