UPDATED: I was enjoying some late-morning snark, as I am wont to do, and thanks to Miss Snark I found myself searching after Kay Ryan, a poet I don't know. (Which, bear in mind, would apply equally to 99.9% of the world's poets as I am truly a literary illiterate).

So, I am about to launch myself into her poetry because of what she wrote here which made me fall TOTALLY in love with her. Yes! Be alone. Do it your own way. Costco = gross. That of course is my unpoetic garble. If you want to know why I fell helplessly, try these on for size:

Quote one: Already it is coming to me why I don?t have more of this camaraderie; just the thought of vogue shapes for poetry books oppresses like cathedral tunes. Dorianne seems to be able to coexist with stuff like this, letting it wash over her. The more I think about it, the more oppressed I feel?so many of us writing books of poetry, with or without arc. How in the world can I feel really, really special? No, I think poets should take the lesson of the great aromatic eucalyptus tree and poison the soil beneath us.

Quote two:I think it?s good to admit what a wolfish thing art is; I trust writers who know they aren?t nice.

*sigh*

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Last night we ate grilled cheese sandwiches cooked in a cast-iron frypan atop the woodstove. Not content with that level of homesteading I actually baked two loaves of bread in the oven of the woodstove, too.

They cooked up perfectly with a sprinkling of cornmeal underneath their lovely crusts-- but they both tasted like kaka seeing as the dough was frozen pre-fab. But as an experiment for future baking possibilities? Very fun.

I thought I was all that last night with such a plan for "Operation: Get Me To Work Looking Fine." I'd packed my gym bag for a 6 am yoga class. Put neatly folded (and ironed!) clothes in the backseat of my car. Gathered up all the lotions, potions, hair drying and coiffing essentials and set those in the car as well.

Remembered: Bra. Tights. Diffuser.

I was so ready to wake-up, roll out of bed-- put on workout clothes. Have a beautiful yoga class. Take a shower at the gym and faire la grande toilette there.

Too bad I didn't set the alarm clock.

Pffffft.

Had to move onto Plan B, alors. Which was, of course, take a shower in the bathroom on the second floor which has a shower curtain but no outlets hooked up. Then cross back through the house, the garage, upstairs of the garage to where we are living and get dressed/apply make-up there with the help of a desk lamp.

Come back down into the garage and dig out all your clothes from the car and get dressed by the table saw. Oh yeah baby. I can do jobsite with the best of them. And T certainly enjoyed the show as today's wardrobe featured my new black leather boots. Rawwwrr.

But before I move into the current phase of photo sharing, I must wrap up last week's shutterbuggering with this mini essay on dogs of Paris.

Because dogs? In Paris? EVERYWHERE.

Do you see the ashtray next to the pug? Like he's itching to light up a Gaulois.

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