I'm on vacation. I've had a lot of nothing to do...what do you want from me?
Sooo...2007 (which, btw, is way prettier in writing than 2006, n'est pas?) is going well. Spent most of Monday watching The Matrix, Into the West, and more Matrix, and have decided that TNT= Teh Loveliness, and Keanu Reeves dodging bullets= Teh Coolness. And then went and ate lots and lots of lasagna and such at Mickey's, and finished the night with some Baileys. Lovely times, really.
Yesterday I sat at home, which can be lovely in it's own way, and I had to work at night, which was very much of the suck but slightly necessary as I have a write a seizure-inducing check to UWM tomorrow and have decided that if Mary and I want to got to the U.K. and Paris next January I'll need to have $3,800 saved as well as money to pay for the trip. This appears to be, if one works a slightly-higher-than-minimum-wage job, an insurmountable task. Hmmm. We'll have to see. I will not be deterred from drinking in a pub in Stratf0rd-Upon-Avon (drinking age is 18 and I'm too young to rent a car---cheers!!!) or walking slowly down the aisle of Westminster Abbey while pretending to look at the architecture but actually pretending I'm marrying Prince William and returning the realm to it's Roman roots...*ahem*
So yeah. Money. Boo.
Today I spent a lovely leisurely morning at home and then went to lunch with Mary. Good times were had by all, until I discovered inadvertantly and through absolutely no fault of my own (and yes, the police report will back that up) that REAL detectives do not, sadly, resemble those on ANY of the CSI's, not even the supposedly "unattractive" ones...*sigh* Will there ever be any wonder left in the world?
Hot Pockets are good...until you realize that you're wasting four hundred calories on fake food that will fill you up for about twenty minutes. Then you mostly feel sad.
Working my way through Jane Eyre movies, trying to find the definitive version. I'm pretty sure it's the 1983 one with James Bond, who is way too pretty but still manages to pull of Rochester.
Just to give you a little glimpse into my twisted psyche, in the book Jane herself actually bugs me a lot (Seriously. Stop being such a wuss. And do something with your damn hair.), but I am very protective of Rochester, as I am weirdly and ridiculously attracted to him. Even when I read it for the first time at twelve I was like, "Okay...I want him. Now."
Sidebar: I have a tendency to fall in love with male characters in books, and hate the women. Hating the women might be strange- and probably only is so because I have met, ooh, about five women in my entire life that I can stand to be around, but I can't belive I'm alone in the guy thing, because no way in hell could Pride and Prejudice have had two hundred years of loyal followers and spawned and entire genre of films without generations of women falling in love with Mr. Darcy. It's good, but as Imladris and I have agreed, it's kind of 19th century chick lit. And yet, it's managed to become quite possibly the most beloved book of all time. After the Bible. Maybe. I know a ton of women who could quote you from our beloved Jane here, but couldn't finish "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and...?" This may actually be a bigger commentary on our society than the enduring power of getting the rich hot guy in the end, but that is another sidebar for another day.It's also one of those parts I tend to cast in my mind, like Heathcliff and Max DeWinter. I have yet to find a suitable guy for any of these, though, and it bothers me almost as much as my literary baby name crisis. As much as it pains me to say this, Alan would be a PERFECT Rochester, but he's *gags* too old. *tear* Heathcliff---well, Heathcliff is tough. They came close in '94 with Ralph Fiennes, but at the end of the day good ol' Ralph is still a refined British dude that we all love but don't really take seriously as a monster. And Max is easier to get, I guess. You just need rich and hot. Except I wouldn't want anyone to screw with the 1940 version too much, because it is My Favorite Movie Of All Time I Think Maybe If You Take Johnny Depp Out of The Question.
Alas, no one wants my casting ideas. Woe.Le anyhoodles, to wrap up that incredibly long digression, I'm halfway through the William Hurt/Charlotte Gainsbough, which is good but goes way too fast. Ten minutes in and she was leaving Lowood. It's a travesty.
Continuing with today's theme of Kathleen is a Dork, allow me to share with you, in all their glory my books, courtesy of LibraryThing. com, a lovely website that now has my undying devotion because it allowed me to do what countless notebooks and weekends sitting in my bedroom with Erin Shanley couldn't---catalog my books. All of them, in one place. Well, just the adult ones. I thought the two hundred Nancy Drew and countless Thoroughbred/Saddle Club/Pony Club/Other Outlets For My Childhood Obsessions were slightly unneccessry.
Except that Betsy-Tacy got an honorary spot, as well as Christy, which made me want to be a missionary for about twelve minutes just so I could marry a hot preacher guy, until I realized that I a.) don't like not having a bathroom, b.) don't like people, and c.) am Catholic and if I married a hot preacher of my own religion I'd burn in Hell for all eternity. Sadly, C was not, at thirteen, the most pressing deterrent. I think it was the bathroom. That bathroom was a biggie.
It is now permanently linked on the sidebar as well, in case you need are reading this one day and are struck with the sudden and intense need to know what is overcrowding my shelf.
So. I'm going to go watch Without A Trace with the Empress. Somebody abandoned her baby. Oooh.
2 comments:
Glad you finally wrote something. I was wondering if you all had literally dropped off the face of the earth.
I don't want to hear about your happy vacation times. Write about how you are sad, depressed, bored, and unfulfilled. I wish to hear THAT.
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