2001-03-31 - 1:52 a.m.

It was drizzly and dreary during much of today in Music City, but the twilight was splendid. "Bright gray" may appear to some as an oxymoron, but that's how I think of the light entre chien et loup, and it's one of my favorite colors.

Twilight also sometimes brings pleasant surprises -- such as Yiddish magnetic poetry kits. There was one in my mailbox tonight, with "mecheieh" prominently affixed to the lid. (The BYM: "So did they misspell it, or did you?" Me: "It's transliterated, dude.") I've secretly yearned for one of these for years - my filing cabinet will never be the same. So, Dichroic, ich danke zehr! (and thanks to Phelps as well for packing and posting it).

I'd meant to put in a good bout of housecleaning tonight, as we have guests staying with us tomorrow, but both the BYM and I appear to be too mentally fried to do more than play Diablo II (him) and answer emails (me). I did muster up the energy to bake two potatoes and improvise what I'll call Chicken Marengoesque:

Browse through a low-fat cookbook during lunch. Write down ingredients for "Veal Marengo" on grocery list.
Butcher confirms that veal wasn't ordered this week. Pick up package of chicken tenders to substitute for the veal, along with scallions, roma tomatoes, and button mushrooms.
Realize that recipe sounds kind of thin and boring. Decide to ignore it.
Melt tablespoon-sized lump of butter.
Toss in several jumbo cloves'-worth of minced garlic.
Pour in enough port to cover surface of pan.
Put in sliced mushrooms and chicken chunks. Sprinkle with coarse black pepper.
Turn mushrooms and chicken as necessary. Add chopped tomatoes and scallions. (BYM's note: The vegetables pieces need to be larger next time.)
The liquid cooked out of the mushrooms have thinned out the port. Spoon several tablespoons of the broth out into a cup, mix with a tablespoon of cornstarch, pour back into pan. Stir until broth thickens into a sauce.
Add salt and pepper. Stir some more. Serve.

I've pushed my sleep deficit as far as I dare for the week, so I suspect I'll be skipping choir practice tomorrow morning in favor of dispatching the chores I won't manage to complete at 4 ack emma. On the other hand, the cleaning may not matter, as the guys are bringing a tent they wish to test out in our backyard, and they'll be spending most of their time here at a wedding over in the next county.

The BYM and I are to attend this wedding as well - and I'm still not 100% settled on what I'm going to wear. What I do know is that, unlike Dichroic, I won't be able to throw myself into Totally Fabulous Babe Mode. The fashionista in me would love to ride up to the church perched on the 250 in a strapless floor-length pewter silk evening gown, but given how often the BYM and I have jeered at inadequately-dressed motorcyclists ("organ donors!"), that's just asking for karma to kick me in the head with a high-heeled mule.

Of course, having been raised right, I wouldn't be attending an afternoon church wedding in an evening gown anyway. (Well, okay, I did show up to the BYM's ex-girlfriend's rehearsal wearing ripped tights, a sleeveless vest, jangly earrings and lots of Yankee attitude. How was I to know they'd have to ask me to stand in for a missing bridesmaid?) Still, the mandate that we bike to the wedding (the bride and the groom are fellow Ninja enthusiasts) does mean that I'm still musing over what will go best with my one pair of sufficiently formal slacks and whether I'll bother styling my hair when it's all going to get mashed down by the helmet. On the plus side, there'll be the mildly naughty sensation of wearing Doc Martens to a wedding and getting away with it, and having to wear boots does mean that there'll be no danger of my toes freezing off. Moreover, I may get to witness feats of strength and derring-do, the BYM having suggested that the groom and bride be seated on one of the bikes after the ceremony - that is, with said bike hoisted into the air by the groomsmen and ushers. (They're long-distance riders, these guys. They're daft by definition.)

It's half-tempting to attend choir practice just for the cynical pleasure of singing PDQ Bach's "Two Hearts, Four Lips, Three Little Words" (a parody madrigal undoubtedly inspired by Weelkes' "Four Arms, Two Necks, One Wreathing") mere hours before a wedding:

'Tis true, they say, since marriage did begin,
That those who are left out want in;
Yet stil, 'tis also true, there is no doubt,
That many who are in want out.

But, i'faith, that's not the thought I would leave you with, because that's not what I'll bring with me to the wedding. Instead, permit me to share with you a glimpse of Thomas Hardy, from Far From the Madding Crowd:

They spoke very little of their mutual feelings; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably unnecessary between such tried friends. Theirs was that substantial affection which arises (if any arises at all) when the two who are thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each other's character, and not the best till further on, the romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaic reality. This good-fellowship -- camaraderie -- usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love which is strong as death -- that love which many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name is evanescent as steam.