Fatale Abstraction

Wednesday night I took myself and Witches Abroad to dinner at a sushi place. I ordered a couple rolls, and that was ok, but I was blissing out on the reading and I asked for green tea ice cream, but they said they only had GTIC in the form of a dessert, so I tried it. Out came a little dumpling-looking thing, a little wheel of GTIC encased in a 1/8" wrapper of a sticky rice paste flavored with jasmine, and coated in the lightest dusting of powdered sugar, and then a Kate Bush song came on, and it was a very girly moment. It was amazing. I normally don't like jasmine flavor or scent, but it was glorious, in this form, like eating flowers. Yes, I've had my mid-week estrogen fest.
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And now it's time to walk it off.
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Anyhoo. The more I read Terry Pratchett's work, the more I want to stop blogging and just copy his writing in here - he's side-splitting. Despite the whole quiz I took recently, I'm still on the fence about whether I'm more Granny Weatherwax or Nanny Ogg. In this exchange, I definitely fall on the Ogg side of the fence:

Granny Weatherwax's eyes focused immediately somewhere around Magrat's knees.
"And what do you think you're wearing?" she said.
"Ah. Um. I thought...I mean it gets cold up there..what with the wind and everything," Magrat began. She had been dreading this, and hating herself for being so weak. After all, they were practical. The idea had come to her one night. Apart from anything else, it was almost impossible to do Mr. Lobsang Dibbler's cosmic harmony death kicks when your legs kept getting tangled in a skirt.
"Trousers?"
"They're not exactly the same as ordinary--"
"And there's men 'ere lookin', " said Granny. "I think it's
shameful!"
"What is?" said Nanny Ogg, coming up behind her.
"Magrat Garlick, standin' there bifurcated," said Granny, sticking her nose in the air.
"Just so long as she got the young man's name and address," said Nanny Ogg amiably.

Or how about this one--
Nanny raised the hem of her skirt. She was wearing new boots. As boots, Granny Weatherwax could find nothing to complain of in them. They were of proper witch construction, which is to say that a loaded cart could have run over them without causing a dent in the dense leather. As boots, the only thing wrong with them was the color.

"Red?" said Granny. "That's no color for a witch's boots!"

"I likes 'em," said Nanny.

Remind you of anyone?