Vox Tangerina Vox Dei. Our readership says we're getting gonzo. Ok, go ahead and correct my Latin.

Mind census reveals one or two ideas. Going to Carlsbad for three weeks is one of them. The other one is changing this blog's name to Enigmatic Mermaid does the Web, a hommage to Debbie does Dallas. My mind doesn't feel translation-inclined lately. I won't even bother answering those e-mails that come from ProZ saying they want to know my "competitive rate". I'm not competitive at all, I'm boutique and my hand is screwed. Gotta watch my big-mouth though. A friend has asked me to delete two entries yesterday because I was disclosing too much information and the corporate ghouls would unleash their wrath over our heads. I did so and now I feel bad for goofing up. On the upside: Google cache is eventually re-written.

Tonight I'm doing a focus group for a soft drinks brand and on Saturday afternoon it's a meeting with the people from a NGO at another NGO (incidentally, everything you ever wanted to know about the Mata Atlântica is in this Unesco paper). I'm also going to dabble with the appendixes from the Secrets of Electronic Commerce. Got to do something productive before my mind goes completely out of whack.

A couple of gorillas or 17 gorillas?. Yesterday was Sofia's first day at the new school. She was in a rotten mood the whole day long, driving me crazy with whining. I had to drink some Chilean cab to unwind last night before I could finally settle down comfortably beside her reading The World and Other Places while she did her cute baby snore. My system needs rebooting so let me post this before it crashes: the secret life of numbers.

I had to take a brief pause right now to open a Dreamgirl's Fantasy Village toy for Sofia. My life is crazy. Back after the reboot.

Whimsical finds. A chain of links takes me back to the5k.org where they are announcing the 2002 competition. About one year ago I had the most pleasant surprise when I typed www.littleteapot.com in the address bar of my browser.

Straight from the Boardroom. Brian Eno comments at The Doors of Perception:

‘Now’ is never just a moment. The Long Now is the recognition that the precise moment you’re in grows out of the past and is a seed for the future. The longer your sense of Now, the more past and future it includes. It’s ironic that, at a time when humankind is at a peak of its technical powers, able to create huge global changes that will echo down the centuries, most of our social systems seem geared to increasingly short nows.

The Clock of the Long Now. "I want to build a clock that ticks once a year".

A masterpiece about nothing. Cast the first stone if you don't like the show. Jerry probably would have something to say about Starbucks coffee sizes.

Cumshot.

"I don't know what the definition of pornography is and nobody else does either. Pornography is somebody else's erotica that you don't like. People are interested in their own sexuality and they've always reflected it in their art. End of story." - Erica Jong

apud Eric Kroll.com

Os outros nomes da perseguida. Houaiss on the nomenclature of pleasure.

Here's an excerpt to tingle your philological tastebuds:

Uma das mais freqüentes imagens, no substantivo mesmo, é a de receptáculo, estojo, bainha, entrada (como já o é no latim vagina mesmo): arapuca-de-caçar-pinto, arca-conana (já em Gregório de Matos), bainha, bainha-de-homem, barroca (ó), baú, boca-de-baixo, boca-de-bicho, boca-de-cabelo, boca-de-jacaré, boca-de-sapo, boca-do-mato, boca-do-corpo, boca-em-pé, boca-sem-dentes, boceta/buceta (sobre a qual se fala adiante), boeta (variante pouco freqüente da anterior), bolsa-de-valores, brecha, buraco-de-minhoca, caixinha-de-segredos, caneco-de-couro, canoinha, carteira, cartola, castelo-do-amor, caverna, chincha (= canoa, canoinha), concha, cova, loca, engole-cobra, engole-espada, fenda, forno, furna, gaveta, grota, greta, gruta, gretagarbo, gruta-do-amor, goelão, enxu (= vespeiro, colmeia), lance (de lancetar), lanho, lasca, lascão, lascadinha, lascada, mealheiro (= cofre), moente (= moedor = moedouro, sendo moer = "copular"), ninho-de-piroca, ninho-de-rola, olha (ôlha = panela, já em Gregório de Matos), panela-rachada (empregada em carta familiar pelo patriarca José Bonifácio para sua filha recém-nascida), pichéu/pichel (= vasilha de vinho), porteira-do-mundo, racha, rachadura, rego, rego-de-mijar, samburá (= cesta), tabaqueira (donde "tirar o tabaco, da [tabaqueira]"= deflorar), tabaco, tigela-com-pêlos, vaso, vaso dianteiro, vão...

Must-have dictionary. Dicionário Houaiss da Língua Portuguesa, the most amazing lexicographical project carried out in Brazil in the last 30 years, is now available in electronic format.

The case against self-esteem. Watch out for the high self-esteem sociopaths around you.

MS quilt gets another patch. Here's the latest security update. After you do it, indulge in these Bollywood LP covers. Or maybe you prefer Mao art?

In case you're wondering. I got the picture from Photoeye. Check out also this Nature article on the unnatural social networks of Marvel Comics.

Matchmaking jetsetter style. My Barbra-Streisand-mingling, Madonna-party-going friend A. writes from Berlin:

I'm writing to say that I met a very interesting guy named ***. He is the grandson of a German diva. He has produced a documentary about his grandmother and it's likely that he will come to the São Paulo Film Festival in October. If he does, I would like to introduce him to you because I think he is a fine catch for you. Kisses, A.

I replied that I am going to watch The Blue Angel nonstop until October in preparation to this grand meeting.

ProZ, Home of the Bummer. I changed the picture in my profile yesterday but now my pretty face is being displayed as a red cross and the floating words "picture of user...". The new picture shows me on a boat in Florianopolis with a rainbow hat and the caption Software Localization Specialist. I guess I want to make it to the My Featured Pro Collection of this blog. I hope that on seeing me so tanned and relaxed prospective clients will have pity on me and send all the jobs elsewhere. Like this I will have more time to experiment with the colors on my blog, like I did yesterday. Tamara says it looks very "morgue style" (that was before I resorted to the minimalist grays I am using). At least she is honest. But I still like it better. I uploaded 20 new scanned images of me and the Mermbaby in several Kodak Moment poses to Ofoto. They offer the best photo albums on the Web and the software to go with it.

Nightmaras. Mara was our contact at the vacation rental agency. On the first night at the lovenest I woke up beside R. and whispered that I had had nightmaras all night long. My dreams last night were intensely weird: wild boars on Belgian beaches, Umberto Eco sexy scholar, Kierkgaard and designer leather handbags, writing a check for rent to a Mr. Sexovalle, R. rescuing me on the windy shores. I will try to post it to Dreamcatcher later. No need to dig deeper for topics when I meet my shrink at 13.00 hours, military time.

Anti-Papalagui mood. I have never been lazier than this. But I think I'm going to take the 5 radiation therapy spec sheets. My Romanian prospective employer writes again:

"For a single parent the cost of living can be rather high in Silicon Valley
and taxes do not help either. I am afraid that the gap between the income
you need to have the life style you and Sofia are used to (and deserve)
and what would make economic sense to us as a company is too
high to bridge and we cannot come to a compromise that is a
win-win situation for both you and us"

*Sigh*.

R. is looking for jobs in Santa Clara again. I know it for a fact even though we are officially in non-speaking terms. There are so many question marks in my life right now. Maybe I should go study philosophy in Belgium, wild boars and all. This European strand, could it be related to B's invitation to go spend time with him in Geneva? He called yesterday to bid me farewell, a bit disheartened because things are looking very indecisive between him and T. I've known them for so long as a couple. I met them back in the days when I was married to the Prussian General and led a very respectable life. I hope B and T work things out.

A favorite of Mr. Bush Sr.'s, I hear. A high-powered interpreter who has recently included me in her address book says that there may be three more days for me next month. March 11 through 13. Financial stuff this time. If I can do heavy-duty compressors for thermoelectric plants I can do anything. The soap bars gig hasn't been paid yet. Nor the BNDES job. I'm broke but at least I mustered up the courage to look at my bank statements. I'm about $1,500 in the red. And that figure is stated in dollars.

"As beautiful as the chance encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on a dissecting table". Says the Washington Post: beauty is back.

Global palette. Here's some interesting color symbolism tips I picked up from Webdesign.about.com

Red
China - symbol of celebration and luck, used in many cultural
ceremonies that range from funerals to weddings.
India - color of purity (used in wedding outfits).
Western cultures - Christmas color when combined with green; Valentines
Day when combined with pink; indicates stop (danger) at traffic lights.
Eastern cultures - signifies joy when combined with white.

Yellow
Asia - sacred, imperial.
Western cultures - joy, happiness.

Blue
China - associated with immortality.
Colombia - associated with soap.
Hindus - the color of Krishna.
Jews - holiness.
Middle East - protective color.
* Note: Blue is often considered to be the safest global color.

Orange
Ireland - religious significance (Protestant).
Western cultures - inexpensive goods, Halloween (with black).

Green
China - studies indicate this is not a good color choice for packaging, green hats mean a man's wife is cheating on him.
France - studies indicate this is not a good color choice for packaging.
India - the color of Islam.
Ireland - religious significance (Catholic).
Some tropical countries - associated with danger
Western cultures - indicates go (safe) at traffic lights, environmental awareness, St. Patrick's Day, Christmas color (red and green).

Purple
Western cultures - royalty.

Gray
Western cultures - loneliness, lifeless and loveless
times or settings.

Brown
Colombia - discourages sales.
India - the color of mourning.

White
Eastern cultures - mourning, death.
Japan - white carnations signify death.
Western cultures - purity (used in weddings).

Black
Western cultures - mourning, death.

Saffron
Hindu - sacred color (orangish peach color).

Pastels
Korea - trust.
Western cultures - spring, Easter; pale blue (baby blue) stands for
an infant boy; pale pink stands for an infant girl.

Rainbow
Western cultures - Gay pride; Christianity; cultural
unity.

And remember: "white carnations signify death in Japan and green hats mean a man's wife is cheating on him in China. Maybe a green hat with a white carnation in the brim isn't such a good color choice for your company's product logo! Make sure you go beyond your self-contained experiences (whichever culture you belong to) and understand color from a global perspective."

Rien n'est simple. I was looking for Sempé graphics when I hit upon a great cartoon encyclopedia. There I discover that Quino has a cute site. Anyone has Sempé cartoons to share? I like the "À la plage" series. He did a lot of covers for the New Yorker.

The F Word. Isa forwards me this article. How appropriate, I got a Coke Light focus group next week. Maybe consumers see Coke Light as a thin monk meditating on a soccer stadium? I also think I have worked with the ZMET technique before. I remember a focus group for Motorola where the respondents used images to describe their feelings about the brand. For all I care they can use smudges made with chipmunk entrails to get to the consumers mind, provided they still hire me to translate the artwork into the oppressor's language.

Penetrating the Mind by Metaphor

February 23, 2002

By EMILY EAKIN- The New York Times

What does a Buddhist monk meditating in a soccer stadium
during a game have to do with Coca-Cola? Everything, says
Gerald Zaltman, a maverick marketing professor at the
Harvard Business School. Just don't expect a Coke drinker
to tell you this.

Hold a focus group or circulate a questionnaire, and you'll
learn that Coke is a "high-energy, thirst-quenching,
fun-at-the-beach" kind of drink, Mr. Zaltman says. Someone
might even mention a soccer game. But stuff like monks and
meditation just doesn't come up.

Which, in Mr. Zaltman's view, is only further proof that
focus groups and questionnaires - the dominant techniques
in his field - are more often than not a waste of time.

"Most new products are developed and launched using those
techniques," Mr. Zaltman, 63, said recently during an
interview at his Harvard office. "And 60 to 80 percent of
all new products fail."

A slight, sprightly man with graying hair, a dimpled grin
and a manner almost preternaturally mild, Mr. Zaltman makes
an unlikely apostate. Yet he calls focus groups "the F
word." And while the conventional wisdom in his field says
to take consumers at their word - to grill them about their
tastes, buying habits and favorite brands - he seeks to
converse directly with their brains instead.

A member of the Mind, Brain, Behavior Initiative at
Harvard, an interdisciplinary study group, he meets
regularly with experts on human cognition. And he has
dabbled with brain scans as a means of testing the
effectiveness of advertisements. But he is best known as
the creator of ZMET (pronounced ZEE-met), the Zaltman
Metaphor Elicitation Technique. The first patented
marketing research tool in the United States, it represents
an unusual attempt to put some of the insights of
neuroscience (along with generous helpings of semiotics and
Carl Jung) to profitable use as a window into consumer
attitudes toward everything from art museums to laundry
detergent.

Citing prominent scholars of the human brain - like Steven
Pinker and Antonio Damasio - Mr. Zaltman argues that
consumers can't tell you what they think because they just
don't know. Their deepest thoughts, the ones that account
for their behavior in the marketplace, are unconscious. Not
only that, he insists, those thoughts are primarily visual
as well.

"Because we represent the outcome of thoughts verbally,
it's easy to think that thought occurs in the form of
words," he said. "That's just not the case."

To uncover people's hidden thoughts about the products they
use, ZMET relies on visual images. The study Mr. Zaltman
conducted for Coca-Cola in Europe last year was typical.
Small groups of paid volunteers were asked to spend a week
collecting at least a dozen pictures from magazines,
catalogs or any other source that captured their feelings
about Coca-Cola. Then, they discussed the images during a
two-hour private interview with a ZMET specialist. Finally,
they created a digital collage with their images and
recorded a short text about its meaning.

After studying the interview transcripts and images for
recurring themes, Mr. Zaltman's team came to this
conclusion: Coke evokes not just feelings of invigoration
and sociability - something its maker has long known and
exploited in its ads - but feelings of calm, solitude and
relaxation as well. Indeed, the paradoxical essence of Coke
is neatly summed up by the image, taken from an actual ZMET
interview, of the Buddhist monk meditating in the crowded
soccer field.

"The big insight we had is that Coke is really two drinks
in one," Mr. Zaltman recalled with a chuckle. "They'd
really been marketing half a Coke."

The Coca-Cola Company agreed. To impress the point on its
division presidents during a meeting in Vienna, the
complimentary Coke bottles lining the conference table were
deliberately served only half full.

Since he began using ZMET nearly 10 years ago, Mr. Zaltman
has completed more than 200 studies. Some are part of his
own academic research and take place at his Mind of the
Market Lab at Harvard. Many others, however, are conducted
by his private consulting firm, Olson Zaltman Associates,
for wealthy corporations like DuPont, General Motors,
Reebok and AT&T that are willing to cough up the roughly
$75,000 he charges for his services.

Mr. Zaltman has assessed peoples' deep thoughts about
everything from Nestle Crunch bars and Downy to dental
offices, the Internet, panty hose and babies' bowel
movements. And though many clients are reluctant to discuss
their ZMET results for fear of betraying company secrets,
they have praise for the technique itself.

Drake Stimson, a marketing director at Procter & Gamble,
credits ZMET for the unexpected success of Fabreez, an
odor-removing fabric spray, though he declined to say
exactly what Mr. Zaltman's research had revealed. "In our
first-year launch, we made $230 million in sales," Mr.
Stimson said. "Based on our test market, we were expecting
to make half of that. From our perspective, ZMET enabled us
to double our sales volume."

Tom Brailsford, a manager of technological research at
Hallmark, which has used ZMET for studies on both mothers
and memory, said he had found the technique impressive. "It
really does touch a part of consumers you can't get to with
any other technique I've ever seen," he said. "It's not
that consumers won't tell you what's on their minds. It's
that they can't."

Mr. Zaltman attributes that insight to brain scientists.
But he dates his original thinking about vision and
cognition to a 1990 vacation in Nepal with his wife. An
avid photographer, Mr. Zaltman had planned to shoot lots of
film on the trip. But it occurred to him that it would be
more interesting to ask residents of the villages he would
be visiting to take pictures instead. The Zaltmans ended up
trekking through the Nepalese countryside, lugging sacks of
cheap Instamatic cameras and 600 rolls of film donated by
Eastman Kodak.

"We were in very remote areas of Nepal, where tourists
typically don't go," Mr. Zaltman recalled. "And we gave
people cameras and assignments. One was: assume you're
going to leave this village and move somewhere else and you
wanted to tell people in the new place what life was like
here. What pictures would you take to show them?"

After traveling to Katmandu to develop the film, the
Zaltmans returned to the villages to distribute prints.
With the help of a translator, they interviewed the local
photographers - many of whom were using a camera for the
first time - about their work. "What it revealed to me was
the inadvertent arrogance of the idea that unsophisticated
people didn't have sophisticated thoughts," Mr. Zaltman
said. "In fact, the stories these people told about these
images were amazingly complex."

In many photos, for example, he noticed that people's feet
were cut off. Initially, he blamed the photographers'
inexperience for the phenonenom. But in discussing the
images, he learned that the effect was deliberate: bare
feet were a sign of poverty, a condition the local
photographers were loathe to reveal.

Back at Harvard, Mr. Zaltman continued to think about
images. Why, he wondered, did marketing experts tend to
work with words and numbers when companies did most of
their marketing through pictures? "I was aware of this
mismatch between the way information is delivered and the
way in which people had to react to that information," Mr.
Zaltman said. "What if we presented data in the form that
consumers actually experienced them? Words, but also visual
metaphors." He began reading about neuroscience and
synthesizing the ideas that became ZMET. In 1995, he was
invited to join the Mind, Brain, Behavior Initiative.

Obviously, misguided marketing isn't the only reason new
products fail. And in a field known for faddishness, Mr.
Zaltman's technique could turn out to be simply the latest
flash in the pan. After all, marketing experts have dabbled
in other disciplines before with notoriously mixed results.
For a time in the 1950's, Freud-inspired "motivational
research" was all the rage, with specialists like the
Austrian psychologist Ernest Dichter advising companies
like the General Foods Corporation on how to enhance the
subliminal content of its Jell-O ads. But the method fell
into disrepute after Vance Packard, in the 1957 best seller
"The Hidden Persuaders," called it manipulative, comparing
it to the "chilling world of George Orwell and his Big
Brother."

Two decades later, physiology was hot. To track people's
emotional responses to television pilots and
advertisements, researchers homed in on their eyeballs,
recording the dilations and contractions of their pupils.
"The pupil-dilation technique was used by every network,"
said Jagdish Sheth, a professor of marketing at Emory
University. "Whenever the pupil contracted, they cut that
bit out. But when they kept the emotional level high all
the time to keep the pupil dilated, the pilot failed
miserably."

Until recently, marketing's most highly touted innovations
- the focus group and the questionnaire - had managed to
escape a similar fate. But experts are becoming
increasingly disenchanted with these as well. "What
marketing has discovered is that the tools crafted in the
1950's don't work as well as they used to," said Paco
Underhill, the author of "Why We Buy: The Science of
Shopping" (Simon & Schuster, 1999).

As a result, companies may be more willing than usual to
try out novel ideas. Nevertheless, experts say, in the long
run ZMET could go the way of previous experiments. "Zaltman
is getting into an area which is the new and upcoming area,
mind/brain," said Mr. Sheth. "It's going to grow for the
next 5 to 10 years and have a tremendous following and then
like anything else, it's going to die."

But Mr. Zaltman isn't letting naysayers dampen his
enthusiasm. His current projects include a potentially
lucrative plan to peddle ZMET to movie studios. "We'll use
it with consumers to get their reaction to a treatment,
synopsis or a full script," he said. "We've done some
experimentation in all of those settings and it looks like
a really neat application."

Grinning bashfully, he allowed himself to imagine a day
when ZMET is a household word in Hollywood: "Probably what
will happen is that a studio might say, `O.K. But has your
script been ZMET-ed yet?'"

My Featured Pro Collection

Birgit Gerdes specializing in linguistic matters

Last night a milkshake saved my life. Another evening spent drinking margaritas at Michael's. Angela got pretty drunk and stoned, I got totally hammered. She was very impressed with Michael's knowledge and Haight-Ashbury one-hitter. Gee, I had never seen one of those gadgets before. His webbie neighboor is highly doable but completely pussy-whipped. He said he would be right up as soon as he put the kids to bed but missus had other views I bet. At some point Portishead became Pothead and A. dropped her plans of going to a friend's house to see a historical videotape of Rei da Vela. When Michael's girlfriend showed up, A. got restless and insisted we should make ourselves scarce."She is so not right for him", A. said with a sigh as I was driving her with impaired reflexes through the ocean of Friday-night party-goers. I somehow found my way back to my apartment, approximately 20 miles away with a quick stop at McDonald's for a vanilla milkshake. There was a message from the Green-Eyed Temptation in my inbox. My advice to you is: never check your e-mail after you've had 1/3 of a bottle of Jose Cuervo. There are slim odds of him ever writing again after my half-demented tequila-induced ramblings and confessions. (I'm such a freak. Nothing new there. But at least in my twenties and thirties I had my good looks to back me up. "Somebody just shoot me".)

Miraculously, I feel not hungover at all so I am going to take the mermie to the zoo.

Annoyed beyond belief. That's my mood today. Somebody at ProZ claims ownership of the word saudade. "Put a fence around your language, words will still jump in or out." R. called yesterday too. He said he is painting the apartment for me and the mermbaby. Will the insanity ever end? I'm looking forward to my train ride to the outermost limits of São Paulo. Press on, captain Enigmatic Mermaid, we are venturing where no interpreter has set foot before.

A trip down memory lane. I've been discussing my feelings of impending doom over Yahoogroups here and there. ListHelp does not help much but at least I can vent off my frustation. From Gpsearch comes an interesting link that lets you surf the Web the way it was. The Yahoogroups survey is back up by the way. Go and do yer thang, mexerica.

From pimples to heavy-duty machinery. Never a dull moment in the translator's life (best translated as "traduzir é viver em eterno sobressalto"). L. calls me to see if I can cover her up tomorrow afternoon on a course about compressors. Sure I can, I know everything about compressors. My hand is still tingly and weird, like it has a life of its own, so I am not taking any translations for the moment. Interpreting assignments are my only way to make a buck right now. I'm so broke I don't have the guts to open my bank statements. To top it off, Denise has lost my nota fiscal booklet so I can't invoice any of my recent jobs. In one of their endless arguments Michael told Claudia that I am his quasi-partner so she is stalling to pay me for a BNDES job I did in December. What's a poor maneta translator to do? Have some smoked trout with white wine and R's head on a silver platter. But I digress.

Que hecho yo para merecer esto? R. wants me to reinstall Msgr and announces that he is coming to Brazil in May. He also writes that " since I am going to hate him forever" I may as well know that when he told me that the Venezuelan and he were lovey doveys again it was a straight lie meant only to hurt me. What am I supposed to do? Roll on the floor laughing histerically or dance a paso doble? Those would be very balanced responses to the news. This is pure Almodovar. My options are buying a piece of ham to strike his head when he comes to Brazil for his birthday or...flying to Geneva to be miles away from him when he lands with his drop-dead gorgeous looks and khaki shorts in Cumbica.

Incidentally, I didn't reinstall Msgr. I still have a tiny molecule of good sense.

La vraie doyenne. Last evening, before putting on my headphones for another two hours worth of Avon, I meet R.A. on the corridor of the research institute where the focus group was held. She giddily takes me into a waiting room and opens her huge handbag chock-full with treasures she translated: the Body and Soul exhibit catalogue, the lavish and latest book on modernista artist Cícero Dias, the SESC's Electric Body CD and catalogue and a book on Denise Milan. She also mentions casually that she translates Haroldo de Campos poetry into English and that she is going to give an online translation course for the NYU Continuing Education and Professional Studies School. I'm humbled down to my position of aspiring doyenne but feel very proud and happy to be her friend. Jerome feels even happier because she has been booking me for a lot of interpreting assignments lately.

After putting her books back into the handbag, she asks me if I am going to go to the Santa Fé ATA-PLD Meeting in New Mexico next April. "Oh, I don't know..." is my reply. Intonated with the same air-headed sing-song voice that made B. laugh and put his big and friendly paw on my knee last night after many rounds of margaritas.

Statistics is an inexact science. Checking my SiteMeter stats I discover that I'm getting referrals from the End of the Internet and Google searches with keywords blow job blogs jpg. But my top referrer is the Captain's blog.

E-mails interrruptus. While waiting for the confirmation of some dates in a certain file I check and see that my dream was posted to Dreamcatcher. Another of BT's great finds.

Defcon 3. A friend forwards me an alarming message and this one is no hoax. Follows the terrifying news, especially if you are a group-owner with over 2,780 followers and 5,711 messages containing glossary URLs in Yahoogroups storage.

Yahoo is contemplating changing the Yahoo! Groups system to add "premium"
services for pay and
reducing the free services provided. If you'd like to offer your opinion
on this issue, please
take the survey Yahoo has posted at

http://promo2.yahoo.com/sbin/Groups/survey.cgi

Here's the bottomline: Yahoogroups is going to charge for their services. The basic services will remain free-of-charge but use limitations will be imposed. The storage limit is too low for large membership groups such as Trad-prt and GlossPost. Any archives with over 2,000 messages are going to go under.

Normanrockwellish cats. Just found the weirdest anthropomorphic cat images. My favorite is Swim Meet, especially the kitty losing her green bikini's bra as she is jumping into the pool. Looks like it's a good day for fishing on the Web. No saving of the pictures to your drive, they just want you to appreciate the art. I took my splint off just a sec cause typing anthropomorphic with your right hand only is too tough. I'm going to put it back on, I promise.

Avon calling. Focus group last night with a bunch of avon sales reps. All went well: zits, blemishes, acne, deep cleansing, I got the vocabulary in place. One of the Avon execs looked exactly like Jeanne Tripplehorn. I was a bit mesmerized in a cinematic way but delivered the goodies. More tonight, my arm permitting. It's back on the splint so every word you read was painstainkingly typed with my right hand only. Roberta Barni writes with a name of a good fisiatra. After the focus group I am meeting Michael at his place for margaritas with V. and Robert, another expat and fellow webbie. Got to call B. for apologies about standing him up last night.

Looking for a skin care glossary I serendipitously find a shockwave game called Face Invaders on the Acne Arcade of PimplePortal.

Devo, não nego, pago quando puder. I owe Blind Tangerine forty kudoz for private decyphering services. Um enigma a menos na minha vida! Oof!

Terra Brasilis. Looking for pictures to illustrate my perilous journey to the Serra da Mantiqueira, I stumble across a Minas Gerais site hosting high-quality .jpegs with the best of Brazilian historical iconography: Rugendas, native scenes and maps from colonial times, etc. All 800x600.

Quite an adventure. The trip to São Francisco Xavier turned out to be. No time for dwelling in depression when you're struggling so hard to keep yourself and your close of kin alive. Follow the details...

The ride. Michael picked us up and drove us there. Sofia feel asleep immediately and only woke up two hours later, which gave us plenty of time to sip our beers and shoot the breeze while listening to music. Michael soon adapted to the technique of raising and lowering the volume on the stereo with the antenna of my cell phone (more on that later). Buttons are missing from the console. After a quick stop in a queijaria, Sofia woke up feeling hungry. I fed her cookies, jujubees and apple juice which she proccessed and spit out all over herself and the car seat when the car began twisting and turning on the earth road leading to the home in the mountains. Fantastic views and odors filled our senses. We decided not to stop in town to get supplies, which proved to be fatal mistake when the overcast skies came pouring down like a vengeance on the exact moment we arrived with our hefty luggage at the house.

The house. Rustic, nondescript, esoteric but with a lot of character. The previous means that while there is considerable room for improvement as far as creature comforts go, the house is amazing in a one-of-its-kind kind of way. There were crystal slices embedded on the cement floor, a cute enamel firewood stove and the windows were shaped in a very curious way. I think that the builders were probably intent on shaping them like crystals to attract the positive energies of the cosmo but to me they looked exactly like the windows in Fred and Vilma's cave in The Flintstones. No sound proofing between the mezzanine and the ground floor. And I've been suffering from insomnia lately. Ahem.

The people. It was supposed to be Michael and V. (his girlfriend) and the Mermaby and me. But in the last moment, V.'s ex-husband ditched his commitment to stay with her two teenage children for the weekend and they came along, sullen, irritable, spoiled and unhelpful. So here we have an isolated home in the mountains with two teenagers who didn't want to come and are doing everything to make the trip hell and a two-year old, generally adorable but prone to fits every once and again. In a house with no TV or videogames for the kids, booze or klonopin for the adults. It's the guest list for a country weekend in hell. Tension mounted because we didn't have any food or even candles, we were so eager to get there and get rid of the puke that we didn't stop in town. Meanwhile the rain was beating steadily and hard for 3 hours and a half, flooding the rivers and making the mud roads even stickier for our city-folk cars.

(More to follow when I get a chance...)

Elizabeth Bishop’s Questions of travel

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
- For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains
aren’t waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled

Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theaters?
what childishness is it that while there’s a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?

Oh must we dream our dreams
and have them too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?

But surely, it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
- Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country, the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have an identical pitch.)
- A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
- Yes a pity not to have pondered,
blurr’dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful, finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
- Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds’ cages
and never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politician’s speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:

“Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one’s room?

Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there...No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?

Monte Verde with Miguel Verde. I check on Michael to see if he was doing better from his stomach upset and receive an invitation to go to Monte Verde with him and V. tomorrow. His cabin in the mountains is not really in Monte Verde, but in a even smaller, less developed town whose name I promptly forget. He has a Japanese-style hot tub outside but the heating system is kaput. No electricity or phone either. Trekking, outdoors and laughter. Just what I needed. I don't know, however, what the Mermie is going to do without her daily shot of Disney.

I also try to reach the Green-Eyed Temptation over the phone but the secretina eletrônica answers. I still don't know where the rain in Spain stays mainly in a plain. Esse é o fulcro da questão. Plane or plain, I wonder with no intention whatsoever to solve the orthography dillema, I check enough dictionaries at work, no way I'm going to check them at play. The master plan of getting Sofia hooked on opera is a smashing success. Soon she will be begging me for some Janacek and dressing up as Elina Makropolus instead of Snow White. In my quest for Janacek, I revisit Online Classics where just Jenufa and Katja Kabanova are available. Blindtangerine and I are the only readers and commenters of our respective blogs. The Gobi Desert is as bustling and lively as the Champs Elyseés in comparison.

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Peer-graded or peer graded? Recent exchange between BT and the Merm moi-même.

From: "Enig"
To: "Blind Tangerine"

I keep receiving e-mails from Proz saying:
Your answer was peer graded.
Shouldn't it be: Your answer was peer-graded ?

Just nittpicking to avoid dealing with my mounting depression.
Bjs,
Merm

To which the savant replies:

From: "Blind Tangerine"
To: "Enig"

There are many subtle schools of thought on that question. It's analogous to
the "blowjob, blow-job, or blow job" debate. I tend to think the noun is
being used attributively (as an adjective) and therefore requires no hyphen.
I have been converted to a more open style over the past couple of years.

Hope this nonsense confuses you thoroughly and acts as a mental emetic to
purge you of the blue funk.

Doing a 120-word autopsy report in Latin for $40 (minimum fee). You think
that's a reasonable price?

From: "Enig"
To: "Blind Tangerine"

Not confusing enough, I am afraid. But I had the brilliant idea of putting
the laptop next to my desktop playing Aida on the DVD. Analysis is going marvelously. I'm scheduling extra sessions. Got to strike the ID while it's hot.
Autopsy for 40 bucks...hmm. Not sure it's sufficient. Has the deceased rotten in his grave a long time ago? Finding the correct
translations for disease names can be a bitch because the nomenclature
evolves. Angela on the phone.
Got to run,

Celeste Mergenia

Nilza brings me a cafezinho. Sweet of her. And while logging in to Blogger I stumble on a web-diário from East Timor, complete with dictionary of Timorese regionalisms. Dictionaries are the translator's ultimate fetish. I always get goosebumps when I find little treasures like this on the teia-mar.

Another one bites the dust. Adobe Services has been discontinued (and it was a top-notch resource for when Photoshop is missing from your drive), so I go to Kodak and download OphotoNow. I have no idea if it's any good. Konvertor also sounds tempting.

Description
From the developer: "Konvertor is a file viewer/converter. Konvertor reads and converts 389 different file formats: 339 graphic formats (bmp, pcd, k25, psd, targa, hp-gl, pdf, gif, jpeg, jpeg 2000, vrml...), 50 audio, text and video formats (asf(audio), wma, mp3, dalet, wav, txt, voc, mod, avi, mpeg...) with 40 different filters (blur, charcoal, resize etc...), produce HTML pages, create Wallpapers etc... "

Convergence is the word. Mermie is spending the night at grandma's so I have the bed all to myself. Even though it has been hailed as "o blogue dos blogues", I still haven't visited xoxotacrew. The name is quite catchy. Infectiously so.

I will now converge with my pajamas and get under the sheets. I'll be in REM before you can say click.

I command thee Corbis, rise from the dead. Corbis has been down the whole fucking day and I have a Valentine's e-card to pick from R. To add insult to injury, they display a picture of Lucy, with a look on her face like she has just been caught with a vibrator onstage. Their server is toast. Maybe it's a denial of service attack from all the girls who conspurcated their blogs today with thoughts like: I'm so beautiful, intelligent and sexy how come I don't have a boyfriend?. Sure, like that is going to do anything to diminish their angst. I had a brief conversation with BT on AIM today. He doesn't call me Mielamor y Cabeza de León anymore but still caresses my tempestous brow. Just friends. Good ones.

I got any e-mail from an agency in Portugal proposing me regular work every quarter, some 15 thou words of a telecom industry jargon-ridden bumf. And of course they want my best rate. I briskly logged on to Oanda for some euro vis-a-vis dollar enlightement. My rate is probably too steep for them. This reminds me that Denise also called me on the phone for chit-chat about Florianópolis, Angela and the Giant Jalapeño from hell. She says we should treat men with the same ruthless and charmingly spiteful attitude we adopt towards potential clients: here's the estimate. If you think it's too expensive, scram.I realize this male management reeks of The Rules and Cosmo but I am not totally indifferent to its appeal.

Major breakthrough in my analysis today but I can't reveal the details. Just call me Raskolnikov of the Southern Cross.

Make me rich, I am all for it. I've got bookings for the coming 18, 19, 20, 21, 22 and 28. The assignment on the 22nd will be held in Uberlândia, if it comes through. God bless Jerome the holy pidgeon and patron saint of this blog with a side note, it's the year of the horse.

Back from the presidential compound. Dinner at my parents' went smoothly for a change, except for the mermbaby throwing fits every now and again. I told them I want to get the hell out of S.Paulo. No matter the destination: I'm even considering Buenos Aires, cacerolazo and all. Long faces and sighs. Use your common sense, blah blah blah. I toggle between reading the tarot, self-loathing practice and plundering ideas from other weblogs. Maybe I should remove the link to La Sirena and write in Portuguese over there so I can really go overboard. I played myself a little slide show with pictures in my drive looking for a shred of evidence that indeed there were happy times. I find this picture of me feeding seagulls in Sanibel. I'd give my translating kingdom to be infused with a tiny pixel of the same joy.

My entries, I notice, are all approximately the same length. That has always been my problem: sustaining writing, unraveling thought. The exception is translating, which I consider to be a subservient form of writing. Give long boring documents of 90,000 words and I will translate them without losing stamina. I remember once in NY, very close to BT's unsanitary dwellings, I looked up to a sign and said: Hey, Airtemp air conditioners. I translated their marketing brochures for an agency in Singapore! . BT just sneered and said that I'd translate just anything. In my defense, I could say that I need to plunge into words but I shun the immersion into thought. Thinking is very hard and makes my little head hurt. That is why I became a translator and not a writer.

ProZ is still churning out questions (yeah I know about time zones, but allow me the poetic license). Translators are night owls mostly. Not me. I like afternoons like in the Neruda poem. (Or is it Lorca? I've searched high and low and I can't find it: it's that one hot afternoons, dogs fornicating, priests wanking off and beds tall as seaships, where is it by Jove?). I think the Mermaid Jr. is awake. Have they invented a muffler for the keyboard yet?

Ashes Wednesday. Ok. I'm about done with my invoicing. I've also zipped and mailed the pdfs dutifully just in time for the thunderstorm. Lightning and almighty thunders striking all around Pombo's Translations. Soon rivulets will form outside my building, dragging away garbage bags and bubble-gum wrappers straight into the Tietê River. I feel like whining a bit. Hope nobody minds. R. has blocked me on msgr. That is where it all ends. I've made up my mind though. Neste enterro não vai ter choro nem vela. Vou vestir uma camisa amarela e sair por aí. After all, it's carnaval. My IpaQ has informed me that I missed my analyst's appointment today. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to crawl under my bed.

Pdfing, invoicing, grocery shopping. Task list for today. The Mermaid Jr. is going to grandma's who has just arrived flying first-class from Las Vegas. She also stopped by in Miami and rescued the sandal I had forgotten like Cinderella without a prince. Nozze di Figaro is playing unwatched in the living room, part of my grand scheme to get her hooked in higher art forms and make her dump Tinky Winky.

Arab Curses:
May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.
May your left ear wither and fall into your right pocket.
Confucian Curse:
May you be born in an unimportant time.
Irish Curse:
May the road rise to meet you
(I don't get this one)
Biblical Curse from the Ship of Fools (hi Simon!):
Harken, O thou babbling Assyrian, for you will go about weeping and wailing in sackcloth and ashes!
Shakesperian curse:
Thou whoreson muddy-mettled nut-hook!
Barbarian curse:
May you trip and fall into the mantled manure patulating from the sweat gullet of a Booger Fish Fondlepiddle.
Pirate curse:
You're the lowest cockleman that ever stabbed a friend in the back.
Jewish curses:
May all your teeth fall out, except one. And that one should ache you.
May you win a lottery, and spend it all on doctors.
May you live in a house with a hundred rooms, and may each room have its own
bed, and may you wander every night from room to room, and from bed to bed,
unable to sleep.
May you grow so rich that your widow's second husband never has to worry
about making a living.
May you grow two more hands to scratch all your itches.
May you back into a pitchfork and grab a hot stove for support.

Like a cow looking at a palace. I think this is what Helena means when she is trying to describe her feelings about Die Blog (oder Der oder Den?):

Fire over Kabul. Intense bombardment over e-mail. War is rampant between S.Paulo and West Palm Beach, FLA. I need some new terrible, devasting curses to send to my meaningless other, R. the giant jalapeño from hell. "Your the devil" (sic), he says in his last bomb e-mail. Tangerine, send me some arab curses will ya? I've already cursed his ancestors, his car, his future female progeny (Sofia excluded). Analyst appointment on Thrusday only, the Aluminum Giant Code of Business Conduct has to do the job in the meantime. Oh, and somebody has asked how to translate I love you, how ironic.

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Jerome sayeth. "Monumento" means statuesque. You pick the noun: sex worker, ho, damsel in distress, etc etc. "O que rolou" means literally what happened, the going-ons, or more litterally: the tos and fros in your context. BT, why don't you translate some Ubaldo instead of this Playboy crap? If you're looking for middlebrow writing try the following magazines: Bravo and República.

Shit, shit, shit! Just looked at the date in my blog and realized I missed my mom's birthday. Gotta call her with a belated happy b-day. Serves me right for being such a scatterbrain.

Dreams and delusions. I had weird dreams last night, which I probably remember only because the little mermaid was having a restless night of her own and kept me half-awake like a living-dead mom in Michael Jackson's video. (gee talk about dated, that's early 80's for you). In one of the dreams I was sitting very neatly across K's desk in San Jose, telling her and J. how my arm was a little fucked up, to put it gently, and they whispered shh, not so loud because M could hear us and goodbye job in California, nobody was going to hire a maneta translator cause they are shoddy goods. Gulp.

In another dream I was performing several acts of lust condemned by the Roman Catholic Church with an undisclosed recipient of my affections. There was some difficulty in locating a bed in the hotel, which was packed with elderly gentlemen, so we resorted to the floor and used a thick blanket for coverage. More information than I need, BT would say.

The dream cheered me up a bit, however, so I'll award 4 kudoz to my ID.

Ah! Going to the bakery to get some milk for the Mermaid Jr., that's what will save me. Redemption and punishment for my hubris in a single car ride.

Home sweet home. I'm back to S.Paulo and feeling low over the row I had with R. this morning on msgr. "What urge will save us now that sex won't?"

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Hey mom, you're online. The "Artist of note" section of TAM's inflight magazine (Dec_Feb 2002) can be viewed online at www.revistaclasse.com.br. Navigation is all in Flash, so click on Features and then on Artist of Class. Bingo.

Microsoft gig on the horizon. I should get my ass down to some work. On Monday I fly back to S.Paulo and I also have to deliver a little piece of proofreading for Micromole no less, what a nice addition to my software localizer's résumé. On Monday I also have to send the spec sheet of a cutting edge radio-torture gynecological "prong" to K., my favorite project manager in the whole wide universe. And let's not forget the Aluminum Giant Code of Business Conduct that Angie is translating right now as the rain falls over the hills of Florianopolis and I endanger my lunar nerve by writing on this blog. Maybe I should snatch one of those Enron Ethics Code for inspiration.

I also have three days worth of interpreting booked on my Ipaq in the following month. I am a translating power to be reckoned with, even in times of job scarcity. Or on second thoughts...depending on the agency I am kind of like that drop-dead gorgeous designer pair of shoes that they keep in the wardrobe and only put on when it's a really promising date. The reason? It's certainly not because they don't want to wear me out. It's because I'm a little $ tight $ on their big toe.

Speaking of which...Sofia has just bared herself of her thoughts and fringues and is running around stark naked.

Blog this Blog that Blog Everywhere. We were out for breakfast this morning and I bought the latest TIME magazine with a piece on blogging, the new craze. In my humble opinion this is nothing but a glorified version of the Geocities homepage circa 1998. It’s html for dummies and a perfect venue for those who feel the need to unload their (more often than naught) overflowing informational and emotional dumpsters.

Clockwork Tangerine’s Cumpleaños. He is enamoured with his writing, this man considered to be the antichrist by some followers of the Misfit Mermaid cult. But he has just turned 40, so why not wish him many happy non-eternal returns. If the key to happiness is stripping down desires to a minimum, maybe hoping for emu BBQ is far less boldacious than asking for a little loving. So let me change my prayer: I want to drink from the waters of the Lethe river and forget my past, Santayana's saying and live in oblivion of myself. If that can’t be granted, let me at least forget my age as I step closer and closer to the so-called late thirties

This life is not for me. A simple finding requiring no mental exertion or weightlifting of pros and cons. Yes, it is lovely to be surrounded by the lush greenery and plug your eyes on the boats crossing the placid waters of the Lagoa. But in the final analysis, my soul’s condition is terminal tedium, for which I can devise no cure other than massive amounts of work and a little loving. A little loving.

Fauna matinalis. This morning, after grudgindly waking up to Sofia's call to arms, I went into the kitchen to make myself some tea. As I was pouring water into the kettle, I noticed something was moving inside. Further inspection, after much chickenshit deliberation, proved that the critter was neither a frog nor a lagartixa. It was a sizeable spider, with long bare legs, not a caranguejeira. Confronted with the peril I thought it best to hold on to my most precious possession (yeah, I know, we raise them for the world). I cuddled with Sofia in front of the TV and watched the juciest bits of the Little Mermaid and waited for peer advice on how to handle the wildlife crisis in the kitchen. Maria Helena arrived soon afterwards -- a rosy cheeked and chubby specimen of Florianópolis folk. Her clever solution: boil the spider. And so we did and made ourselves some exotic spider tea.

Florianópolis dispatch. I'd just written how sick I've been feeling lately, probably as a result of a healthy food intoxication after so many years of nourishing myself with whatever is up for grabs, but Sofia has knocked my elbow at just the right spot so that the wrong key was pressed and l'hazard confirmed its inclination to enthropy. Oh well. So I guess we'll have to do without a detailed and boring description of my ailments.

A Sereia Sibila.

NÃO SEI DANÇAR

UNS TOMAM ÉTER, outros cocaína.

Eu já tomei tristeza, hoje tomo alegria.

Tenho todos os motivos menos um de ser triste.

Mas o cálculo das probabilidades é uma pilhéria...

Abaixo Amiel!

E nunca lerei o diário de Maria Bashkirtseff.

Sim, já perdi pai, mãe, irmãos.

Perdi a saúde também.

É por isso que sinto como ninguém o ritmo do jazz band.

Uns tomam éter, outros cocaína.

Eu tomo alegria!

Eis aí por que vim assistir a este baile de terça-feira
gorda.

Mistura muito excelente de chás...

Esta foi açafata...

- Não, foi arrumadeira.

E está dançando com o ex-prefeito municipal:

Tão Brasil!

De fato este salão de sangues misturados parece o Brasil...

Há até a fração incipiente amarela

Na figura de um japonês.

O japonês também dança maxixe:

Acugelê banzai!

A filha do usineiro de Campos

Olha com repugnância

Para a crioula imoral,

No entanto o que faz a indecência da outra

É dengue nos olhos maravilhosos da moça.

E aquele cair de ombros...

Mas ela não sabe...

Tão Brasil!

Ninguém se lembra de política...

Nem dos oito mil quilômetros de costa...

O algodão do Seridó é o melhor do mundo?... Que
me importa?

Não há malária nem moléstia de Chagas nem
ancilóstomos.

A sereia sibila e o ganzá do jazz-band batuca.

Eu tomo alegria!

(Manuel Bandeira, Petrópolis, 1925)

Diagnosis. My ulnar nerve is a goner. Tendinitis...ten days with my left arm on a splint.

No more postponing. I couldn't sleep last night because my left arm was hurting so damn much. I think I got a pretty bad case of carpal tunnel syndrome or tendinite as we call it here.

Swelling within the tunnel from many causes such as pregnancy, injury, overuse etc. may cause the nerve to become compressed resulting in the common symptoms of carpal tunnel syndrome, namely pain, tingling, and numbness.

Pain, tingling and numbness. Sure. I haven't felt my pinky or ring finger for about 3 weeks. They are totally numb. I wonder if this injury is related to the transit of Saturn through Gemini in square with Venus in my chart. Whatever it is, I'm taking a trip to swanky Albert Einstein Hospital this morning. Since I couldn't fall asleep because of the pain last night, I plugged on to my narcotic video collection: old French movie Romuald and Juliette had me drooling on the couch in less than 30 minutes.

Waldorf: education, not the salad. I'm doing a little bit of research about Waldorf education and found what seems to be an absolutely dreamy school in Santa Cruz. Just read this:

Certain activities which are often considered "frills" at mainstream schools are central at Waldorf schools: art, music, gardening, and foreign languages (usually two in elementary grades), to name a few. In the younger grades, all subjects are introduced through artistic mediums, because the children respond better to this medium than to dry lecturing and rote learning. All children learn to play recorder and to knit.

Sounds perfect for my little Mermaid Jr. My head is as confused as can be right now about my future plans. The idea of moving to Florianópolis is very seductive. And Florianopolis also has a great Waldorf school, oh yes it does. Anabá is Tupi-Guarani for "Human Soul".

Cothurnus poético...Jerome sayeth. Hey Mexerica Cega, it's always a good idea to post original poem and translation side by side so those who understand both languages can make the exegesis. Jerome likes the translation of Hilda's Alcoólicas I, but he is not sure coturno has all those nuances. First and foremost, coturno is the boot the military wear in Brazil. Think dictatorship, think 1964 Coup. By using cothurnus you're shooting up the register to the skies. Secondly, and jokingly, coturno is the preferred shoesie for sapatões. The idea is unrefined footwear, very unlady-like and sturdy. Which reminds to tell Isa that I was looking at a lovely house for rent just across from the Estação Sumaré do Metrô and the neighbooring store was quite literally Sapataria Progresso. Dated dyke joke, Camilla tells me. Also, crua means raw not cruel. And the imagery confirms this: from chopped viper to the loops in your intestines. Yeah, I love to nag. What can I do, it's probably genetic or learned behavior very disseminated among the daughters of garden-party hostesses.

Weekendly planner. While Swahili bathes Mermaid Jr. with a frugal Johnson's baby soap bar (!), I'm drinking a Smirnoff Ice, which reminds me that last year when I did an interpreting gig for a major booze seller, the cutest exec made a pass at me. I never followed up on the lead though. Don't tell anybody, but I also interpreted at a focus group for a competing and lesser known brand from Canada later in the same year. Mermercenaire is getting ready for the Litterati Pizza Xperience. Won't that be something to write about...yawn. C also invited me to his birthday party tomorrow, but I am seriously considering jeopardizing a 30 year-old friendship and standing him up. His last b-day party was the epitome of ennui.

Got milleage? Nothing harder than fastening a seatbelt on a monkeybaby and keeping it in place until the plane takes off. Nevertheless, I made reservations for Florianópolis, o que vai fazer a Mexerica Cega espremer seus gomos de tanta inveja. The good news is that I will have to pay only for the baby's airfare cause I got some milleage. We're flying on the 5th, but it is unclear if my hostess will be back from the Fórum Social de Porto Alegre by then. They are cartering the interpreters off to some weird sattelite town to avoid high hotel costs. É dura a vida de peão.

The beautifully bleak Sunshine. Last night I watched Sunshine by István Szabó on video and it blew my mind. What is it about Central Europe that does this to me? With Underground by Emir Kusturica it was the same thing. And Les Temps des Gitanes, wow. I watched that one in Barcelona with my cousin Margaritina and her husband Jesus, who hated every minute of it! Speaking of Central Europe, I am expecting a call from my M, perchance future boss. She hails from Romania and won't accept any warfare industry translations.

Buzz at the door. It's the building's doorman with a package. It's a lovely calendar with Swiss landscapes from my friend B, who has recently relocated to Geneva to work for the WIPO. He had written me this morning asking whether it had arrived. Here it is, thank you B dear...I just put it on my kitchen!

Wish List. I guess it wouldn't hurt to say that my fave soap bar and eau de toillete is called Tilleul from Provence Santé, which I first came across in that great store underneath Nepenthe in Big Sur. Feel free to buy it and send it over. I'm all out and using Anna Sui Dreams and Dune Sun (revolting Flash website, hence no linky dinky) because Provence Santé is not the kind of stuff you find on Duty Free Shops. I love the smell of Tilleul. Maybe it is the scent I associate with falling madly in love with R in that September. But that deserves a new entry, with a vivid description of how the Minke Whale crossed the sea route of the Grey Californian on a pool table of the sleaziest joint in Cannery Row.