D.L. is a sushi fiend! Who knew?!

In an unexpected twist, I had a dream this morning that actually had a plot! Not only that, but it was Heroes-related!

Actually, it wasn't really, but Nicky and D.L. and Micah were in it, only Micah was played by a completely different child. And Nicky and D.L.'s backstory, which was explained to me in the dream, was something about Nicky's father hiring D.L. to protect her, telling him he was under no circumstances to speak to his daughter, but they fell in love anyway and eloped. It was terribly romantic.

At any rate, the plot of my dream: I was part of a team that included Nicky, D.L. (and Micah was with us for some reason), and various other people. We had to sneak into a building to get something (items that belonged to us, I believe) and we had to orchestrate all kinds of things, like looping the security cameras so that we wouldn't appear on them. Everything was going fine, but D.L. kept saying he had a craving for sushi, and that he was worried about ordering tuna because he didn't know whether it would be cooked or not. The building was some sort of fancy office building that included reception facilities and when we ended up on the fourth floor, where the kitchens were, we were treated to a sumptuous sushi/Japanese cuisine buffet, because obviously someone on the inside was a sympathiser to our cause. Unfortunately, I awoke before I could eat any of it, but D.L. looked happy enough!

Why is it that I'm so bad at throwing things out? It's not that I have true packrat tendancies, though I do a bit, it's that I don't like waste: putting things that are still serviceable in the garbage is contrary to my general philosophy of "waste not, want not", which is why I end up with ratty-looking pyjamas and underwear. Although, if there were anyone seeing those on a regular basis, I'd do better! Really, I'm trying. The other day, I even threw out a distended, pilling t-shirt I'd been using as sitting-around-in-my-apartment-wear. *fans self after such a radical move* Go me!

Part of the trouble now is that my apartment is so small, there's no way taking the six steps to the bathroom, or the five steps to the fridge, or the four steps to the kitchen will produce any of the usual wear to socks, for example, so the only indoor clothes I've thrown out since I moved have been those that were already damaged, or the ones that I sweated in all summer -- I used to laugh at my father when we'd go on vacation and something as simple as driving through Death Valley in July left great salt stains on his t-shirts, but I find myself in the same situation. Not that I didn't sweat before, but the salt residue and the discoloration to cheap tank tops is new.

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Mmm, drinking fresh-squeezed clementine juice is like downing liquid sunshine. And the colour!







That's 7 clementines (it's a large glass) and boy, were they delicious! If you're wondering about the glass, I got it when I opened a bank account here, because Japanese banks give away way cooler things than ipods!

When the weather turns cold, I occasionally, between stretches of not wanting to cook at all, become obsessed with thoughts of root vegetables and thick, hearty stew, a pot of which is currently bubbling away on my little gas range. Unfortunately, I always have trouble getting sauces to thicken (why is Cornstarch so cruel to me? where did I go wrong?) so I'm still waiting for that part of the "thick and hearty" to come about. But it smells delicious!

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Wow, I seem to have a lot to say today...

I've spent the last half hour giggling about some of the "kids say really stupid/embarrassing/awful things" stories here, so I thought I'd share one of mine, even though it's not devastating in any way.

When I was little, my father used to sing to me quite a bit, including "When It's Springtime in the Rockies" (here are the lyrics), sometimes substituting "mosquitoes" for "birds" -- anyway, that's not the point. Once, when my parents took me to the doctor's office for a check-up, the doctor kindly asked me, "And what's your name?"

"I'm the sweetheart of the mountains," I replied, with all the seriousness my two-year-old self was capable of.

I can just imagine my parents trying not to howl with laughter in the corner of the exam room.

In a similar vein, though this time my brother was the "victim":

The summer I was 8, my grandmother rented a cottage for one week on l'Ile d'Orléans, and we went to stay with her. B2 was three at the time, and after the long drive (at least 5 1/2 hours from Aylmer, not counting stops), he was pretty cranky. We made it to the cottage and it was pouring rain, so my parents hustled us inside while they hurried to empty the car and get all our things inside. B2, seeing my mother heading out the door, wanted to go with her, but she told him to stay inside because "Il fait un temps de cochon!" B2 paused, then looked out the window for a few seconds. We couldn't figure out why, until the tears that had been threatening spilled over, and he started wailing, "Où est le cochon???"

By that time, he was too upset to listen to an explanation, so my mother had to rock him until he calmed down. He was too young to understand the concept of a figure of speech, anyway, so we just didn't mention pigs or pig-appropriate weather again that day and he forgot about it.