Will you be my trophy friend? Heh.

Straight-up pantyhose or other nylons will wipe off deodorant marks.

Of course I'm chilling bare-legged today, because the universe has more fun that way.

For some reason the Container Store sells those de-deodorants.

I am so totally having a beef quesadilla for lunch. Of course, the time when I insisted I was having pizza I ended up with chicken quesadilla, the truth will have to wait until the end to be outed.

I could use a couple trophy friends, come to think of it.

I had a delicious lunch courtesy of the Whole Foods salad bar, which was Southwestern tangy chicken salad and some old-fashioned macaroni salad, with four small strawberries sprinkled with sugar afterwards. Yum! And I brought back the frozen-ready-to-bake apple pie to eat during Eureka tonight!

Will you be my trophy friend? Heh

The thing that weirds me out about Facebook is not people linking me like that, (I've only had a few so far...and they do weird me out) but it's the mix of all my world's real and online. I like them very separate, thank you.

Of all the sites, the majority - 90 per cent - of close friends have been met face to face. "Face to face contact is a requirement for intimate friendships."

Don't those two sentences conflict? Unless there's a subtle difference between close and intimate or, purely to annoy me, requirement doesn't actually mean requirement.

Of course, I disagree with the statement anyway.

I'm having chicken walnut salad for lunch.

Thinking about it makes my mouth water.

I started to laugh at the "only five intimate friends" comment, and then realized that my first tier of "friends I met through the internet" has five people.

But yeah, it all depends how you define things. The list of "people I've met through the internet who'd be allowed to sleep in my house" is much bigger.

I actually declined to friend someone who was probably a first cousin once removed, but I totally couldn't place them. I mean seriously, I have 42 first cousins and they've probably bred three times that number. I certainly haven't met them, so do I have to friend them because they're a blood relation? (I'm not even that close with any of my first cousins.)

The article confused me as well.

I think they need to define friends, what is close, what is intimate for me to get it.

Seriously, I see Monique maybe once a year, and she's an intimate friend I've only seen a half dozen times who knows...entirely too much about me.

Is intimate someone who will come haul your ass to the ER? I think lots of people here absolutely would, no question. The reason they don't is a geography issue, not a friendship issue.

This is sad - it makes me think of Giles being unable to read...

How to write when you can't read

Of all the ways to learn that your brain has suffered an "insult," as medical professionals like to call the effects of strokes, one of the oddest is to get up in the morning and discover your Toronto newspaper seemingly printed in a mix of Serbo-Croatian and Korean. When 70-year-old Howard Engel came back inside with his Globe and Mail that hot July day in 2001 and found he couldn't read his own books either, the bestselling mystery novelist headed for the hospital. Tests confirmed Engel's own assumption: stroke, left side, rear. His memory was shot -- still is, for that matter, especially for names -- and he had lost a quarter of his vision, on the upper right side. But the essence of the diagnosis was a rare and almost incomprehensible condition: alexia sine agraphia. The elegant combination of Greek and Latin words meant that while Engel could still write, he could no longer read.

It's an understatement to call this a body blow to a man who writes for a living. But worse than the professional injury, as Engel's graceful little memoir The Man Who Forgot How to Read (HarperCollins) makes clear, was the insult to his very identity. Howard Engel didn't just read to work; he virtually lived to read. The son of a woman who read voraciously everything from mysteries to Proust and a father who would spin tall tales about "darkest Africa" at a moment's notice, from childhood on Engel always had a book -- or two or three -- on the go. In conversation at a neighbourhood café patio, he calls himself "hard-wired for reading."

...

What had truly sparked Sacks's admiration was the fact -- the neuroscientist calls it "astonishing" -- that while struggling to bring his reading up to Grade 3 level, Engel had actually written an entire Cooperman novel. The author is more modest; he had simply followed the age-old advice, "Write what you know," and subjected his character to the same brain insult. (Not exactly the same: "Detectives don't have strokes," Engel says dryly, "someone bashed him on the head.") Cooperman undergoes the same therapies as Engel, intermingles with the same medical professionals and fellow patients, and, without ever leaving his ward, solves the mystery of who put him in the hospital and why. Benny has since appeared in another novel, flourishing as perhaps the only brain-damaged detective going. "Benny's no more recovered than I am," says Engel. "He can still give you four reasons for the Persian Wars, but he'll have forgotten who he's talking to."