In which this is a more cheerful post than yesterday’s.

The Curse, I think it’s ending. Yay!

The weather, I think it’s gorgeous! Yay!

The Taco John’s, they make really good fresh lemonade and I have some! Yay!

I bought some new shampoo at Everybody’s recently, and it’s made my hair all bouncy and curly. Yay!

In which there is now a nationwide ban on a particular type of abortion procedure.

The term ‘partial birth abortion’ was coined by a right-to-lifer (Congressman Charles Canady, R-Fla) expressly to fuel an already volatile debate. However, as much as I hate to admit it, the term is a fair description of a fairly horrific procedure.

In which I feel gross.

The Curse. It has arrived.

I thought it had arrived on Saturday, but then today rolled around and I realized that the weekend had been only the precursor. Cramps come in many varieties of intensity, yea verily.

When I was younger and had three-day discomfortless periods, I thought women who bitched about theirs were exaggerating for effect or merely being hysterical. Now I think that women who are bleeding and who can manage to get to the fucking grocery store and back without help deserve medals of honor.

I will be lying in bed reading if you need me.

That is all.

In which he will be mourned.

Vonnegut died at age 84 yesterday.

I’m deeply sad. He will always be one of my favorite authors.

The man was brilliant. His works changed the way I think.

The hours I spent reading Vonnegut were among the best of my reading career. Whenever I finished reading him, I wrote like him for weeks afterward. (Steven King once commented after reading Ellison, in the intro to Stalking The Nightmare, that “Milk takes on the flavor of whatever it’s next to in the fridge,” or something like that. I can’t find the quote. The point being that Vonnegut, like Ellison, is the onion to his milk.) As a case in point my bio, a poor example of the craft, was written after I’d been reading Vonnegut and I can always tell when I re-read it. Ha, ha.

“This is a very bad book you’re writing,” I said to myself.
“I know,” I said.
“You’re afraid you’ll kill yourself the way your mother did,” I said.
“I know,” I said.
– from Breakfast of Champions

Death by Pall-Malls. A “classy way to commit suicide.”

RIP.

In which I tell you all about my new restaurant crush.

I just drove up Burlington street to the Istanbul Grill and ordered lunch. For $5.95 I got a falafel pita, fries, and a cup of lentil soup. Vegetarian lentil soup, even!

They forgot to give me a spoon, but I still *heart* them.

They put “kisir” on their menu instead of “tabouli,” so I assume they’re Turkish. (Kisir isn’t exactly tabouli – it’s got red pepper paste and lettuce in it – but it’s still a delicious, wonderful bulgar-based salad with lemon-and-olive oil dressing and I’m so glad I can buy some in town again. It takes forever to make.)

Their tahini appears to be homemade. I’ve never had tahini like this before, it’s really thick and wonderful.

The streets around their building have been blocked off (due to road construction) since they opened, but the parking strip was full today anyway and all but three tables were occupied for lunch. That people are willing to go there even though it’s a pain to do so is a good sign!

I could so live on Mediterranean food. Now that Istanbul Grill is open, I may be able to do so all! Summer! Long!

The list of reasons not to live in Fairfield is almost endlessly long, but for a tiny town in Iowa we do have great restaurants. Mexican, Thai, Indian, and because of the meditating community all of them are well-trained to cater to vegetarians. It’s really pretty awesome, now that I ponder it.