Smokin' Morty is freaking me right out. He just sits there, all... baby like... and smokes! All freakin' day! Creepy little baby...
I think he may have to have an accident. Little ceramic smoking babies should probably not play on the edge of balconies in an apartment building... mwahahaha!!!
Anyhow, I'm sure all my devoted fans (One? Anybody? Hello? It's cold and there are wolves... Aarrrooooooo... Well, crap.) are just ecstatic that I am writing again...
I was in Ontario. And Quebec. I had a funeral to go to. It was odd. A lot of travel involved...
On the plus side, whilst in Toronto, I was taken to a lovely Asian fusion restaurant (Thanks to my lovely aunt!) called Ki. Super delicious fantastic food. Two big, fat, sated thumbs up.
On the negative side, I was again made aware of the fact that I have a big ol' cemetery plot just waiting for me in "the family graveyard". Oh. My. God. Nobody ever believes me when I tell them this, but my father bought me a plot in the cemetery that some of his side of the family is buried in. And thought it would be nice to show me. This can really, really, mess you up when you're twelve. I actually wrote my wishes to be cremated and scattered by the age of thirteen, because I was having anxiety dreams about being buried in this plot in the middle of freakin' nowhere, surrounded by my father's relatives (okay, and mine, but I've never met 99% of them! What if I have to spend all eternity talking to them, and they're boring? Or worse, like my grandmother (God rest her soul), and questioning why I wasn't buried in a nice skirt with stockings in between various derogatory remarks about people they despise for no apparent reason!!). Wow. So, anyway, I was going to take a picture of "my plot" for this entry, but my camera batteries died in the graveyard right after I took a picture of my grandparents' headstone. Isn't it ironic? Or creepy. Take your pick.

Look at him... Smoking for mommy like a little professional bingo player. Who loves you, little Morty? Mommy does. But Mommy works in cancer research, and makes no money, and needs you to stay little and scrawny so Mommy can afford to keep you (Ahhhh.... irony). So smoke up, Morty, my little nicotine stained angel.

Who knew $7.98 could buy happiness? I am now a mommy. I am a proud parent. Of a ceramic smoking baby. Fear not, for you will all be inundated with numerous photos of little Morty soon. Now, however, I am going to a movie. In the meantime, feel free to send money orders/cheques of congratulations!

This is how much of a science geek I am. But first, "BACKGROUND!"
I work in cancer research. This means I am indescribably poor. Because working in academic research pays poorly. Because money doesn't go to cancer research. It goes to important medical problems. Like erectile dysfunction. (ed. note: I have not actually seen the funding allotment profiles for my place of employment. I am just bitter, because I have had 7 years of education and would earn more working as a dishwasher at Earl's. Not that there's anything wrong with that position. But I doubt you need a Masters degree. I'm not sure. I haven't actually applied. But I think it's a valid inference.
Anyway... My points can be summarized thusly:
1) Work in research
2) Don't have a lot of spare fundage.
Anybody who knows me knows that I have a cup of coffee practically grafted to my hand at most hours of the day. Knowing this, and knowing the funding situation, one would think that I would make use of the coffee maker in the office in order to most economically fund my habit.
I don't.
Because there is a thick layer of three different mold colonies growing in the bottom of the coffee pot.
When I noticed this, did I:
a) clean out the coffee pot, run it through the autoclave to remove any chance spores, and henceforth keep the coffee pot properly sanitized?
or
b) take pictures of the mold, and based on i) colony morphology ii) colour iii) physical appearance, determine what species of molds are in the coffee pot?
Yup.
Here they are, in no particular order.
Penicillium spp., Trichoderma spp., and Sclerotinia spp.
I rule.
And will probably be single for the rest of my life. Lots and lots of cats will eat my shriveled old lady body. And they'll all be named Miss Pretty Prancin' Paws.

Many, many thanks to my friends, who assure me that their parents are also inept in many aspects of technology. Also, thanks to Admiral Happy Pants, for going online to find me some truly luscious photos of Wolverine (Hugh Jackman). Actually, there's a really funny story to go along with this. I received an e-mail whilst working hard today (er... Working? At work? Physically at the location of work? Whatever...). It is from Admiral Happy Pants. He read my previous entry, and sympathized with my disappointment in the durability of Wolverine's pants in the wake of the Phoenix's wrath. Furthermore, he enclosed in said e-mail a link. A link which was promised to provide countless minutes of viewing pleasure of said luscious Jackman... pantless. Okay, he's still wearing shorts. And a towel. We takes what we can gets, matey. Like a sexually deprived pirate. A respectful sexually deprived pirate. A respectful sexually deprived pirate who does not make men feel in any way uncomfortable or harassed. Rrowwr.
Anyhow, so I call all the girls in the lab around the computer, promising them untold delights. With a grand flourish, I clicked on the link. To huge-chested, scantily clad women.
The girls stared at me, horrified. I stared, horrified. First thoughts... Holy crimson stretch marks, Batman! Damn, those are some huge breastesses!
Second thoughts... Admiral Happy Pants must die.
So I e-mailed Admiral Happy Pants back, explaining that he was a doof. I may have used other terms. I don't remember. (I'm lying... I remember exactly what I said, but I am not repeating it here). After numerous profuse and cringing apologies, we determined that when part of Hugh Jackman's name is cut off from the link, it becomes the Mammarily Gifted Beach Patrol. Problem solved... A particularly loverly photo of Wolverine is now gracing our screen background at work. I love happy endings....
On another topic, I'm thinking of setting up a charity for several members of the Mammarily Gifted Beach Patrol. Apparently, the poor things can't afford shirts, or really anything in the way of tops.

So... Much... Rage... Frustration... Kitty Sniper, do your worst!
I just got off the phone with my dad a little while ago. Trying to book train tickets for our grandmother's funeral. And a titan of enterprise he may be (self-described, I assure you), but as far as planning and use of the internet goes.... AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
"It's $316.40, for the two tickets, dad." I said, trying desperately not to grind my teeth to powder.
"Let's see here.... Explorer? I think that's... uh... it's not working.... Oh... double click... there..."
"So, uh, should I go ahead and book it then? Saturday night and returning Monday?" Tooth dust clouds billow out my mouth as I growl into the phone.
"Okay.... uh... Google.... Yes, yes, that's it.... Now... That was... uh... Viarail... en anglais, oui?"
"Uh... Yeah, dad." [Quick note here... English is my dad's first language. Not French. English. Okay then.]
"Okay here... So... um... Departing from..."
"Oh God." I mutter in frustration. Dad doesn't bat an eyelid.
"... and arriving at..."
"For the love of Jesus, Mary, God and all the saints in Heaven!" I beseech. Nothing.
"Okay, that comes to... um... $316.40."
"Really." I say, idly wondering if I will be able to somehow reattach the huge clumps of hair I have just pulled out.
"Yeah. You know, we should really look at plane and bus fares too."
It continued on from there. In total, it took about 45 minutes to determine that the two train tickets would indeed cost $316.40. Siiiggghhhh.....
To be honest, I would have just gone straight to the liquor cabinet (okay, it's just a bottle in a paper bag on the counter, but the other sounds much classier), but I found this awesome website (www.aditty4you.com). It has songs that resonate with anybody working a job that doesn't value them. Which is pretty much everybody. Cheered me up to no end. That's about it for now... unless... OH YES!
I remembered... Saw X-Men III: His Pants Stayed On. Quite a good movie, except for the indestructibility of Wolverine's pants. Oh well. Maybe that will change in the director's cut. (I can dream...)
Best wishes for everyone to have a good Monday!

When I read cenobyte's commentary on the pigeon picture, I was very angry, because it made me cry. I'm thinking to myself, "What the hell, cenobyte, there's not enough pain and sadness in the world that you have to share your story about an expiring pigeon? What did I do to you?" Then I spent the day with people I love very much... I came back to this, read her story, and cried again. I'm not angry anymore, (not that that matters to anybody). I am sorry that the pigeon died, but I think it was lucky to have someone to hold it close as it left.