Radiogurl a la Carte
Sunday, Dec. 11, 2005
You scored: Overall Pirate Level: 69%, 57% Possible Wealth, 56% Fame or Infamy, and 29% Body Count and Crying Widows!
You have definite potential. If you stopped screwing around, you could be one hell of a pirate some day. Drink more rum, and get back to work!
|My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:|
|Link: The Life of a Pirate Test written by 10of9 on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test|
It doesn't get any better than to start things off by comparative piratism, does it? Unfortunately I only made second mate. It appears I'm not suitably greedy to be the captain. Still, second mate's not bad.
Last night I wasn't about to cook, not after being out late the night before and working several hours yesterday, so I blew off the diet (not like I've been following it religiously but I have been trying to watch it somewhat) and bought a calzone.
The pizza family may be the perfect guilty-pleasure food. For some people it's chocolate. Now I adore chocolate, don't get me wrong. Cheese and pepperoni and mushrooms and black olives and bell pepper, on the other hand, will be my undoing every time. With a calzone, you get the added allure of extra cheese, just by default. We're talking foodie heaven here. I don't have them often, thank goodness; about two times a year is my limit or I'd be rolling along even when NOT in my truck! The sad part is that there's a restaurant here in town that makes some of the best calzones ever. I just have to steer clear of that shopping center at every opportunity, or I'm sunk. Which sucks, because they're right next to the theaters.
Last night I finished another batch of Christmas cards, and will mail them off tomorrow. I still have a handful to do, but the vast majority have now been written. I have most of the snail mail addies I needed, still need to
hound ask a couple of other people from here and I should be finished.
I also wrote a snail-mail letter to Mr. Complicated. About five or six pages' worth, in fact, all handwritten, and not on itty-bitty standard "stationery" paper, either. And my writing is very precise and penned in fairly small script, see:
I tried to post it in approximately actual size. If anything, this is larger than original.There are a lot of reasons for writing on paper. Aside from the tactile aspects of touching the paper and pen and putting your own writing into the effort, there's pretty much no chance that what you write will be hacked and published online, or that the person you write will post what you said online, period. I am also much more comfortable, ironically, writing what I really feel when I commit the words to page with pen and ink and paper. A paper letter can be read anywhere, any time. It doesn't require an Internet connection or a computer or electricity. And while you can print out a letter that's been emailed to you, typed words will never be as personal as those someone's taken the time to write out, longhand.
I don't hand-write and send snail-mail letters often, precisely because they are to me so much more intimate. In this case, for what it's worth, there were several reasons behind the writing. I have been reluctant to post details about Mr. Complicated on this diary, for a lot of reasons. It's not as though we are involved in a passionate love affair, for what it's worth, and in fact I'm being extremely cautious. I'm not ruling anything out. I'm also not leaping before I run a thorough sonar sweep of the ocean floor, baby!
The biggest irony of things is that in many respects, our roles in general have been reversed from my previous experiences. It's been both interesting and challenging to deal with the details from the opposite perspective.
Three more folks posted or emailed wholly fictional(?) memories of me, including some that had me pretty much laughing my butt off (if only it were really that simple to get rid of the butt!) and I'm posting them here:
There was no doubt he would make you his wench forever! Worse yet, he would dress you in breeches and call you his cabin boy.
As you were praying below decks - praying for your salvation OR a quick and easy death, you started singing your prayer. Lo and behold, it just happened
to be the same frequency as the pink-nosed dolphins who swim the waters near Fiji. They understood your plight, and they carried your song to my fine
ship - the HMS Pie Rat.
At first, I couldn't make out their song. I thought they were singing about a woman who kept her prism more on the ship. It made no sense! I thought the dolphins were daft! Prism more? More what? More in the sun? More angled to start a fire in the rigging? As I listened more carefully, it became clear that the dolphins were singing about a "prisoner,"not "prism more." So, I gathered my crew and off we went, trailing the dolphins back to your ship. Someone was in dire straits, and indeed, it was YOU!
We waited for a fine moment to board the ship, and we took old Blueballs and his men by total surprise! There was a fierce battle, but Blueballs was
defeated. We set him adrift in a dinghy with a bottle of rum and a copy of "Hustler." I have no idea what happened to the rest of the crew. It doesn't matter. They are not integral to this story. But we saved you, radiogurl!
My helmsman took the wheel of your ship and guided you safely to Fiji where you set up your first radio station - powered completely by electric eels found near the reefs that surround the island. Those were the days. Pirates on the high seas and a pink dolphin-aided rescue mission by the rats aboard my ship. I send you an eyepatch every Christmas to make sure you never forget.
Today's been house-cleaning day. I just cleaned my fridge, dismantling its interior to get into every nook and cranny, something I've been putting off forever. I still need to dust and to do at least one or two loads of laundry, vacuum, and I'm thinking seriously about shampooing the carpet, provided I get everything else done early enough. I hate to shampoo it this time of year because now that it's gotten colder it'll take that much longer to dry - but the floor is filthy and I can't stand it any more.
I'm not anal about housekeeping (a fact to which Nicim will attest) but even I have my limits.
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