Tis the Season

Friends, readers, countrymen, lend me your ears . . .

Okay, okay. So I haven't posted in a long time. But just hold out a little longer: final's week is upon me (which of course is what I meant by "'tis the season"). Come Saturday I'll be a free woman--well as free as you can be when you have thirty or more books to read in the next month and a half--and I'll write then about the Mr. Weasley who saved me from one of my homeless admirers. Thanks for that by the way, Mr. Weasley.

Until then I added some Christmas music at the bottom because, well, I need something to listen to as I type, type, type away.

For heaven's sake

Don't waltz. You heard what I said, stop that waltzing! We all know what round dancing will lead to. Now that I'm thinking about it, that kind of paints Cinderella in a whole new light for me. . .

I have to say Keepapitchinin has been tremendously helpful in writing this ol' novel o' mine. As well as tremendously enjoyable. What better research can a person ask for?

Ah, but I do like a bit of gorgonzola!

I'm not actually a big cheese fan, but I do love Wallace and Gromit. And what's that? Now I can make my own Wallace and Gromit characters? (And maybe I already made some. You know of myself. And my roommates. And my home teacher . . .) Oh, novel, are you sure you don't want to write yourself? Really? Really?

Everybody has their level

Now that I've typed that, I can't quite remember who said it. Mr. Elton? (Nor, actually does it have anything to do with anything I'm about to write about). As always, I'm writing about me. In general I do not consider myself an artsy person and certainly not an artsy craftsy person. I just don't have the confidence to do things imperfectly and I don't have the skill to do it perfectly. There is one thing, however, that I have learned to do. Remember the Olivia blanket I made for Maggie last year? I have since made two others, one for baby Nicholas, one for baby Ratelle. Unlike the one for Maggie, which was predicated on my whim, these blankets each had specific objectives. The blanket for baby Nicholas (the son of one of my mission companions in case you were wondering) was jungle themed to match his nursery. That was pretty easy to find/do. But the Ratelle's provided a whole new challenge level. First of all, they chose to wait and not find out their baby's gender. Okay, I thought, there are gender neutral colors. But then they upped the difficulty level: no yellow or green. Well, I'd like to think I rose above the challenge. (Hopefully you'll get that joke when you scroll down)

Anyway, here for your viewing pleasure is my one and only handicraft skill. My level if you will. I'm a little proud. Can you tell?

Maggie's
(Yes, again. I mean really, who doesn't like Olivia)

Nicholas's
(I forgot to take a picture with my camera and had to use Photobooth.)

(Incidentally, that's my office in the background if you've ever wondered what it looked like)

Baby Ratelle's
(I know I'm biased because I chose it and its my handiwork, but I think it's pretty adorable.)


So what this all really means is that when you have a baby you may well be receiving a blanket from me and it will most likely have pigs on it. Tell me you're not excited about that!

Halloweekend

I'm not usually a big one for Halloween. Call me a Halloween grinch, but the magic died for me in junior high. So most October 31sts (or 30ths or 29ths--we had Stake Conference on the 30 around here so the parties were on Friday) you'll find me at home, not doing anything particularly Halloween-y and certainly not dressed up. But this year I made an exception. The activities committee decided we as a ward could throw a little Halloween Carnival for the kids in the Stake so that all of the kids (including the Spanish and Portugese branch primaries and the kids who lived in smaller communities) could have fun Halloweens. Now that I can get behind.

I volunteered to run a "booth" and was assigned the coloring station. How can you beat that? It was simple to put together, I got to spend two hours demonstrating my excellent coloring skillz, and I came away with a fridge decoration to boot. My mom even had the brilliant idea to buy some construction paper and mount the kids pictures so they looked a little more legit. Anyway, that was everything sorted. And then it happened. Two of my roommates, who were running booths as well, announced they were going in costume. You know because that's festive. Pssh. But what's a girl going to do? Show her grinchy roots and ruin kids' Halloweens? Certainly not.

So I did some thinking and pulled together a famous Children's Lit heroine from my closet--and my crayon box and voila!

Ramona Quimby
(Can't tell who I am just because I'm wearing pajamas under my clothes? That's why I added a name tag. But I did it festively, ie childishly, ie in crayon. Eh? Eh?)

To complete the outfit, I wore velcro shoes, jeans rolled to show a little ankle, and fun, mismatched socks. True, I don't really have the right hairstyle, but I wasn't going to go that far. I'm pretty sure only parents and my peers recognized me, and not all of them at that, but that's okay. It was the thought, right?

But wait, the fun didn't stop there. Sunday night one of our friends from the ward had a little birthday celebration. But seeing as it was Halloween she thought we all needed to dress up. Now the actual directions were to dress as things she liked or which payed homage to her. Naturally a good handful of us decided we should dress as various things/people she hates. For instance to counter Laura's own costume as Lilly Potter (Harry's daughter--Laura has red hair and Harry Potter glasses), one of my roommates dressed up as a Draco Malfoy's daughter. We also had the evil smoke monster from LOST (Laura loves LOST and therefore hates the evil smoke monster), Geordi LeForge from Star Trek (Laura loves Star Wars and apparently therefore hates Star Trek), a suitor, her twin sister, and me. What did I dress as? A squirrel. I know, I know, we sound mean, don't we? Luckily she loved it.

I'd have to say, all in all it was an impressively festive Halloweekend for a grinch like me.

Double Dog Dare

I know I'm a dog person, but can you seriously look at this picture and not smile? It's like trying not to blink in a staring contest.

In other "news" I will post again, soon even. I have stories to tell and wild accusations to make/bones to pick. But for now my guilty conscience and the knowledge of all the other writing I need to be doing (at this very second) prevents me for delving into all of that. Some day the semester will end. And then another one will begin, but we're not thinking about that yet.

An incident from my day, in poorly written verse

Dear Admirer,

I did not think to see you again,
After our meeting outside the T.
But today we passed each other,
Going our separate ways,
Two strangers on Washington Street.

You paused to tell me
"You are so beautiful today."
Eyes averted,
I said "Thank you,"
And kept walking.

I am 90% certain
You are homeless.

Question the Second

Does the fact that I keep making my laptop switch to thesaurus on voice command so that I can giggle over how it can't say the word "synonym" correctly mean that I've gone round the twist?

Poor Jasper, I'm just so mean to you.

Question

This morning I fell asleep, again, after I should have already been up. Not altogether that unusual an occurrence. What was strange, however was that I had a very vivid dream about making my bed. Was that my brain's way of trying to fool me into believing I really had woken up or was my brain being passive aggressive and punishing me for oversleeping by giving me a mundane dream?

Love Story

It all began with humoring my roommate.

A few weeks ago we discovered that our ward has what is known as "Super Cute Sunday." As you might guess, this is supposed to be the Sunday that everyone dresses to the nines to impress the newbies. Normally I'd blow something like that off, but Roommate has been working hard to up my other roommate's and my's profiles so she decided we needed to embrace this ready-made opportunity with some new bling. And so we went accessories shopping. I was able to pick up some awesome props for my role in the Ward Campout's Musical Revue next weekend (I'm playing a Saved by the Bell character, 10 points if you can correctly guess who). Roommate also mentioned getting some new shoes because, let's face it, I've been going for comfort and utility, not style for many a year now. Long story short, too late, I popped into DSW after the gym on Saturday. That's when, as I was getting ready to go, our eyes locked over the aisles.
Naturally, I had to try them on. Wouldn't you know they fit great and they're mighty comfortable. Unfortunately, I can't think of any conceivable reason why I need to own these shoes, and, believe me, I've tried.

Sigh.

There is that birthday not too far off. What if I put them on my list? Size 9.5. Of course your next question may be "where would I wear them?" but that's something to think about during happily ever after.

Girl Baby Found

Does that headline make anyone else think of the jungle book? Man child, girl baby. . . Okay, maybe it's just me. Anyway, I finally cracked the Daily Enquirer. The secret is to just look yourself and not use the advanced search options. That dang technology getting in the way again. Enjoy the fruits of my labors! (Sorry I'm too lazy to give you a transcript today, you get to enjoy the 1890 newsprint/justification in its original appearance).

My favorite part?

Mrs. Singleton had some little trouble in understanding the mechanism on the bottle, but some of the married gentlemen on board kindly explained how the bottle was to be used.

Very nice of them. I also like how the baby is referred to as an "it" and "the little lady" in the same paragraph.

It seems as though our* grand-dame Hagar was quite the newspaper fixture. You can also read a complete account of her rather shocking divorce trial in an 1896 issue of Provo's Daily Enquirer. I bet she loved that the whole town could read and debate on whether or not she was actually married to her second husband, plural wife or no, or whether their children were illegitimate. At least she got the $35 alimony in the end (sorry for the spoiler, but its in the headline anyway). Oh, and our favorite train baby makes a brief appearance as well.

*By our I mean my (as well as those of my blood who read this here blog), sorry friends. You'll either have to marry into the family or find your own cool great-great-great grandmother

Take that Oscar Wilde

I was doing some research today and found the following article. Who said the internet was useless? (Oh yeah, that was probably me. Seriously, nobody wants to post online what University Avenue in Provo was called before the University?)

The Journal, Vol. XI, Logan City, Utah, Wednesday Morning August 31, 1892, No 70.

Disposing of a Babe
A Four-Day Old Infant Left on a Train From Logan

Yesterday morning as the Union Pacific train which reaches here at 9:10 a.m. arrived in Logan a small boy was seen to get aboard, having in his hand a box which he placed under a seat in the smoking compartment of the car. The lad was shortly afterwards seen to jump down from the rear of the train and leave the depot. Nothing was thought of the matter until Ogden was reached, when the lusty cry of a child was heard. Mrs. Hagar Singleton of Provo was a passenger on the train and had heard low sounds as of a child crying several times before, but thought the mother must be there and did not take much notice. Upon again hearing the sounds the lady went into the smoking room and found it empty, but happening to glance under the seat she espied a box. Just as she made the discovery the infant again began to wail and uncovering the box Mrs. Singleton found, wrapped in a pinning blanket and a Logan Journal, a four day old female babe, a nursing bottle and a bundle of clothes. There were no letters or anything to identify the child and Mrs. Singleton at once decided to adopt it. The lady left at ll:30 for her home at Provo.

The baby has fallen into the best of hands and its mother, whosoever she may be, can thank her Maker that her innocent offspring has found a home where it will be loved and receive a mother's care--Standard

***

The only clue to the perpetrator of this heartless deed that has been yet discovered, is the fact that a man and a little boy drove up to the depot on Saturday morning, and that they had a small box between them on the spring seat. The boy was observed to take the box and enter the train, returning shortly afterward empty handed.

This clue, slight as it is, may yet lead to the discovery of the woman who so basely deserted her offspring, and the paternity of the infant may also be discovered.

Anyway, here's proof at long last that my family hasn't been lying to me all these years. At least not about my great-grandmother being found on the train (there could be other things . . . )

What I love about this article, though are the word choices. A lusty cry, really? Espied? I'm telling you staff writer, no one espies. Not even Oscar Wilde espied, and he was gutsy. In any case, I'm glad I found this before I finished my story. I've got some details I've got to change!

(Subsequent to writing this post I found the original article which was posted in the Ogden Standard on Sunday August 28, 1892, meaning that Miss Startup was found on the train on Saturday August 27, 1892 (a mere two days after her birthday as it is listed on new.familysearch.org)

Fascinated

I can't not watch this video. I find it so mesmerizing. Is he really eating gold grapes (I mean no, he's not really eating gold, I know that). Did the writers purposefully have him use the wrong pronoun? Could you train a giraffe to give you kisses? Where can I get a mini giraffe?

So many questions. Enjoy.


I'm really going to go work on chapter nine now.

Peer Pressure

The blank walls in my room have been judging me ever since I moved in. Approximately one year ago. Today they broke through the barrier in my brain that has hitherto successfully kept them on the way, way, way, way back burner. So, sitting here at work in my still-rain-soaked pants, I started to browse Amazon, then Etsy for things I could buy and hang on my wall.

At first I thought I wanted England things, because, you know, I love England and technically I am sort of English. And then I thought maybe I want to go a literary route. I found some interesting woodblocks by an artist who seems to do some sort of decoupage using significant pages from classic works of literature (including some from Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, and Pride Prejudice. Favorite stories all.) and thought those might be interesting. Then for a wild moment I thought, hey I could make some of those. But then, just then, I searched under "children's literature" because that is what I'm studying after all and . . .

I fell in love with some work from illustrator Kate Slater. She's from England and she had some neat posters/prints.

(a P&P poster after all)

http://www.kateslaterillustration.com/
http://www.etsy.com/shop/KateFete?ref=top_trail

But then I remembered how much I loved Emma Block's illustrations. You know, the ones that I may or may not have "borrowed" for my Publishing project a couple months ago. Aren't they fantastic? (She's also British).

http://snugglemuffin.vox.com/
http://www.emmablock.co.uk/
http://www.etsy.com/shop/SnuggleMuffin

So here we have the best of both worlds, right? Children's literature + England. And I love the look of these pieces. So fun, so fresh, so colorful. Perfect for my judgmental walls. The problem is though that neither artist was really selling precisely the perfect things in their Etsy shops, but both have options for maybe commissioning work.

So, I thought to myself, mayhaps I'll give me a nice Birthday & Christmas present and see if I can get them to make me the absolutely perfect print(s) to hang in my room. But if I'm going for a commissioned work, what should I commission and who should I commission it from? What do you think?



Yes, I should still be writing.

She'll be wet through when she returns*

Dear Weather,

Today I'm wearing my winter coat. It's August.

I know the Romans monkeyed around with the calendar and messed everything up and, consequently, things can get confusing for some one/thing who has been around for thousands of years. But 50 degree rainy weather is not appropriate in the summer. That kind of thing belongs in October. Sure August and October have both been the eighth month of the year, but the similarities end there.

So, could you do me a favor and bring the sun back for at least another few weeks? I don't like to squelch around until I can wear double layers. Then at least part of me might be dry.

Sincerely,

Me

* * *

Dear New England,

Did you notice I used the word wicked as an adverb tonight? Twice? Aren't you proud? Yeah, I thought so.

Me

* * *

Dear Reader,

Why yes, yes I do need to be writing chapters of my novel. How can you tell?

Me

* Quote Points. The picture's a hint, but really this should be easy.

This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship

Dear Amazon,

If I hadn't been a fan of yours already, your uncanny ability to place Mockingjay in my hands as I walked out the door this morning would have won you my unswerving devotion. As it is, I look forward to a long and happy life together.

Me

* * *

Dear Gym,

You won't be upset if I end up on the elliptical reading Mockingjay for several hours this afternoon, will you?

Yours Truly.

Spectator Sports

Last week I decided it was high time I did as the Romans did--or, in my case, the New Englanders.

To that end, I bought tickets to a Red Sox game. What? you say. That doesn't sound like Lindsay. Too true, sports fan is not generally a characteristic associated with yours truly. Being a spectator, however, is something I very much enjoy. (I will and have spectated a good many things, Parliament sessions, awkward church dances, munch and mingle flirting . . . ).

So, to Fenway I ventured with my Mexican friend and her sister in tow.
And while as soon as the game began I realized the vast majority of my baseball knowledge comes from movies (no crying, check), we had a very enjoyable time. It helped that the Sox pulled out a bottom of the ninth triple play for the win over the Detroit Tigers. Thanks for that, Big Papi.

Now a Sox game is hard to beat both in terms of New England-ness and spectatorship. So it was a real challenge to think up with something to do this Saturday. Luckily, my roommate came up with the perfect solution: whale watching-->even bigger spectating (cue an onslaught of pictures because I actually had my camera with me this week).

My stunning viewing companions aboard the Voyager 3

Firefly or Firefly's calf. Or maybe it was Midnight. Or Midnight's calf. It's kind of hard to tell just from the whale's back.

Interesting sidenote, some whales, like Firefly, have nannies. I'm pretty sure its because they live off of Cape Cod.

A whale of a tail. Though don't ask me which whale's.

Sailboats in Massachusetts Bay. Very New England.

Back home in good Ole Boston.


Thanks for spectating my spectatorship!

Real Life

The questions you may be asked if your roommate is a Forensic Anthropologist-in-training:

"Can I have your skull when you're dead?"

The jury is still out.

It is a truth universally acknowledged

Back when we got channels like USA, my roommate and I saw previews for a new show called "Covert Affairs." It's about a new female agent who works as a spy--okay, okay operative--for the CIA. That sounds strangely familiar, no? Well it didn't matter. I didn't have the channel and certainly wouldn't be watching it so I put it from my mind. Then my roommate went out of town, watched the show, and wrote on my Facebook wall to say she'd enjoyed it. So while I was crocheting yesterday I pulled it up on Hulu and watched the first two episodes--using Hulu and watching female spies counters the old lady-ness of crocheting, you see.

While thankfully there was no mention of aRambaldi and the main character has yet to demonstrate severe daddy issues, I noticed some similarities to my favorite female spy on television.

It seems that all female spies:

• have strong/square jaw lines
• have dimples
• wear a surprising amount of make up
• insist on wearing their hair down whilst fist fighting and other spy-type hijinks
• don't smile. Duh. Spying is a serious business.
• have an innate ability to speak many important languages, including Russian.
• begin their shows with traumas involving ill-fated love affairs.
  

I guess that means I can't be a spy because I would totally put my hair in a ponytail.

I did enjoy the show though. But what's not to enjoy about spies?

Summer Time

and my internet's spotty. So in lieu of a long post enjoy a few pictures from my time at home.

The HCP, naturally,

I keep good company.
(Joseph Smith and Moroni)

The family enjoying a cruise on the Erie Canal (where else)

You've got to love four generation shots.
Especially when your subjects are kind enough to seat themselves in counterclockwise position by age.

Amos.
Getting into some mischief.

Lily and Meg.
Green was the color of the day.

Jillian and Grandpa.
She allowed him to console/amuse her. He did know all the places on interest on the boat tour.

Toby, Catherine, and the red hat.

"Has anyone seen my new red hat?"
Anybody? Anybody?
Bueller?

On a completely unrelated note, I allowed my classmate to talk me into going to Ramona and Beezus with her because it was "in our professional interests." It was completely charming. You know, just in case you have a little girl you need/want to take to a movie.

Internet Viking

As you know, I'm a poor graduate student. In debt up to my ears, crunched for time, and scrounging about for sleep. So I've released my inner Dane. That's right. I've turned to internet viking-cy.

Essentially, it's the same thing as internet piracy (of music infamy), but far less hackneyed and much more in line with my personal pedigree. It started with a school project here or there. A couple of weeks ago,I had to mastermind a modern publishing of Anne of Green Gables, complete with cover design, for my final project. So what was I, unartistic and penniless as I am, to do? I hunted the internet for inspiration and along the way I just happened to find the perfect illustration and a fun new font. The problem was, the font cost $59 dollars and it wasn't exactly something I'd be using day in and day out (if it had been I'd probably have justified the expense). But wouldn't you know that myfonts.com has a preview feature where you can see the phrases you need in each font. And wouldn't it just so happen that my laptop has a screen capturing program? So I admit it, I pillaged away.

But apparently my infamy does not stop there. Because I was blog hopping today and found a hilarious youtube video on the blog of a friend of a friend and so I plundered again, indiscriminately. Enjoy the fruits of my looting.



PS Is this what I'll sound like once I get my Master's in Children's Literature?

A Comedy of Errors

I try to feed the missionaries from our church about once a month. At once a month its really not that onerous (even if at times it gets a little pricey), and with a few mainstay menus in my box of tricks its really not that difficult either. Even then, these dinners have turned into a bit of an event. If my roommates are going to be around, I invite them to join. Then I figure that since I'm already going through the effort of making a big meal, I might as well capitalize on it and I invite a few classmates or ward friends who live nearby. But now that we only have Elders, I also have to invite at least one boy. I know that really shouldn't be an event or a burden, should it? Inviting a boy, however, has become the most difficult thing about feeding the missionaries. Okay not the inviting part, that's easy. No, as it turns out the trick is getting a boy to actually be there.

So last night I was scheduled to feed the Elders. I'd chosen that day in particular because I would be fresh out of school for the summer and had no other plans. Of course it was not to be so easy. Obstacle One: my writing group changes days, so I need to be at Simmons by 8:00. No problem, I thought. I talked with the Elders on Saturday and arranged to have dinner at 5:30. Even if I left the house by 7:15 I should be able to get to Simmons on time. Obstacle Two: would having dinner so early make it more difficult to get a guy there? The Elders didn't think so, they had a 6:15 appointment, but they'd bring him to dinner instead. But just in case, I sidled up to my Home Teacher on Sunday and invited him as well. Sure he said, and I like vegetables. Monday I came up with a menu (heavy on the vegetables), divied out some assignments to roommates and friends who were coming, went grocery shopping, and things looked good to go.

Fast forward: its 5:15 pm, the night of the big event and just about all the food is ready to go without any major hitches. The missionaries arrive and their guy isn't coming. "That's okay," I say, "I invited a spare but he's not here so you can wait on the porch." Fifteen minutes later, dinner's ready to go but we've seen neither hide nor hair of Home Teacher. I decide to give him a call, just to check. Straight to voicemail, which it just so happens is full. I send him a text. No answer.

The Steeple Chase begins in earnest. Three phones, three girls calling and/or texting every guy in the ward with a car who we think may be able to show up for a free and tasty dinner. Finally with the text message "Help us, Obi Wan Kenobi, you are our only hope," I get a biter who says he can be there in about 20 minutes, just as soon as he finishes his work day (proof that you have to know your audience). We give the Elders the good news and they decide to go do some street contacting around the Bunker Hill Monument in the mean time. Sounds great.

We put dinner in the oven on warm and sit twiddling our thumbs. About 15 minutes later one Elder returns. That's right, one. "Have you seen Elder so-and-so?" (Elder so-and-so was there on Exchanges so I don't know his name). "Why no, Elder, we haven't. (Pause) Shouldn't he be with you?" Why yes, yes he should. But he's not. So, I ask if the Elder missing is the one with the phone, because then one of us can call him. Nope the Elder in our area, the one at our house, is the one with the phone. So the Elder begins combing the streets for the missing missionary who's never been to Charlestown before. Then my roommate, decides to go help him and she disappears for a bit. I'm beginning to see a pattern.

Finally, by about 6:15-6:20 roommate returns; Elder So-and-So is found; Boy from ward arrives, disappears to park, and then returns (though Elders came in the first time and so have been sitting in our house unchaperoned); and finally at long last we start dinner. 7:00 the Elders are still chatting and I decide to expedite matters by bringing out the chocolate cake and "suggesting" we get the message at the same time. 7:09 the Message begins. 7:18 handshaking and we push the Elders and Boy out the door, I throw a few things in my backpack and bolt after them, roommate who cooked runs out to go visiting teaching, and poor other roommate and ward friend and ward friend's friend-who's-in-town-visiting are left to clean up.

Yep, another successful dinner in Charlestown.

Pavlov Works

Case in point:

Yesterday evening I was watching a movie, during the course of which a phone rang. Now that alone is not at all abnormal. What was strange, however, was my reaction. Truthfully, I wasn't paying all that much attention to the movie, but as soon as I heard the phone the words "Dane, Falb, Stone" sprang into my mind. Confused? That is how I answer the phones at work (it's the name of our firm). And here we have proof, at last, that I can be trained.

At least I don't salivate.

PS if I ever answer the phone that way when you call, I apologize. But clearly it's not my fault. It's Pavlov's.

Pearls of Wisdom

While researching the life and publishing history of L.M. Montgomery I discovered the following.

Chances a woman has to marry at different ages: 20-25 years, 52 chances; 25-30 years, 18 chances; 30-35 years, 15 1/2 chances; 35-40 years 3 3/4 chances.

The Ladies' Home Journal May 1904

What constitutes a half or a quarter of a chance? If someone asks and then takes it back? At least I have over 37 1/4 chances left . . .

It was conducted oddly enough in Plymouth

Memorial Day may not be the typical day for visiting Plymouth, MA, so naturally that is when I had to go.

Why do things typically?

I did think it was topical. Memorial Day is for remembering those who have gone before, and I spent all day thinking about my long departed forefather John Howland. He probably looked something like this:

You know, he was a big fan of the color orange.

Are you familiar with John Howland? He is best known for falling off of this:

and believe you me, I was loud and proud of being one of his descendants. I even discussed it with the people working on the ship. I bet they never hear about that story.

Of course there are certain other requisites when you're visiting Plymouth.

1. Try to pet a chicken.

Here chick, chick, chicky . . .
Andrea gave it her best shot.

2. Practice your cannon shot.

Clearly the A girls are either beyond practice or not as dedicated as Carly.

3. Proposition a Pligrim.

Well, hello there, Pilgrim.

4. Look at a rock. No not any rock. This rock.

If you look very close you'll see the date 1620 etched onto the stone.

You can tell it's important because it has its own house.

We'd heard from several sources that the Rock itself was really rather small, but our diminished expectations were blown . . . out of the water.

Maybe for my next venture into family history I'll participate in the annual re-enactment of the skirmish at Lexington. And by participate, I mean I'll stand on the sidelines with a cup of tea and pooh-pooh the colonists for their gall, true to my Loyalist blood.

Anyone want to join me?

PS more points are available for those who correctly identify the subject line.

Thank you Facebook

I'll admit it I check Facebook more often than is strictly necessary. It's like a physical tick, but in this case electronic? And I do have to say that many of those times when I check it I do not come away terrible enriched except a know a little more precisely what some of my friends happen to be doing/feeling.

But today I watched two videos that a family friend had posted and I laughed pretty hard. Maybe it's because I've been alone in my office all day without the internet, maybe it's because they're magical experiences in less than 5 minutes. You'll just have to watch and see.



(Sorry the other one is only on facebook, but it was teletubbie clips set to some kind of freaky German music--in other words, amazing).

In other news, I finished Chapter Six of my novel (as in the one I'm writing) today. I'm not sure how it really works as a whole or within the piece--it's easy to get tunnelvision when you work in spurts like this--but actually I think I like it even if I did cut out the Pirate King, sorry Caleb. It was your one shining moment.

The Redcoats are Coming

The weather has been so lovely lately that today I decided to meet up with my friend and classmate on Boston Common where she was nannying. We had a grand old time and I stayed there as she ran her charge to preschool. So I spread out a blanket on the grass and was writing when lo and behold, what do I see? A redcoat walking up and down on the stretch of grass before me chatting on his cell phone. Yes, I realize he was almost undoubtedly a tour guide, but watching a man with a tri-corner hat, white breetches, satchel, brass buttons, and the whole kit and kaboodle casually talking on his phone was too funny. I'm really sad I didn't have my camera on me.

On another note, I went to a fireside last night during which the speaker told us, in illustrating a point that demographers say 85% of the world's population has lived since 1820. That staggered me, and even now I'm still not sure whether I can believe it. Is that even possible? I may need to know/learn more . . .


Finally, I assure you this is the last time I will use that joke while living in Boston--after that time, I make no promises.

A Conversation

Between my Mexican classmate/compadre and myself.

Me: does your regard for muffins mean it's okay if I bring them [to a brunch]?
Mexican: Of course! The more, the merrier! Are they fun?
Me: the muffins?
Mexican: Isn't muffin a code name for Mormons?
Me: Not so far as I know . . .

Legitimate

Dear blog,

You have now received an official complaint for libelous interpretation/description. And, considering that the objectors were somewhat illustrious personages, I'm pretty sure that means you're more than just my musings. That's right blog, you're legitimate. (le-git-i-mate: constituting or relating to serious drama as distinct from musical comedy, revue, etc.) No more random hair ribbon stories (though speaking of hair ribbons, that almost happened to me again on Sunday).

I know what you want to know blog, but, as much as I would like to, I'm not going to tell you who the detractors were. I already had to kowtow and use Anne of Green Gables style apology skills. Once burned twice shy. Let's just say my Slytherin post is a little shorter these days.

Also, I thought you'd appreciate this video.

Love,
Lindsay

The strange things we do for Academia

According to my iTunes, I've listened to "Pines of Rome" about 10 times in the last twelve hours. That's nearly two hours straight of Roman trees. But what I'm really wondering about, is my need at some time in the late, late, late/early hours of the night to create a playlist of "Pines of Rome" and "Our Last Summer" (the song Colin Firth sings in Mamma Mia) . . . and odder still, the fact that I labeled said playlist"Brain born." Is it possible to write papers et cetera in your sleep? Because I think that might be the only explanation.

In other news: I'm probably handing in a truly terrible paper today, but it's long so that's something, right?

Beatrix Potter Brings the World Together

l
Literally.

This afternoon I held the copy of Beatrix Potter's The Tailor of Gloucester that Queen Victoria hand signed and sent to her granddaughter Olga Romanov. So basically I read the same book that Anastasia read (provided that Olga shared of course, which you never know . . . ). So if we were playing Six Degrees does that mean I could claim a connection to the British Monarchy? I'm going to say yes. Though in all honesty the first thing I thought when the Harvard Research Librarian was introducing the book was "that belonged to a murdered child." Maybe I'm spending too much time with my Forensic Anthropologist roommate.

Oh Beatrix Potter, yet another reason to love you.

How You Doin?

Am I generationally marked that anytime someone asks me that question, without the g, I think of Joey Tribbiani? Anyway I'm not really writing about sitcoms today. Tomorrow maybe, but today, no.

When I find myself in various social situations--meeting new people, long car drive, and so on--I have certain conversational questions I like to bring up. Things like "if you could vote a state out of the Union, which one would it be? (and why) because they tend to bring up interesting things about people. What was their reasoning for wanting to vote out Minnesota?

One of the questions I sometimes ask is: What is the strangest/most interesting compliment you've ever received? I have my own answers for this question. I've gotten "You have really nice eyebrows" and "You look good in a bonnet" (granted I was wearing a bonnet at the time, not recreationally by the way). Yesterday I got another strange one: "You look like a painting." I wondered at first if it was something about wearing too much make up, but the complimenter went on to say things about looking "airbrushy" and "without a hint of a wrinkle" and said he could show me on a real painting. It was one of those "ummm, thanks?" moments.



So how about you friends, what's the most interesting compliment you've ever received?