According to Mr. Avocado, my shen is deficient. The laws of attraction don't work on sick shen. It's my understanding that my shen only comes into existence when I'm dead, but hey, who am I to challenge someone attempting to make a point?
So I'm taking my sick shen, me, two of my offspring and two of their friends up the hill for a little shen-dig (ha!); build up the yang, man. Going to pick some mountain misery (now that sounds like it'd make my shen very sick) for some folks who I promised to send samples. It's a bit cool, so I won't be attempting swimming across the lake, besides, my shen's being a drag, it'd probably drown me or force me to eat lake weed. I'd rather hang out with the manzanita fairies on the dry beach, thank you very much.
Time to pack it up. I wonder if we'll all fit in the car? My shen may end up riding in the trunk.
On an off note (a little perfumer's humor there), I found the most exquisite book ~ Cassell's New French Dictionary, French-English AND English-French published in 1905. I was going to use the pages as background for labels, but changed my mind when I began reading the darned thing! Enchanting, or should I say it in French? So, anyway, Shelley, 'abattoir'? Definition: (simply) slaughter-house. The French, or at least those involved in this dictionary, are very frank, no pun intended . . . okay, maybe a little.