Well, at least I know where that picture of Scorpius chained up like a dog came from. A friend pointed out that this two parter was really, really bad, and they have a point, but I dunno, I guess I was entertained enough by Crichton "taking one for the team" or several, not to mention the bizarre SG plot bleed and the girls all running about. Hey, I like Stargate and I watch Enterprise on occassion, so my tolerance for sad SF TV is probably higher than most folks. Still, I can look down my nose at the friend who actually likes Enterprise (you know a show is bad when you can occupy the high moral ground by claiming you only watch for the underwear and not the plots).
Relic Hunter was the better viewing deal, proving surprisingly slashy with the hunk du jour rather more interested in Nigel than Sydney. Heh. Bad Nigel and his flirtations, distracting me from rewrites.
Damn, I'm still suffering my flu. Not even the banana and mandarin of yesterday (all I had, woe is me) would settle. Oh well, at least my ankles are unpuffy. I should walk home some tonight to help it along. I know, you're thinking I should walk home most of the way tonight, but that would require shoes a tad more sensible than the shoes I have on today, dear reader. Not that most folks wouldn't class these shoes as dowdy in the extreme (hell, even AP approves and you know you've taken a wrong turn when AP approves) but they're cheap and they pinch and bite in places and I've only rated them for 2km, not 5km and certainly not 8km.
It's the one benefit of not having a car. People may sneer at me for not going to the gym (and they do) but lugging home very heavy groceries for eight blocks in the heat (quickly, before the bags break and the milk curdles) counts as a workout and more and more 'experts' are agreeing with my views on the matter.
I suppose those with cars have no idea how much carrying of heavy loads over great distances I do (several of my larger garden pots were walked home over many miles of hilly terrain strapped to a trolley), nor the amount of stair climbing I do in a single day, just commuting and running errands. Then there's my luddite mother and the fact that we have no dishwasher, washing machine, vacuum cleaner, and well, Saturday is quite the workout.
Not that you can tell from my pudgy exterior, but I can saw and lift large portions of felled tree, so I'm not a total cream puff. Of course, these Xena skills are never attractive to men. What a catch 22. No man of my own so I have to do all the man jobs (as well as the woman jobs), which makes me unattractive, and so it goes on...
Oh, it just gets worse. I've been invited to Yum Cha, my first in ages. Yipee. Only I'm still green around the gills, ain't I. I suppose I'll have to be content with an elegant sufficiency for once. Damn and blast.
Meanwhile in other news, I've been taken to task for not being on speaking terms with the Ugly Sisters. It's all my fault, of course it is, even though I explained I prefer to keep all my correspondence electronic: I can keep track of my work, keep a record of who asked for what and it saves on personal flourishes. They want me to make nice but it ain't gonna happen. They think I'm as common as muck and I think they're stuck up pricks (they're middle class, I'm working class, they're older and used to strict heirarchy, I'm used to working in teams, they're uber right wing, I'm left wing, and so it goes). Nope, ain't never gonna talk to that bitch becuse the only thing I ever want to say to her is: "I bring you Sutekh's gift...of death!" Hopefully followed by a lot of sizzling and screaming and dying on her part.
Well, one can but dream. She is terrible, you know, because the friend I met yesterday specifically asked, almost first thing, if that woman was still giving me grief and I'd not seen said friend in a year or more, so it's a long and sustained dislike on both sides (with the bitch, not the dear friend), though I must come off the worst as my distress is so keen as to be openly commented upon and remembered. We can but hope for a rogue bus with her name on it.
Oooh, ads for Sam's new flick (Perfect Strangers). Pretty, pretty, evil, wicked Sam. Oh, cool, Laurel Canyon (which has been out on dvd for ages in the US, which I've had on dvd for ages) is opening a month from now. Yep, I think I will make the great journey to go see Alessandro nekkid on the big screen. Plus, I really like the fillum. Not sure about Sam's latest effort, as his Kiwi films are usually even more painful than his Aussie ones, if you can believe that, but I should probably go and give my art film pain tolerance level a workout, anyway. Go by myself, too, because that way I don't have to apologise for it. I think I enjoy films much more when I don't have to explain a director's choices etc to an unimpressed third party. It's hard to forgive an actor when you're made to bear the brunt of criticism for their filmic follies (which is probably why I'm nothing but cheek when I do meet my celluloid honies, just passing on the malcontent).