Perhaps it was waiting for more tender flesh. Or perhaps, it was simply basking in the glorious morning. We have been enjoying an actual autumn this year, something that almost never happens in this part of the country. Usually we go from summer to blizzard in about a week and a half, but we have been hovering close to 20C for weeks now. And still no snow. I am expecting loads of little Iron Men and Jokers to crowd around the door tonight and have sensibly stocked up on approximately 17 million mini chocolate bars.
The gigantic anniversary slash birthday bash is tomorrow night, and the insane cleaning frenzy that began with an ill-fated attempt to remove greasy strings of dust from the kitchen ceiling has continued unabated since. I figure we might as well put this place on the market while we are at it, because it is never going to be this clean again. I'm not sure why I have this compulsive need to clean the hell out of the place whenever people come over, but I am pretty sure that the origins are pathological.
Recently, the sumptuous and sassy Phlegmfatale, of Fatale Abstraction, bestowed a Superior Scribbler award on me, and while I am naturally overwhelmed and truly honoured, I do feel unworthy. However I can partly see her rationale for naming me, as "scribbling" does pretty accurately describe my ramblings.
But now the hard part - passing the Superior Scribblers crown over to the exulted heads of five others. Not that I can't find five worthy bloggers, oh no, quite the opposite. Rather how do I possibly narrow the list down to a mere five?
But choose I must, so please join me in honouring these scribes:
Jen, of Cherished Misery, who has a way of getting past the bullshit to the truth. She is usually irreverent, often blasphemous (much to the annoyance of the Jesus-freak stalkers), and always entertaining. She makes me cringe sometimes, and that's what seems to turn people on these days. I know it does me.
Urban Blonde, of Urban Blonde in the Burbs, who is another sassy scribe who takes no prisoners. The mouth on this one! And yet beneath the blasphemy, she tells the honest truth, and in a most eloquent fashion.
Allison, of Flying Buttresses, who has a wonderfully skewed way of looking at life. Her posts are perfect little snippets of slightly off-kilter and random observations that make you reevaluate your world view.
Sean, of Everything is Pop, a fellow music aficionado, whose finger is firmly on the pulse of the zeitgeist of the music industry in Canada and the world. A multi-facetted appreciation of music and a keen understanding make his posts an always welcome read at the end of the day.
Bloody Awful Poetry, of Blogeddy Blog Blog, who more than lives up to the expectations for humour that one would naturally expect of someone who takes their blogger name from Smiths' lyrics. She has a gift for writing far beyond her years and the fact that she writes in English makes this even more impressive.
Well done, you Superior Scribblers!
With great power comes great responsibility. Here be the rules:
*The Rules:Every Superior Scribbler will name 5 other Super Scribblers.If you are named you must link to the author & the name of the blog that gave you the award. Then you must display the adorable award and link to THIS POST, which explains the award. The same post also allows you to add your link. Then they will have a record of all the people who are Super Scribblers!Do you know who was a truly exceptional Superior Scribbler?
Every Hallowe'en, I feel compelled to read aloud the absolutely perfect first paragraph from her wonderfully creepy novel, The Haunting of Hill House. Won't you join me this year? Just let me turn the light down a little bit first, and make sure that the doors are all shut and locked.
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.