tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36014635219637206432024-02-07T02:41:40.304-05:00The Oxford CommaIt's true; the Oxford Comma is my favorite comma. But my enthusiasms don't end with grammar. Here are the comings, goings, musings, and meanderings of my life!Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.comBlogger200125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-52004908059270600642011-07-20T13:42:00.003-04:002011-07-20T14:15:53.012-04:00DTRDear Oxford Comma,<br /><br />You've been woefully neglected this year. I know it and I'm sorry. I could blame it on Netflix Instant Watch or giving my homework preferential treatment, but I'm not going to insult you like that. I mean where was I when the great Oxford comma scare broke out a few weeks ago and everyone thought that Oxford had announced to the internets that they were forsaking their namesake punctuation mark? (It turned out to be a false alarm. Only one of their style journals was dropping the comma, but still. It was hard times for us purists.) Where was I when I had that insightful/funny/witty thought that would have made the best blog post ever and gotten your millions of comments and thousand new readers? I'd like to say I was taken prisoner and told I couldn't use the internet, that Comcast had cut us off and left us stranded on a deserted island of no bars, that I was stuck in an elevator with Tom Hanks when the power went out, or even that I was slaving away at my novel, but I wasn't. I was probably watching "The Glee Project" on Hulu (which, if you haven't seen it is kind of hilarious. 12 high-drama, literally, MDT kids in a house together while they compete for a guest role on Glee. Awesome.).<div><br /></div><div>But here's the worst part of it, Comma. Things are only going to get worse. That's right. I'm just going to come clean here and now. I started, gulp, a <i>new</i> blog. Listen, Comma, it's not you. It's me. The time finally came when I had to make some tough decisions. I only have one year of graduate school left and after that, I don't know what's coming. But if I'm going to make this writing thing work, in this day and age I need an internet presence and, while I like you just the way you are*, you weren't it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not saying we're breaking up. I'm not saying this the end of the road for you. I'm just saying, I need some space.</div><div><br /></div><div>You'll always be the place I post random poems about my homeless admirers (of which there was another last Friday except this time he was only drunk or possibly mentally ill, so that's a step up, right?) or pictures of my crazy New England adventures. But my other blog, it's going to take a lot of time and attention right now. It's kind of like a puppy. It's not housebroken yet. It doesn't have a built in readership.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope we can still be friends.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lindsay</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://gaskelltogravett.blogspot.com/">http://gaskelltogravett.blogspot.com/</a></div>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-412688893462009482011-07-09T23:25:00.003-04:002011-07-09T23:47:23.168-04:00The Atlantic Is Lovely this time of Year<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8g9_5I5TfZiUQZuJ75EGktTjldpbS_Jm4FcI2C6nmlNbYy1qlH6FVOQFNyGcXa2AB9D4I4n6C4WlY5ClhO2emErx2rMQ5DngssEVP4ttaAcyLG2ou3tQZ2eV09NniG12ABTKlP9escBw/s1600/DSCN1108.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8g9_5I5TfZiUQZuJ75EGktTjldpbS_Jm4FcI2C6nmlNbYy1qlH6FVOQFNyGcXa2AB9D4I4n6C4WlY5ClhO2emErx2rMQ5DngssEVP4ttaAcyLG2ou3tQZ2eV09NniG12ABTKlP9escBw/s400/DSCN1108.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627560825261529826" /></a>Despite her trepidation about sharks*, MRM Alex and I spent a great day at Hampton Beach. Yep, that's in New Hampshire. Even almost two years after moving here I'm amazed by all the New England state hopping. Maybe I'll get over that soon. Anyhow, I strongly recommend Hampton Beach, yes it's an hour's drive from Boston, but the water was lovely, the sand was relatively clean and soft, and there was no undertow to speak of--though the lifeguard didn't seem to like people swimming out very far at all and a little girl drowned there a little over a month ago.<div><br /></div><div>Anyhow of the three proper beaches I can really remember going to (in the America's and for non-historical reasons)**, Hampton is my favorite so far.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpM1jNCwPwL039LfP1IdWsl-zE5WrBpoKhyHHhwMGxZZ0K6uzuoGx8XiYDKGz-7I1T4RW0OZKUpb28n7F2W0B36_z04-PmfjiKnHJemV0vFSKlztYUTwjkQbI9dQXRXn0TQCnneZtKmQ/s1600/DSCN1104.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpM1jNCwPwL039LfP1IdWsl-zE5WrBpoKhyHHhwMGxZZ0K6uzuoGx8XiYDKGz-7I1T4RW0OZKUpb28n7F2W0B36_z04-PmfjiKnHJemV0vFSKlztYUTwjkQbI9dQXRXn0TQCnneZtKmQ/s400/DSCN1104.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627563424151609074" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Flat Stanley concurs. You should always concur.***</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >* MRM Alex's concerns were so far advanced, I had to make a wager with her for her to even consider swimming in the ocean. If she saw a shark with her own eyes, I'd kiss our home teacher. Luckily, no sharks were seen.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >** The first proper beach I went to was one in North Carolina when I was four or five, but I don't really remember it and the second was Utah Beach in Normandy France, which wasn't really a pleasure cruise.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >*** "I should have concurred." Now a Broadway Musical.</span></div></div>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-2781323385853353932011-06-21T00:35:00.006-04:002011-06-21T01:02:40.179-04:00Word NerdEvery once in a while I'll get a word stuck in my head.<br /><br />It's not quite as annoyingly persistent as when I get a song stuck in my head, but given my chosen field of hobby/study/work it can be significantly more problematic. There I'll be, tip, tap, typing away, writing in full flow when I pause for the briefest moment to search for just the right word. Then, out of nowhere, that stuck-in-my-head-word pops into the forefront of my thoughts and starts hopping up and down. "Pick me! Pick me! I'm askin' ya' with my mind!" it says.<br /><br />I would try to work it in just to get it over and done with, but, unfortunately, no matter how late I stay up writing tonight I don't think <b>troglodyte</b> is going to slip nicely into my 19th century young adult novel.<br /><br />Pity. It's kind of cute. Maybe in snerk . . . .<br /><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center; width: 300px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGhIZ6jmd1421HY4NJyD-2huFhASCZOk7ehk85YAIzq-yLCrkz2z9whsPB8vD8ccYNlhpFsxxigyHYRyIb0HdpdEvTUWpYmiUJsMkRe_U75mirYwTeUuWZhD44iYxfoIpQCloTbPeG2E/s400/Troglodyte+Doll.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620529925470886354" /><br /><br />Speaking of names that have been growing on me/19th century folk, I ran into an appellation I'd never seen before when I was working at the temple last week: Mebitable. All those hard consonants give it a nice little ring, don't you think?<br /><br />Can you tell I'm putting off writing? I've just got one line of dialogue that <span style="font-weight:bold;">will</span><span> not come. Maybe troglodyte will come in use after all . . . </span>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-77207111959813002602011-06-20T23:19:00.005-04:002011-06-21T00:49:26.659-04:00I think I'm in love<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc58ucVz3u461E16YyeOjbwQDxvOgvXpxLPXwDNb2yzt9Fza7v0emn4d7DZHXBOB2oHrW68-jCAw6KRE2y1uGIJ3CWTx6WLW3XsaoTfxLCHz6j0XP5wbn7uazt33j-k_2bIPQpMTA0prY/s1600/il_fullxfull.193478097.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc58ucVz3u461E16YyeOjbwQDxvOgvXpxLPXwDNb2yzt9Fza7v0emn4d7DZHXBOB2oHrW68-jCAw6KRE2y1uGIJ3CWTx6WLW3XsaoTfxLCHz6j0XP5wbn7uazt33j-k_2bIPQpMTA0prY/s400/il_fullxfull.193478097.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620507641966776914" /></a><br />I found <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/trafalgarssquare?ref=seller_info">this Etsy artist</a> through a facebook link from one of my classmates the other day and I just <i>love </i>all her prints. They're, dare I say it, simply oh-so-cute. If it weren't for the fact that I still haven't hung up the pictures I had framed in <span style="font-style:italic;">December</span>, I might not be able to resist buying some. (In self defense, I had one on the wall that had to be taken down during the great exploding water heater episode of February '11. I guess I never recovered . . . )Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-79705583625918324852011-06-06T23:12:00.013-04:002011-06-07T00:19:05.462-04:00The Maine Event<div>It took some thinking to figure out how to top Memorial Day 2010 and its memorable Plymouth landing re-enactments, but I finally settled on Maine. Though I guess going out of state this year means I'll have to go out of country, next . . . Good thing Canada's close.</div><br /><div></div><div>Anyhow, Maine.</div><div><br /></div><div>My friend Ali and I drove up to Portland on Saturday and took some time wandering around its charming little waterfront/tourist area, checked out the Maine Mall (because yes, there's only one mall in the state of Maine), and enjoyed the temperate Maine-y weather (which is to say overcast and windy). That night we also discovered that every ward in Maine starts at 9:00 a.m. I guess when you all have your own buildings you can have church whenever you want to . . . (though I'd have gone for 10:00, personally). After church we ventured to the Portland Head Light (actually in Cape Elizabeth), which is actually a lighthouse. The weather proved agreeable, the scenery proved quite picturesque, and the whole excursion proved a success.</div><div></div><br /><div>Monday we headed back South, stopping at the beach in Hampton, New Hampshire for a few hours of sun and mingling with the singles. Then it was back to the big cities and responsibilities.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZu8VoaY9UueBqUa_n9zvIRgEDxNIijs12CUoIgM_OP35M_Tr-znf07Vr2gFGuB3BbKNUQjHxui20WbFF0zAZxUeqOD7TWsN4G0HqQapsnpGkSFFLDxgUiEz_Kla2NLmc3OpD8-xSvkBU/s1600/DSCN1057.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZu8VoaY9UueBqUa_n9zvIRgEDxNIijs12CUoIgM_OP35M_Tr-znf07Vr2gFGuB3BbKNUQjHxui20WbFF0zAZxUeqOD7TWsN4G0HqQapsnpGkSFFLDxgUiEz_Kla2NLmc3OpD8-xSvkBU/s400/DSCN1057.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615318292495763858" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>Maine's Rocky shores</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Maine + sea + birds. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXUbSP0SdSZMjUlAekAmQUoaBfOYLT2UTVJCaZcIG_PWrQ5j8CR2F_r8Z1tOPMKlgyYzbTvYdbwKquOPbq1k0yYalxoyncZhHaeIfiYjzwfkeL-q7Sb99SLdBoHOf154aztBa2s5-ovc/s1600/DSCN1065.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXUbSP0SdSZMjUlAekAmQUoaBfOYLT2UTVJCaZcIG_PWrQ5j8CR2F_r8Z1tOPMKlgyYzbTvYdbwKquOPbq1k0yYalxoyncZhHaeIfiYjzwfkeL-q7Sb99SLdBoHOf154aztBa2s5-ovc/s400/DSCN1065.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615319234953707378" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Gary D. Schmidt, am I right?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span">No?</span></div><br /><div>Okay, okay. What about this one?</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh6ESVkhxzZDQA_Xj8H7H0g8dAVLsLxpDvzdxinxZMOXD9Z-3LIHIiZGcHNwtPcbh5dSpg9ohH95GnFJzCO6x7N3EQ9SAzUU0O-4fdCcwN5iZKsFiNNMvHED5wT0i5d4KJLqmQYbjd_c/s1600/DSCN1072.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh6ESVkhxzZDQA_Xj8H7H0g8dAVLsLxpDvzdxinxZMOXD9Z-3LIHIiZGcHNwtPcbh5dSpg9ohH95GnFJzCO6x7N3EQ9SAzUU0O-4fdCcwN5iZKsFiNNMvHED5wT0i5d4KJLqmQYbjd_c/s400/DSCN1072.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615319976421404114" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Sarah Plain and Tall</i>, yes? Remember, 'cause she's from Maine . . . </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Oh.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">(awkward pause)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Uhm, well, third time's the charm?</span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wIxi_ndv5iNEhW4vwWJL-WIQss9WCjxWomhC7RyiJiAWQv6wswkOneGOIiSD4clTP9TlKEARwvbMQuXwtleuSyvQiJyyqEUkJoblRU5Sr-qthEhf8rxFaTWjHXjrMex8XOE-A1FkT80/s1600/DSCN1076.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wIxi_ndv5iNEhW4vwWJL-WIQss9WCjxWomhC7RyiJiAWQv6wswkOneGOIiSD4clTP9TlKEARwvbMQuXwtleuSyvQiJyyqEUkJoblRU5Sr-qthEhf8rxFaTWjHXjrMex8XOE-A1FkT80/s400/DSCN1076.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615320345757381138" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span">There's a Pete, there's a dragon . . . </span></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center; ">Ah-ha. There we go.</div></div><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Rest assured, no choruses of "Candle on the Water" were sung.</span></div>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-42274784051629809232011-05-14T00:47:00.002-04:002011-05-14T01:19:35.243-04:00One Olivia, Two Olivia . . . .Evidently, I have an inordinate love of and for the Cosby show. Recent conversations with my roommates--in addition to a half remembered comment from one of my sisters--have revealed as much to me. I am not ashamed of this. I freely, and publicly, admit that I watched every episode of all eight seasons almost as soon as the series became available on Netflix instant watch. Call it a backlash against the onslaught of trauma novels inflicted upon me by my Contemporary Realism class, or the innate inclination toward all things jello-related inherent in my religious culture, but I have, do, and will love this show.<br /><br />I mean what's not to love? The heartwarming Huxtable family? Real life problems dealt with with considerable aplomb? Clean entertainment? The mind-boggling popular attire of the late eighties and early nineties? Bill Cosby at his best, interacting with a host of adorable five-year-olds? The use of the phrase "boom boom"? Drama, comedy, and romance wrapped into a tight 22 minute package?<br /><br />And while certain parties have asserted my fondness for the show stems from my secret love for Bill Cosby himself, I don't think it is old Combustible who's won me over. It's the whole dynamic. I love seeing a "real" family. But I especially love seeing the relationship between Claire and Heathcliff, that they get on each others nerves at times and that raising their family is hard work, but they do work at it. They come up with creative solutions and they stand together. I think that's nice and refreshing in the face of contemporary offerings like <span style="font-style: italic;">Parenthood</span> (admittedly, I've never watched the show).<br /><br />On a related note, I think I finally know what I want to be when I grow up: Claire Huxtable.<br /><br />Minus the law degree. I have enough student loans as it is.<br /><br />Speaking of which, one more year to go "dear readers." That's right I survived another semester. Let the blog posts re-commence!Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-64384230371840280222011-05-14T00:44:00.002-04:002011-05-14T00:47:26.539-04:00So long Nebuchadnezzer!After years of studying the scriptures and attending Sunday school, I admit, I felt some trepidation upon boarding a train to Babylon this evening.<br /><br />As I discovered between stations, this was warranted because I was headed in the wrong direction.<br /><br />Moral of the story: read your scriptures and you won't get turned around in NYC?Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-17455790142269293942011-04-06T17:52:00.004-04:002011-04-06T18:15:16.154-04:00A day to eat jelloDear readers,<div><br /></div><div>Happy Mormon Day! In case you were wondering, I am still alive. I know, I know, my blog would not indicate as much and I'm sorry about that. It turns out that a combination of being quite sick (yes, again), consuming a daily supply of depressing teen angst/trauma (aka contemporary realism) novels, taking two 2 credit classes that think they're 4 credit classes, trying to fulfill one's church callings, and actually doing office work is not favorable for keeping up-to-date on one's blog. Who'd have thought?</div><div><br /></div><div>Alas, this is all I have time to write about between my Editing class and heading over to the Stake Center for my song practice (because somehow my singing alto in ward choir and playing Lisa Turtle in the ward campout's variety show has lead to my being enlisted to sing in an 8 part acapella arrangement of Mariah Carey at the ward talent show in a couple of weeks). What can I say? Flattery works.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stay tuned for a post on . . . . contemporary realism.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the near future.</div><div><br /></div><div>After I've read <i>Flash Burnout </i>for Realism, 6 books for my reviewing class (5 of which haven't been published yet), a handful of graphic novels, and at least part of a book for my final editing project.</div><div><br /></div><div>You know, business as usual.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lindsay</div><div><br /></div><div>Note to self: learn to speed read.</div>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-91947039928321169742011-02-25T16:25:00.003-05:002011-02-25T16:38:01.261-05:00You meddling kids<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4udOvilvQUK0_rNs39KNLSzbtZaNlhohyphenhyphen1iDcThSd8DRH2623luKWhRzkCx9GEjHlGihFVWAPf4LoWc7vUBBmYhvCW2yNyRkemlBIN-vUy5FcfAhRM_tTPjU1VszfT6cge7lDXlJa0gk/s1600/veronica-mars.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 370px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4udOvilvQUK0_rNs39KNLSzbtZaNlhohyphenhyphen1iDcThSd8DRH2623luKWhRzkCx9GEjHlGihFVWAPf4LoWc7vUBBmYhvCW2yNyRkemlBIN-vUy5FcfAhRM_tTPjU1VszfT6cge7lDXlJa0gk/s400/veronica-mars.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577742251537014210" border="0" /></a><br />Part of my homework assignment for this coming Monday was to watch the first episode of <span style="font-style: italic;">Veronica Mars</span>. So, naturally, I have now watched the first season of <span style="font-style: italic;">Veronica Mars</span>. And, you know, maybe part of the second.<br /><br />I mean how could I stop watching before I found out who had killed the girl from <span style="font-style: italic;">Mama Mia</span>? Honestly.<br /><br />In other news, I place the full responsibility for my being so behind on my paper for Monday on Netflix and the teacher who decided to make watching television homework. Clearly it's all their fault.Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-16988263040159600122011-02-25T11:58:00.005-05:002011-02-25T16:51:01.229-05:00Suppose I were to be seized in some dreadful way and unable to ring the bell?To use the parlance of the locals in the Town, I've been wicked sick. Or at least my roommates think so. In fact one of them thinks I'm on death's door; and, I'll admit, I did on the first day of my illness tell someone I felt like death. But that was nearly two weeks ago. In the meantime, I've been heading out to work and school and riding the bus and T and coughing merrily all the way. I'm not trying to get anyone else sick, I'm just trying to do all the things I have to do.<br /><br />I have to say, this has been a pretty interesting convalescence because it took me a long time to figure out what I was suffering from. There was some speculation it might be the flu because at first I was headachy and feverish with chills, slept nearly 12 hours every night, and, as mentioned earlier, felt more or less like death. But that subsided after the first couple of days and settled into more distinctly cold-like symptoms with a nice little wracking cough that sounds more or less like consumption. But as it's persisted longer than the usual one-week-run it's developed some peculiarities.<br /><br />My lungs have been particularly touchy throughout this bout of illness; there's been a good deal of wheezing and difficulty of breathing and what not. I know because I've been paying close attention to them after being informed my teacher was in the grips of walking pneumonia. But I honestly didn't take too much worry over my lung's persnicketyness until the end of last week. As I hiked up the hill. I quickly discovered that I could scarcely breathe I'd been seized by such a terrible coughing fit. That, given the state of my cold, wasn't too unexpected. But the next morning I noticed that even as I trundled off to the T with a nice 10 minute walk in the crispy cold my lungs were perfectly happy. "Well," I thought to myself, "it's just a sign that I'm getting better." All was well. But that night it happened again, and I wasn't going up hill I was coming down. I soon noticed, that no matter how dry and cold the air was during the day my lungs were perfectly happy; they were similarly content at night when I was tucked away in my office or school or house. But no sooner had I stepped out into the nighttime air, then my lungs became agitated and upset. It was the perils of the night air.<br /><br />That should have been my first sign.<br /><br />But the confirmation came yesterday. I had a bit of a relapse and after a night with NyQuil, some morning Mucinex, and two extra-strength fast acting Tylenol (my drug of choice)taken a half-hour apart around 4:30 to mitigate a rip roaring headache, I was sitting semi-comatose in my office with a still-splitting head. And this was after I'd gone to the Conference Room and taken a much needed nap. Finally I mustered the resolve to brave the cold and wind and shambled off to the bus stop around 7:00. As soon as I stumbled into the house I called my trusty pharmacist/nurse/mother and asked if I could take some more of my favorite painkiller because I had some school work that still needed doing. The verdict: no dice, but if I could lay my hand on an alternate painkiller that might be okay. I tore apart my pantry shelf, looked in my medicine stash, and, after calling my roommate, looked in my roommates' medicine stash, but lo and behold no ibuprofen was to be found. But my head was still throbbing so, I dropped <span style="font-style: italic;">Punkzilla</span> into my DVD player, turned off the lights, and lay back on the couch with a cold compress over my eyes. Much to my surprise, it did what two different kinds of medicine hadn't been able to. After a half hour or so the swelling in my sinuses had gone down and the headache had abated.<br /><br />And that was when I knew.<br /><br />I don't have the flu or pneumonia or what have you because I'm not just sick, I'm sick in 1815. I clearly have a Regency Cold. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go check if my eyes are overbright. I have a sneaking suspicion they might be. But I'm putting it in print here and now that I'm refusing leeches and there is to be no bleeding.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDJRCtVqtlTKf6bsagMjNyE2Sdl-N5X_iVlac_E930RTprZPk6xUjp-9aG1fVYy4Q-yi_T_z44rUI7trt63mVacvp0ChzQlGDPMOz-dilRBABe43shID98hxo1ditk7zzhXhcSyXVmOM/s1600/Mary.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDJRCtVqtlTKf6bsagMjNyE2Sdl-N5X_iVlac_E930RTprZPk6xUjp-9aG1fVYy4Q-yi_T_z44rUI7trt63mVacvp0ChzQlGDPMOz-dilRBABe43shID98hxo1ditk7zzhXhcSyXVmOM/s400/Mary.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577741333225280610" border="0" /></a>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-196000653890584572011-01-29T00:19:00.001-05:002011-01-29T00:32:52.017-05:00I feel you, friendFour big snows in four weeks. A few more and I just might feel as strongly as she does.<br /><br />I know it starts slow, but stick with her. My favorite is right before 3:45 and 4:07, although she closes strong.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/5N1Im1xbjWQ?fs=1" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="295" width="480"></iframe>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-8983328002154764452011-01-06T16:09:00.007-05:002011-01-07T12:00:49.498-05:00A Technicolored Tribute<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlravpHa5GfA0lHP054Q_B1dfZeR3TZ8MyUlNtjcNMr7ScgR0Z-hn4fWnNu65hQs5FdXRe579xZWUwDkSjbTddgh6baqBmtt7rzx2q2qiWAq3qXcBVXSe_tAyFuRUr92vm5gXTbQL9es/s1600/0.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlravpHa5GfA0lHP054Q_B1dfZeR3TZ8MyUlNtjcNMr7ScgR0Z-hn4fWnNu65hQs5FdXRe579xZWUwDkSjbTddgh6baqBmtt7rzx2q2qiWAq3qXcBVXSe_tAyFuRUr92vm5gXTbQL9es/s400/0.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559201497829647026" border="0" /></a><br />After spending forty minutes on the blustery-cold sidewalks of Boston reading Toni Morrison and waiting for the police to clear our office building after a bomb threat (you know, same old, same old), I decided I deserved a break from realism. So as I finished calculating December's dividends, I watched <span style="font-style: italic;">Rainbow Brite and the Star Stealer</span>. I was left utterly speechless. The flat bold colors, the poor animation, the rocking eighties soundtrack, the "special" outfits, the seemingly drug-induced premise . . .<br /><br />As soon as I could form complete sentences again, however, I was flooded by a strange sense of relief. No <span style="font-style: italic;">wonder</span> I'm weird. I grew up watching the likes of <span style="font-style: italic;">Rainbow Brite</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Care Bears</span></span>, <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>My Little Pony</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Gummi Bears</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Great Chipmunk Adventure</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Fluppy Dogs</span>, and so on. It's remarkable I'm as normal, and halfway intelligent, as I am. You mean you <span style="font-style: italic;">can't</span> make your bed fly and travel inter-dimensionally by scratching a dog's head? The city streets <span style="font-style: italic;">aren't</span> being protected by martial arts trained vigilante mutants? And it's <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> okay to ditch your baby sitter and embark on a song-filled circumnavigation of the globe via hot air balloon to compete with other children? That's it. From here on out I intend to blame all my perceived abnormalities on eighties cartoons. So stop worrying about how strange (although some might say it's really just my fantastic imagination<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">)</span></span> I am. I mean how could I be anything else?<br /><br />But really, let's get back to the topic at hand. Which, if you're wondering, is: what's not to love about this movie? There are star sprinkles, a magical rainbow land, minor villains called Murky and Lurky, and so much more. For instance, the dialogue. The movie was chock full of gems.<br /><blockquote><ul><li>"This is what you call help? A <span style="font-style: italic;">girl</span>? . . . the glitterbots have everybody on Spectra hypnotized . . . and you bring me a <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">girl</span>!" <span style="font-style: italic;">Silly Krys, this isn't just <span style="font-weight: bold;">any </span>girl, it's Rainbow Brite! She has </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">rainbows</span>.</li><li>"Why, at a moment like this, is the most magnificent horse in the universe standing here doing nothing at all?" <span style="font-style: italic;">Yeah, why Starlite? Why?</span></li><li>"I don't know why they don't keep horses in mind when they design a castle." <span style="font-style: italic;">That's a good question, Starlite</span>.</li></ul></blockquote>But it got even deeper than the dialogue. The movie raised thought-provoking, philosophical quandaries:<br /><blockquote><ul><li>Which is better, a horse that can fly or a horse that can think?<span style="font-style: italic;"></span></li><li>Should one person be allowed to own the light of the universe?<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></li><li>Flee or Fight? (Krys: "You even need someone to tell you which way to run!", Rainbow Brite: "Some of us aren't used to running away!") <span style="font-style: italic;">It's a good thing you two are working together!</span></li></ul></blockquote><span>But the<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>treasure trove didn't even stop there. This movie was </span>littered with pearls of wisdom for your everyday life:<br /><blockquote><ul><li>"I will <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> wear booties!" <span style="font-style: italic;">Good fashion sense, Starlite.</span></li><li>"No horses in <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">my</span></span>room!" <span style="font-style: italic;">I fullheartedly agree.</span></li><li>"I could never let anything happen to the only person on earth who can see me!" <span style="font-style: italic;">Yeah, because if no one can see you, do you even exist Rainbow Brite?</span></li></ul></blockquote>All in all, I'd have to say it was 84 minutes well spent, well spent indeed. Although that might not be saying much. Today I'd be willing to say <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span> 84 minutes not spent reading Toni Morrison is 84 minutes well spent (and consequently I'm only on page 48 of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Bluest Eye</span>, my third YA realism book this week).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnoNZhGuQKjXeAWNOfG5LU6XL1b8PxXGeLMTVF3YyJqUjO9bDE8n5mK2QHCLXyvBsc8RihclMs28BuQOvqogHuq9nDc-CCLeZdCMrZBb4GxUDmUnMc5nhqdIvZ24DEknynWaEmR8nm9_8/s1600/250px-Rainbow_Brite_and_Color_Kids.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnoNZhGuQKjXeAWNOfG5LU6XL1b8PxXGeLMTVF3YyJqUjO9bDE8n5mK2QHCLXyvBsc8RihclMs28BuQOvqogHuq9nDc-CCLeZdCMrZBb4GxUDmUnMc5nhqdIvZ24DEknynWaEmR8nm9_8/s400/250px-Rainbow_Brite_and_Color_Kids.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559201573423618370" border="0" /></a>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-83405086647578284042010-12-06T11:01:00.004-05:002010-12-06T11:10:49.115-05:00Tis the Season<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_kiY0MjmR7yUgmCBoF2Uxdgy_H2BMKSmIvUcxept7ossb2pTBbit5oUGlurtK6z8Dxe_sRCTH1EHYXI2r42FvISfgJvd9SbwuQK9iFSzldXMrMdqwkgl9-F7Q1KpMswmww80z2zpFYg/s1600/xmas-studying.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_kiY0MjmR7yUgmCBoF2Uxdgy_H2BMKSmIvUcxept7ossb2pTBbit5oUGlurtK6z8Dxe_sRCTH1EHYXI2r42FvISfgJvd9SbwuQK9iFSzldXMrMdqwkgl9-F7Q1KpMswmww80z2zpFYg/s400/xmas-studying.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547601540467807250" border="0" /></a><br />Friends, readers, countrymen, lend me your ears . . .<br /><br />Okay, okay. So I haven't posted in a <span style="font-weight: bold;">long</span> 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.<br /><br />Until then I added some Christmas music at the bottom because, well, I need something to listen to as I type, type, type away.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGxuHuZhmFLaBosKaZmT_VsqucJL7RocFRvqMbnhxxHdgoaZNvnNuL7ZMVwOXKmU-QFi9pGHZVgtpEN5d3nCeIULo4mRK_rZcUA4bzzFCwWDkyeZHPW2w4GQPW2nr_nmEuJ8XjxaPcJ74/s1600/charliebrowntree.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGxuHuZhmFLaBosKaZmT_VsqucJL7RocFRvqMbnhxxHdgoaZNvnNuL7ZMVwOXKmU-QFi9pGHZVgtpEN5d3nCeIULo4mRK_rZcUA4bzzFCwWDkyeZHPW2w4GQPW2nr_nmEuJ8XjxaPcJ74/s400/charliebrowntree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547602271851776354" border="0" /></a>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-24705868368589953032010-11-05T14:51:00.002-04:002010-11-05T14:57:08.514-04:00For heaven's sake<a href="http://www.keepapitchinin.org/2009/10/02/she-had-a-question-1897-1/"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Don't waltz</span></a><a href="http://www.keepapitchinin.org/2009/10/02/she-had-a-question-1897-1/"></a>. You heard what I said, stop that waltzing! We <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> 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. . .<br /><br />I have to say <a href="http://www.keepapitchinin.org/">Keepapitchinin</a> has been tremendously helpful in writing this ol' novel o' mine. As well as tremendously enjoyable. What better research can a person ask for?Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-59194321868678709762010-11-04T23:11:00.003-04:002010-11-04T23:17:02.304-04:00Ah, but I do like a bit of gorgonzola!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMOVMgAzzzlU1eNxhv_Ugfr78YhcGOtn1po5n7Kn7KVj0M2Tt_RljFFgKulJ7J6AtzyOWcOV3nvKk8l7-ciw1JUOq1O8tJfv1YKxHbrkz61oYNYOeWNcP0xARAJA-6t1-7rM7wGciUUg/s1600/wallace-gromit-Edwin.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMOVMgAzzzlU1eNxhv_Ugfr78YhcGOtn1po5n7Kn7KVj0M2Tt_RljFFgKulJ7J6AtzyOWcOV3nvKk8l7-ciw1JUOq1O8tJfv1YKxHbrkz61oYNYOeWNcP0xARAJA-6t1-7rM7wGciUUg/s400/wallace-gromit-Edwin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535898315093764834" border="0" /></a><br />I'm not actually a big cheese fan, but I <span style="font-weight: bold;">do</span> love <span style="font-style: italic;">Wallace and Gromit</span>. And what's that? Now I can <a href="https://www.wallaceandgromitstamps.com/createyourself.php">make my own</a> <span style="font-style: italic;">Wallace and Gromit</span> 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?Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-90700691243621295212010-11-04T19:29:00.006-04:002010-11-04T19:57:36.639-04:00Everybody has their levelNow 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. <span style="font-size:85%;">(Hopefully you'll get that joke when you scroll down)</span><br /><br />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?<br /><br />Maggie's<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Yes, again. I mean really, who doesn't like Olivia)</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0jwEQUjRH_PJ0uhIfTv7eZsmtiL-DfkOA2z_1BAKSqQG2wVdzQD9Fsa8xctzunTCd9xPvn-eFuD2KRZWg9RJeGfQIR_ePZNpKlR1m_XPPYBvVt1VG3S82xa7rst_iFGv0hLze048O1c/s1600/DSCN0572.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0jwEQUjRH_PJ0uhIfTv7eZsmtiL-DfkOA2z_1BAKSqQG2wVdzQD9Fsa8xctzunTCd9xPvn-eFuD2KRZWg9RJeGfQIR_ePZNpKlR1m_XPPYBvVt1VG3S82xa7rst_iFGv0hLze048O1c/s400/DSCN0572.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535843023143510994" border="0" /></a><br />Nicholas's<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(I forgot to take a picture with my camera and had to use Photobooth.)</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6a4gQ6uKcbAOiflDC7YZVTj5GAjR9Qjqk6_rVCTB45714Zl8a830NBG7fLgXyT6fq5SlxAZezvl53r3qYknRxxS4r5qxaVGuwUpn01unCuqMtwUCSsxsVAxFRHJ-4KVx-LnvpCfe790w/s1600/Photo+501.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6a4gQ6uKcbAOiflDC7YZVTj5GAjR9Qjqk6_rVCTB45714Zl8a830NBG7fLgXyT6fq5SlxAZezvl53r3qYknRxxS4r5qxaVGuwUpn01unCuqMtwUCSsxsVAxFRHJ-4KVx-LnvpCfe790w/s400/Photo+501.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535843504912283554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(Incidentally, that's my office in the background if you've ever wondered what it looked like)</span><br /></div><br />Baby Ratelle's<span style="font-size:85%;"><br />(I know I'm biased because I chose it and its <span style="font-style: italic;">my </span>handiwork, but I think it's pretty adorable.)</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8bThHIRFx_sgukpAy4PS7-hsrjN_WZlI7T83XxN4w-8wCYZb7mQBIEdKh1UWu7vwWOqN2yLq7yEwMLTAGxernxpbQOFGj5LbfIrDUjVa6kutBgGE8mX9_Hgm4IVFwBeCOpAaLwr2T3M/s1600/Baby+Ratelle%27s+Blanket+1.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8bThHIRFx_sgukpAy4PS7-hsrjN_WZlI7T83XxN4w-8wCYZb7mQBIEdKh1UWu7vwWOqN2yLq7yEwMLTAGxernxpbQOFGj5LbfIrDUjVa6kutBgGE8mX9_Hgm4IVFwBeCOpAaLwr2T3M/s400/Baby+Ratelle%27s+Blanket+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535846288075028514" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So what this all really means is that when <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">you</span> 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!Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-71186050668729540142010-11-04T13:40:00.009-04:002010-11-04T14:20:35.780-04:00HalloweekendI'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 <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gr-NH_xonswLOcXM8zogSetpnNTbpODObafs2kFL0nyKq_1RCOhxLZtHnxSK95UWEu-U3z-vEqQBGL332EihY6sToPDoZ_-QnVUQ_06h8x8kFuNIFIx84NLeZ8QLnq5qMduCqmxl1HU/s1600/Cowgirl+and+Mad+Scientist.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gr-NH_xonswLOcXM8zogSetpnNTbpODObafs2kFL0nyKq_1RCOhxLZtHnxSK95UWEu-U3z-vEqQBGL332EihY6sToPDoZ_-QnVUQ_06h8x8kFuNIFIx84NLeZ8QLnq5qMduCqmxl1HU/s200/Cowgirl+and+Mad+Scientist.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535755838752908178" border="0" /></a> 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.<br /><br />So I did some thinking and pulled together a famous Children's Lit heroine from my closet--and my crayon box and <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">v</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">oila</span>!<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZn0W3HMR8tH5pnBAes5zxEGlLoFlkRsnGPXao1yzBoQnwe9zyBDuS5BxgnoytcwiQfCRWqQ_C67Amm9BgrH3VketPMVnGSUHEZTyfqCYxJ6mRgCu0TF7sJA0de7LO4Y01CHuzQ6CG_c/s1600/Ramona+Quimby.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZn0W3HMR8tH5pnBAes5zxEGlLoFlkRsnGPXao1yzBoQnwe9zyBDuS5BxgnoytcwiQfCRWqQ_C67Amm9BgrH3VketPMVnGSUHEZTyfqCYxJ6mRgCu0TF7sJA0de7LO4Y01CHuzQ6CG_c/s400/Ramona+Quimby.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535753919814923954" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Ramona Quimby</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(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?)</span><br /><br /></div>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 <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> 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?<br /></div><br />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.<br /><br />I'd have to say, all in all it was an impressively festive Halloweekend for a grinch like me.Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-51415546361711561022010-10-21T06:43:00.003-04:002010-10-21T06:47:36.138-04:00Double Dog Dare<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJ5qsm1kk1MwwoRkJqz_lDTzrWJeVS-oSPdd7WKysxl9snVspOJS8WIDBHPeOxAuiQDve-p8AuY8P5SN3fDSnz_5zzn9zf7nlUeAQ_l2qmWuZr3zUhje-aa0lbjCVS2GFU3Zr4u4_i00/s1600/happy-dog.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 336px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJ5qsm1kk1MwwoRkJqz_lDTzrWJeVS-oSPdd7WKysxl9snVspOJS8WIDBHPeOxAuiQDve-p8AuY8P5SN3fDSnz_5zzn9zf7nlUeAQ_l2qmWuZr3zUhje-aa0lbjCVS2GFU3Zr4u4_i00/s400/happy-dog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530448188140617698" border="0" /></a><br />I know I'm a dog person, but can you seriously look at this picture and <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> smile? It's like trying not to blink in a staring contest.<br /><br />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.Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-28006940608601641172010-09-28T21:44:00.004-04:002010-10-12T15:39:18.557-04:00An incident from my day, in poorly written verseDear Admirer,<br /><br />I did not think to see you again,<br />After our meeting outside the T.<br />But today we passed each other,<br />Going our separate ways,<br />Two strangers on Washington Street.<br /><br />You paused to tell me<br />"You are so beautiful today."<br />Eyes averted,<br />I said "Thank you,"<br />And kept walking.<br /><br />I am 90% certain<br />You are homeless.Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-53688766654009308862010-09-27T23:56:00.004-04:002010-09-28T00:01:37.797-04:00Question the SecondDoes 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?<br /><br />Poor Jasper, I'm just so mean to you.Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-3551094304428078192010-09-26T02:10:00.002-04:002010-09-26T02:13:55.409-04:00QuestionThis 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?Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-77191523549886896342010-09-13T14:15:00.003-04:002010-09-13T14:34:24.392-04:00Love StoryIt all began with humoring my roommate.<br /><br />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.<br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTnAPxpeJImF7znCbsY9Jwwjpo3oRS7VM2LcG1PEyzBp6PlSQMv5HTT_B5J8m984i8fZbszT5qDdjWHKHqWCjGnr10hn7MZxdaSDR9zM4RuD30qTgaBSKFWQUGyH6Mav3uKHei9yc63Hw/s1600/bass_enfield.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTnAPxpeJImF7znCbsY9Jwwjpo3oRS7VM2LcG1PEyzBp6PlSQMv5HTT_B5J8m984i8fZbszT5qDdjWHKHqWCjGnr10hn7MZxdaSDR9zM4RuD30qTgaBSKFWQUGyH6Mav3uKHei9yc63Hw/s400/bass_enfield.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516464807152929154" border="0" /></a>Naturally, I had to try them on. Wouldn't you know they fit great <span style="font-weight: bold;">and</span> 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.<br /><br />Sigh.<br /><br />There <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> 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.Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-84815112289494195352010-08-31T15:53:00.006-04:002010-08-31T17:34:07.440-04:00Girl Baby Found<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsP9T7yt63URyww4K0B0YZabIQSZ7stWdIgd1QyEHGX2YkmdgEosWjWr-17N2Ukwn-iH-x288UWCjaefTO-MxHtXqyrI8EVReZi9IIsLv9FrnLu4ME_Lw0e52rNEbDDo2mOR0c58oBlLQ/s1600/Front+page+news.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsP9T7yt63URyww4K0B0YZabIQSZ7stWdIgd1QyEHGX2YkmdgEosWjWr-17N2Ukwn-iH-x288UWCjaefTO-MxHtXqyrI8EVReZi9IIsLv9FrnLu4ME_Lw0e52rNEbDDo2mOR0c58oBlLQ/s400/Front+page+news.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511667647730034002" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">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).</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3cExYKCt6Qi2QQeEgwdmO3vVOMdD9xIURXBBYwdreNcbaIRS-TPjfSEyaSgW8Ff5M_9nMfFURoz1FShJOjy4KxGfycywsmB1pPQoml849qJAZJOmfd2YcKsY1cnCVSAAa_QbKlLZGaw/s1600/Girl+Baby+Found.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3cExYKCt6Qi2QQeEgwdmO3vVOMdD9xIURXBBYwdreNcbaIRS-TPjfSEyaSgW8Ff5M_9nMfFURoz1FShJOjy4KxGfycywsmB1pPQoml849qJAZJOmfd2YcKsY1cnCVSAAa_QbKlLZGaw/s400/Girl+Baby+Found.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511667849064180546" border="0" /></a>My favorite part?<br /><blockquote>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.<br /></blockquote>Very nice of them. I also like how the baby is referred to as an "it" and "the little lady" in the same paragraph.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Daily Enquirer</span>. 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*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</span>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-35743533741421095022010-08-30T18:49:00.007-04:002010-08-31T15:52:13.913-04:00Take that Oscar WildeI was doing some research today and found the following article. Who said the internet was useless? (Oh yeah, that was probably me. Seriously, <span style="font-style: italic;">nobody</span> wants to post online what University Avenue in Provo was called before the University?)<br /><br /><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">The Journal, Vol. XI, Logan City, Utah, Wednesday Morning August 31, 1892, No 70.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Disposing of a Babe</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">A Four-Day Old Infant Left on a Train From Logan</span><br /><br /> 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.<br /> <br />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--<span style="font-style: italic;">Standard</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /> 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.<br /> <br />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.<br /></div><br /></blockquote>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 . . . )<br /><br />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!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(Subsequent to writing this post I found the original article which was posted in the Ogden <span style="font-style: italic;">Standard</span> 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)</span><br /></div>Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3601463521963720643.post-91023362192498539112010-08-27T11:51:00.003-04:002010-08-27T11:57:08.135-04:00FascinatedI can't not watch this video. I find it so mesmerizing. Is he really eating gold grapes (I mean no, he's not <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> 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?<br /><br />So many questions. Enjoy.<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CjWYbcbpiWA?fs=1&hl=en_US&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CjWYbcbpiWA?fs=1&hl=en_US&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />I'm <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> going to go work on chapter nine now.Lindsay Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16256127211459819215noreply@blogger.com2