Theories on the gender of vagin.

It's interesting--it looks kinda like the gender of the word was resolved by shape (-in) rather than meaning. Which is something I think French does--chemin is masculine, whereas most of the other words for roads (rue, route, allée, chaussée, etc) are feminine.

And vagine was already taken.

This is why I now say, "Va-jay-jay".

(Thanks Dr Bailey)

Witch

I return to the cottage in the gloaming. As I pass, I take a flower from my basket and lay it on Oma's grave. Inside, I light the candle and take out the rest of the contents: several plump tree ears, a mound of fiddleheads, early berries. Last autumn's nuts, from a squirrel's forgotten cache. A handful of slender onions. A string of trout.

Before she died, Oma taught me how to find all these things. She taught me that when you live in the forest, you can't fear it.

Last of all, I take the wolf's tooth from my basket and set it in the middle, next to the candle.

ita, yep. And now it has me wondering - in a sort of vaguely distracted way - whether other gender-specific languages do the same thing. German for umbrella, for window....

It wouldn't surprise me, though Ensler forgive me I don't know the Spanish for "vagina".

Raq, whoa. Powerful.

Raq. Oh I like that.

The Piano Bench

The first time I lifted the seat, I found sheet music - Chopin, ragtime, jazz. A pair of glasses - no idea whose, since no one who lived there wore them. And the payoff: a half-full bottle of Jim Beam.

I never looked inside again. Why would I? I trusted you. You swore you'd stopped drinking.

After you came back that last time, I must have told myself not to look. Was there another bottle stashed there? Did you hide it somewhere else?

My lover, my reason for living, my beloved liar. Was there anything, ever, beyond music and booze?

Raq, that was gorgeous.

And Deb, that hits hard. As always.

Nice one, Raq.

Deb's is too spot on wrt an incident in my own life that I have been thinking about recently for me to say anything other than oof. So, oof.

Wait Room:

It’s the junk room right now, home for all the stuff with nowhere else to go. Bike and wind trainer. Step machine. Free weights. Jump rope. Two heart rate monitors.

I can remember when these were toys, a way to relax and unwind. There was even more, then, but it was active clutter, not dusty junk.

I could get there again, work through the inevitable punishment long years of slack have earned me. Not tomorrow, but eventually. Today, this room chides me with silent accusation.

“At least you aren’t in the attic,” I tell them, and go for a walk.