I continue to be fascinated by creepy furniture.
I do not update my status for my own amusement!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single person in possession of a computer must be in want of some Facebook friends.
In other words, Austenbook.
The Kush
From Ellen Kushner’s Twitter feed:
“How much longer can I continue to ignore the existence of reality TV?”
This is pretty much the exact question I’ve been asking myself. God, I hope the answer is “fifty to sixty more years.”
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Waaaant.
Library propaganda (created by this guy):
Also would not say no to some of these:
And speaking of book things I wanted, my Coralie Bickford-Smith arrived. It’s beautiful. This was a genius plan and I cannot wait to spend hundreds of dollars making it happen. However, I will have to wait, because Gene claims he is not made of money and that I should stop planting his fingernail clippings in the yard at night in hopes of growing a money tree.
Riddles in the Dark
Kris: I just invented an extremely awesome riddle!
Gene: Let’s hear it.
Kris: What did the Australian say to the pirate in the eyepatch?
Gene: I give up.
Kris: “Good eye, mate!” [Laughs uproariously.]
Gene: …
Kris: I should go on some sort of reality TV show so people can find out about this talent I have.
Today’s episode was brought to you by the letter F.
I have just discovered that in England, ‘lieutenant’ is pronounced LEF-tenant.
See? This, this is what made me crazy when I was in England and trying to have a normal conversation.
“Do you read Wodehouse?”
“It’s pronounced Woodhouse.”
“Have you been to Gloucester?”
“It’s pronounced Gloster.”
“Magdalen college is really pretty.”
“It’s pronounced Maudlin.”
And then I feel like an idiot even though clearly the blame lies elsewhere.
But this really is the last straw. You can’t just go throwing an ‘f’ into the middle of a word, England! An F-bomb, absofuckinglutely. But not just the letter ‘f’!
…All right, excellent. I’ve gotten today’s inappropriate anger out of the way already, and now I can just be a happy manatee until Monday. Have a great weekend, Gentle Readers!
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When She’s Ten Feet Tall
There’s a spider living up near the ceiling of my closet. He’s been there for at least a week and in spite of my manifest arachnophobia I have made no attempt to kill him. He lives up there quietly, in the earnest hope that one day a fly or something will wander into the bedroom, and I live down here quietly, in the earnest hope that he won’t drop on my head. He doesn’t, and I let him stay. I think I’ve grown as a person.
Not literally grown, of course. If I had, I would be tall enough to squash that fucker and I’d have to find something else to blog about.
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The Shelf
I’ve finally figured out the perfect use for the built-in bookcase at the top of the stairs.
Shrine of Bickford-Smith.
I have squeed about Coralie Bickford-Smith and her fancy-fancy covers of Penguin Classics in the past. But I figure you can never have too much book-related squee.
To buy a new or fancy book is a solemn thing with me, so I’m not just picking them all up at once. I have ordered my very first C. B.-S., Oliver Twist, which as an added bonus I actually want to read. It is winging its way towards me as I type. My only concern is that the first set has numbers on the spine — and numbers 1 and 8, Madame Bovary and Crime and Punishment, are nearly impossible to find. It is a numbered list with two numbers forever missing.
This will make me crazy.
I have already written a strongly worded letter to Penguin suggesting they do something about this, but received only a marginally relevant form letter in reply. Oh well, maybe I can use this as an opportunity to overcome my slightly anal retentive need for order among my books. Or, more likely, I will go on obsessively searching for copies online until my fingernails and beard grow into a kind of second skin and Gene leaves me and the new owners of the house are forced to have me exterminated, believing me to be some kind of internet-surfing mold.
So you can see how this is an excellent plan.
What heart?
I caught my first glimpse of one of the famous Alameda raccoons on Sunday as Gene and I were leaving the island. I swear to god it looked like a gangster on all fours.
Look in your heart, raccoon! Look in your heart!
Do Not Faint
LEONATO: You will never run mad, niece.
BEATRICE: No, not til a hot January.
-Much Ado About Nothing
On a nice day, our neighborhood smells like cooked hamburger. Yesterday was such a day; an excellent day to be wearing a fluttery little dress — however, being on the motorcycle, I was wearing full body armor instead. Fortunately I am quite capable of imagining myself into a fluttery little dress, with the added benefit that in my imagination the dress can be a nice light pink such as I could never wear in real life due to my inveterate habit of immediately staining any light-colored garment with ketchup, whether I have been eating ketchup or not.
The nice thing about being on the bike, other than hamburger smell, is that as you pass other riders they give great big exaggerated nods at you and you give great big exaggerated nods back. It is a delightful little remnant of a more courteous age; I believe the riders would tip their helmets at one another if said helmets were not firmly attached.
However, our hunt for a car to replace the late lamented Toro continues in spite of all the pleasures of motorcycling. Today we examine a Honda Accord. Wish us luck!
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