Three Questions and Mr. Gaiman

I was recently told by a friend/coworker (“German” of the previous post) that there are three questions that you should always ask someone when you first meet them. This subject came up when we were discussing the newest addition to our crew at work, a sweet girl who shall hence forth be called Britta (which reminds me of both Community and water…which have nothing to do with the girl). Anyway, German hadn’t met Britta yet, so he poses this question:

“Would I like her?”

Now, I knew he didn’t mean in a would-I-date-her sense, but instead in a would-I-feel-the-need-to-harass-her sense. I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. I told him so.

“Well, did you ask her The Questions?”

Being puzzled by this, I took the bait.

“What questions would those be?”

“Whenever you meet someone, you need to ask them three questions: Are you straight? Pirate or Ninja? Are you Jewish?”

Needless to say, I wasn’t impressed. Just as needless to express, I let him know he was being an idiot. (As for the Jewish question, I still haven’t figured out why he’s harassing Jewish people at the moment…he doesn’t even know any Jewish people, nor is he aware of ever having met one. Classy, German—classy.) Anyway, this all made him realize that he had never asked me the all-important pirate or ninja question (yes, I’m being sarcastic), so he asks:

“Ruby! Pirate or ninja!”
“Whoa, I need some qualifiers: are we talking Dr. McNinja or Batman ninjas? Somali or ye-olden day’s pirates?”

He then explained this whole cultural phenomenon of which I have been as near to oblivious as possible. Apparently (for those of you as behind as myself), a pirate takes what they want while a ninja takes what they need. When it was put to me that way, I instantly claimed a pirate’s heritage. Yes, I would drive a car that takes an exorbitant amount of gas if I had oodles of money and desired it. Ahoy.

On to Neil Gaiman, one of my new favorite writers for easy reading. You may or may not be aware of a Paramount film from 2007 entitled “Stardust,” based on a novel of the same name by Gaiman. I wasn’t aware of it when it first came out, but it really had quite the impressive cast: Michele Pfeiffer, Claire Danes, Rupert Everett, Peter O’Toole, Ben Barnes, Sienna Miller, Robert De Niro and even Ian McKellen played parts in the film. I was instantly captivated by the film’s dark sense of humor and foreboding use of magic. It certainly isn’t for everyone—I think it’s one of those pieces that you either love dearly or hate with a passion. Anyway, after seeing a review of the novel Stardust on a blog, I renewed my interest in actually reading the novel itself. This set me on a half-hearted quest to my library, where all that I kept uncovering was some trashy mystery novel. However, I finally had success this past Tuesday when I was able to recall Gaiman’s name, and thus I located a little trove of his novels buried in the bowels of a dusty recess in the Adult Fiction section in the basement. Ah-ha! I quickly pulled out a tall, illustrated copy of my target, Stardust, but then paused to examine his other titles present—and I’m still happy that I did. “Neverwhere” stood out to me, for some reason, as being just the right book to sink my teeth into for a little dessert reading. My instinct couldn’t have been more correct. Neil Gaiman, your gruesome depictions, your thrilling magic, your utterly human characters—they all have made me fall in love with your style. “Neverwhere” was violent and at times chilling—verging on madness, as well—but I’ve always savored stories like that, I suppose. I like the idea of goblin-esque creatures, of a new breed of vampire (called “Velvets”—these sassy creatures predate Twilight, and their style of sucking the life out of people is so much classier than Myers), of great hunters to kill beasts of mythical proportions—it’s the stuff of legends. As a disclaimer to those of you who might consider picking it up: I really, really tend to like morbid books. I relish dystopian novels, I bask in Agatha Christie’s ingenious murder novels, I…really get a kick out of creepy books, okay? (Oh, and if you’re averse to reading any strong language, this isn’t the book for you—it does come up a few times.) I haven’t actually finished Stardust, so I’m holding back my judgment on it; all I can say is that it is definitely one the most creative and original fairy stories I’ve ever encountered.

In short, do NOT ask The Three Questions of anyone, and check out Neil Gaiman...if you dare.

Another One of Those Days

Do you ever have those days when you simply cannot remember which day of the week it is? Please say yes. I have them all of the time. This weekend has been horrible. On Friday, someone asked me a question about if I had been in church or not the past Sunday; I got what I’m sure was a strange thinking/horror stricken look on my face as I asked, “wait, what was Sunday?” I really had no idea it was Friday. Today I’m on track, though, since we’re on a fresh schedule sheet for the week. (You know it’s summer when you start to keep track of time via your job.) This was probably at least partially due to the fact that my grandmother was living in my room over the weekend, meaning that I was sleeping on a couch. This wouldn’t bother me except that this couch is in a room right off the kitchen which doesn’t have a door, so on top of sleeping on a lumpy couch, I had to fight my brother to stop watching TV so I could go to bed, bat the cat away from my head at four in the morning, and then be woken up in five minute increments from six until I finally dragged myself off the couch by my noisy brother and father banging every possible cupboard and opening squeaky doors. I also don’t do well when I can’t have some peaceful solitude every day, which became impossible. By this morning, I was so frazzled that I felt like bursting into tears, but instead had to hop out of my car to go into work. Luckily, I have a hilarious boss, friends for coworkers, and some quiet intervals with just me and the dishes.

Work, as I predicted, is once again full of drama, but I think the only safe bit to post came up today. I was in the dining room (along with a coworker that I will refer to as The German, even though he isn’t German) when a man came in with a young woman who looked like she might be his daughter or some such relation. This is normal—nothing to think twice about German starts to take their order, but doesn’t seem to hear what the man asked for. Rather than write “the man” for this whole story, I’ll call him “Psycho”—you might understand this in a minute. Anyway, German didn’t hear, so he asks “what?” Sure, he could have said “pardon” or “excuse me, I didn’t quite get that,” but there wasn’t anything off about his tone; he simply didn’t hear. Psycho speaks a bit louder:

“I want a black raspberry, medium, on a plate.”

German and I were sort of in shock at that last part. I mean, we get some insanely bizarre requests all of the time, but never before have we heard of someone ordering their ice cream on a plate. I could understand it if were for a dog, but it wasn’t. German, still confused over this boggling order, asks him what he said. Again. This time Psycho basically shouted it at him, with hand motions. With a likely bewildered look on my face, I swept out of the dining room to carry out his order, all the while thinking something along the lines of “what a psycho jerk.”

Okay, that might not seem like a weird order to those of you have never had a job like this, but let me assure you, it’s weird. That along with the snapping at German has earned him the title of “Ice-Cream-On-A-Plate Nazi.” Or something like that.

Slouch your way to Embarrassment

If you’re interested in fashion related posts, go HERE and read the next paragraph. If not, go ahead and read/look at my distraction of the day.

Okay, you’re reading this, so I assume you’re ready for some textile talk and girly gushing. These Dries Van Noten looks that Hannah-Rose of Capture the Castle (named after one of my very favorite novels) posted are catching my fancy. It’s actually an idea I was toying with just the other day: slouchy, ultra-comfy sweaters paired with something ultra-fem like a cute skirt. I love the outside looks, though the centered two may be a bit too bold for me to ever pull off. How do you feel of the slouchy meets girly look?

DISTRACTIONS!

Hm…for a distraction, maybe I’ll have to admit something embarrassing…Okay, I’ve one: I’m actually sort of enjoying watching Avatar with my brother now (no, not the movie. I have some seriously harsh words for the movie on how terribly idiotic I found it; I’m talking about the TV show that I listed a few posts back as being a failed attempt at familial bonding). Yup. It’s sad. The jokes are incredibly juvenile, but the concept of elemental control was the subject of three novels that I adored years ago (“and still do, in my heart” as Hyacinth of “Wives and Daughters” would say), so that’s a plus, and they have some feisty chicks that make it almost worth my time. (Really. May = pretty awesome emo fighting girl. Stewart hates her, I adore her. Toph = blind earth bender with an attitude—making her, of course, fabulous. Katara may have the coolest powers, but she’s an idiot. The circus girl who I can’t remember the name of = nearly as cool as the others, but apparently she wasn’t important enough to get her name into the Wiki article that just let me know that all of the protagonists/antagonists are under 17. Considering the animation, this show just became even more sad. Oh yeah, May is still the best.)

Okay, I’m thoroughly embarrassed, and I hope that you were thoroughly distracted.

Wherefore art though, Summer?!

I had a “day off” today (I know, I haven’t even been working that long, and it’s also in quotation marks because I had a class to attend and French to practice and a stupid economics course [new torture that my mother has devised for my summer “holidays”] to read through), but was stuck home until about three-ish. The big last-minute plan was to head out to Wal-Mart to do some much needed grocery shopping. Our Wal-Mart has recently become a Super Wal-Mart, but I can’t see anything super about it. They never have anything in stock, all of their food seems to be past its sell-by date, and once again they DIDN’T HAVE VOGUE. (If you’re confused about the “again,” go HERE.) Oh yeah, and they’re always behind on the issues of magazines that they DO carry. Fail, Wal-Mart.

Anyway, after Wally World let me down, I ran over to Sally’s to peruse their gleaming rows of nail-lacquer and hair products in awe. Yup, I just like to look. While my mother purchased some awful powdered wax substance, I picked out a new round brush and a pinky-peach nail color (because I never can come out of there empty handed). I somehow managed to wheedle Mumzie into clothes shopping, but because of limited time, it ended up being handbag/hat/sunglasses shopping before I even made it to the much needed shorts. Oh well. Another day, I suppose. I did snag a floppy hat and retro shades, though, not to mention spotting a fabulous red purse that I just might have to make mine (TH, of course—I always fall in love with his bags at first sight). Yeah, basically I was in need of another shopping binge. It’s better than an ice cream binge, okay? (Not that an ice cream binge was possible today.)

My floppy hat is telling me that I really need to go spend some time on the river. My common sense is telling me that I might want the water to inch its way up a few degrees. Summer, when will you come to us in earnest?

Well, I’m officially back to work now. I’m sure some interesting and overly dramatic stories will pop up over the next few weeks that I can share with you all (after carefully changing names, of course), but I don’t have the time or the focus to start today. Why am I distracted?

-I’ve had innumerable songs stuck in my head for the past five days. Most of them are from musicals that I’m overly familiar with—I keep finding myself humming “I Love a Cop” and “Matchmaker.” This isn’t conducive to extreme focus.

-I’ve regained contact with the outside world now that my AP tests are over and done with. This means that I’m now expected to be available 24/7 for contact, apparently. This means that if I don’t check my phone at regular intervals, someone is probably upset with me.

-Robin Hood is out, and I still haven’t seen it. (Yes, this distracts me.)

-My brother is around again. That statement stands on its own, but I’ll give those of you who don’t know him a little hint about just why this might distract me: as many songs as I have stuck in my head, he has at least triple…and he likes to sing. Loudly. Outside my door, maybe even at six in the morning.

-I’m running on less sleep. Read the above statement.

-As of yesterday, I’m once again steeped in caffeine and sugar…for a job—an edible job.

-Acting peppy (or as peppy as I get) in front of customers takes a lot out of me. Especially the French Canadians. I have some harsh words for them as soon as I’m
finished with this job.

Yep, basically this is stealing all of my will power to keep doing anything except wash dishes or complain about customers. This means that blog posts will/would end up being even more pessimistic, random and pointless than ever—kind of like this one.

Hobbies and Ambition

Her needlework both plain and ornamental was excellent, and she might have put a sewing machine to shame. ~James Edward Austen-Leigh, about Jane Austen


If Jane Austen could do it…maybe I can’t. Still, it means it’s worth a try!


Hobbies are something of a necessity for my mother and I. Growing up with a mother who sewed, quilted, smocked and embroidered innumerable things when I was young, I naturally picked up a few things here and there. Eventually—when I was about eleven or twelve—a quilting buddy of my mother’s gave me her outdated (but exquisite) Husqvarna machine. For those of you who don’t know (and that would probably be most of you, since most weren’t raised by sewing fanatics), Husqvarna machines are some of the best on the market and have been. In its day, my machine was the top of line for automatic embroidery machines (which I believe have a more technical name than that in reality). It has a few quirks that took me some time to learn about, like how you have to hold the tails of the thread when you first start, and then watch the speed because it’s jumpy for the first thirty seconds, but I love quirks—in machines and people alike. A good machine deserves a name; mine is Margaret. We’ve made clothes, pillows, quilts and numerous unnecessary little items together that filled many an afternoon during drafty winter weather. I’m ashamed to say that Margaret is collecting a rather thick coating of dust at present.

Besides learning to use a sewing machine, my mother made sure to teach me handwork like needlepoint and embroidery. I was a bit of a dunce when it came to smocking during my first attempts (which, to be fair to myself, where when I was probably about ten), and lacking patience and focus, I gave it up. As for needlepoint, I finally decided that it was boring, and it drove me crazy that all of my yarn was constantly getting tangled up. I haven’t picked up needlepoint in years. Embroidery is something that I use from time to time, but I’m not terribly talented, though this could be because I—once again—lacked enough patience to learn any terrifically complex and beautiful stitches. As for plain hand sewing, I took to that like wildfire. I love Margaret dearly, but there’s something that I find incredibly relaxing about a simple stitch bringing two pieces of fabric into one. (It’s also much better for sewing very tiny sleeves—something I encountered when I started working a wardrobe for my cloth doll that I bought in Williamsburg around seven years ago. As to those dresses, most of them are unfinished because I hated hemming things.)

I tried a few hobbies of my own, such as felting. This came about after I received the Felt Wee Folk book, by Salley Mavor. Honestly, there are dozens of these fairies all about the house. Because I was making these miniature dolls (constructed out of pipe cleaners, embroidery floss, a wooden bead, felt and wool) at such a vivacious pace, my mother decided to encourage it and bought me large quantities of the delicious wool it takes to form the body and hair. This brought about my attempts at felting, which was a new passion for a while. After pricking my hands about five hundred times with those long, barbed needles, I put them aside and went searching for a new hobby.

As long as I can remember, my grandmother has always had a bit of knitting on her person somewhere. She would carry a half-finished sock or scarf in her purse with needles sticking out of it at odd angles, or she would have on a sweater that she had finished the month before. It just always been a part of her in my eyes. I loved the gentle clicking of her aluminum needles as she speedily created yards of fabric, the creations that miraculously appear at the tips of these magical sticks that she could control. I wanted to learn. I wanted to knit. She taught me the basics when I was six or seven, but wasn’t a patient teacher, so knitting was passed over in my repertoire of old-fashioned accomplishments (along with most useful ones like baking or cooking). I returned to it when I was about eleven—with a new teacher—and discovered that I have a natural knack for tension. Yes! For once I didn’t have to struggle with every aspect of a new hobby! (Honestly, my mother’s friend who tried to teach a few of us girls to embroider on a more serious level basically gave up on two of us. Out of three. I was one of the ones she gave up on, by the way. These things do not come naturally to some of us!)

Anyway, this all came up because I’ve started working on a scarf that I started last fall again. It’s my first bit of Fair Isle knitting, so it’s exciting, easy and gratifying. The only problem is that it has me feeling ambitious—I found a pattern for an Aran sweater and started to pick out what color to knit it. WHAT?! I don’t even know how to do a cable, let alone sleeves (which is a problem, since I actually have all of a sweater knit but stopped two years ago because the sleeves scared me)! If I ever start in on it, I’ll be sure to not let you know so that you won’t be wondering why it took so long five years from now.

The innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care...
~William Shakespeare

Updating Jane

I was going to write about hobbies and handwork today, but when I was watching “Mansfield Park” (while knitting), I decided to put off my hobby post in order to attempt to flesh out how this film version (Miramax) can completely renovate Jane Austen’s novel and yet keep it…Austeny, if you know what I mean. In several ways, I actually prefer this movie version to the book, but before you go sending me hate mail for my inconsistencies, I’ll get into the “why” of the matter.
The movie is described as a “fun and sexy comedy,” but I hate that description. Yes, for those of us who adore satire and irony, this is a witty and humorous film, but I think that if you sat down half of the population of America, they wouldn’t get the depth behind the humor. This is where we reach my first point on why, while forsaking much of Austen’s own design, the director has a film that feels like a legitimate Austen novel: she analyzes the relationships of her characters. Everything is worked out, it’s complete, it feels real. The reality of Austen’s characters has always been something that I’ve appreciated, and it’s the same with this movie.

The character changes in this movie would have to be the main reason that I prefer it in many ways to the book. I’ve been on many a rampage about how Edmund is a milquetoast and Fanny is a pushover, making them the worst of Austen’s heroes and heroines. In contrast, Henry Crawford was a fantastic character that I actually wanted to get the girl, however unworthy she may be. Austen knew that the bad-boy aura is captivating, but she also realized that there has to be a bit of reform to make them really accessible. Anne Shirley said it perfectly when she described her perfect man as having the capability to be wicked, but holding it back. Henry is that when he sets his eye—and loses his heart—to Fanny. Yes, I wanted a Fanny/Henry union. I also wanted Edmund to be thrown from a cliff a few times. In the movie, they redeemed Edmund! Sure, he’s still the same almost loveable milquetoast of a hero, but he has a bit more spine. When we reach the scene where he takes on Mary Crawford for speaking gleefully of his brother’s possible demise, he actually is quite masculine (something that, for one scene at least, his frightfully pink lips can’t take away). Because they build their romantic relationship up in scenes like the parting, the carriage ride and the post-affair, we can believe that they really have always loved each other. It also furthers the impression that he is pursuing Mary because it is what his father wants, something that begins soon after Sir Bertram returns from Antigua. (So that you aren’t confused, Sir B is advising Edmund that he could do a lot worse than marry “her”; Edmund thinks he is talking about Fanny [so we know where his heart is to start], but Sir B sets him straight and says that he’s talking about Mary.) Oh, and Fanny becomes a symbol for feminism, basically. She’s one sassy girl who, while obedient and generally demure, isn’t going to go against her own conscience for anything or anyone. Basically, three of the most important characters are just better.

I could go into how the film added some pointless elements of racism that redeemed Tom, but I’m not going to. They’re very deep and symbolic, I’m sure, but I’ve had enough of writing about issues like this for one year between my European history and literature courses—forgive me. Basically, there were new important elements. I wouldn’t say that these were useful additions to the story—just some clutter, really.

I’m going to loop back to Fanny again. I think the reason that this movie really feels like Austen is *drum roll* that the movie’s Fanny IS JANE, essentially. Her little asides throughout the film are, in many cases, things that Jane wrote when she was young, such as the “run made as often as you choose” bit—straight out of Lady Susan, the oft forgotten first (short) novel that Jane wrote. I think that the purpose was to give a heroine that modern viewers would connect with, and POOF! They realized that Jane herself must have been one sassy lady to write about all of the hot topics that she did. Thus was born this new Fanny, who I refer to as Phanny (because I can be extremely corny as the day goes on, yes, I do refer to her by a mix-up of her name and “phoenix”).

Ta-da! That’s why I love this film maybe more than the book it’s based on. This is a first, people! It’s also almost difficult for me to admit. Yup, that’s all of why I love the film. Pretty much.

So sue me; yes, I artfully concealed the fact that Jonny Lee Miller played Edmund. I was very upfront about how weird I feel about his strangely pink lips AND said he played a milquetoast. (Oh, and yes—I do love that word. A lot.)

Two-Year-Old Dog Syndrome and the Sky is Falling

As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve had absolutely no direction in my writing for some time now. My posts have jumped around from subject to subject, and they are generally longer than even I would even want to read myself—and it’s even about me. You’ve also probably noticed that I whine. A lot. About everything. This is why my most commonly used tag is “general griping.” I had to make said tag when I realized that I actually had a couple of posts that didn’t fall under the same moaners-not-so-anonymous category. As to the first problem…this probably isn’t going to change. What you read is what is whooshing around my little brain, and organization isn’t my forte by any stretch of the imagination. For the second, I really do intend to at least attempt to pull myself out of this slump of extreme pessimism that has engulfed three fourths of my life. (As I side note, I may hold the record for having been the youngest self-declared pessimist. I’m sure that no one keeps track of things like that, so it’s probably a pretty safe bet.)

My only other note is that any creativity I have is being channeled into some little short story/poetic pieces that I like to write a start to but will never ever finish plotting and what to title this blog post, since—once again—it’s a mash up…and so is the title. I think I need more distracting photos…

"Blue Moon"--one of my favorite songs of all time--was playing at work this morning, pretty much making my day. Here's lookin' at you, Kid!


For some reason, this reminds me of Dean Martin's "Mambo Italiano"



Then I came home and put on Jack Johnson's album "In Between Dreams," which is brilliant.

Goodbye, Blissful Boredom

I’m officially ruined. I can’t enjoy being totally lazy anymore! I feel like a schmuck even though I cleaned, did my family’s laundry and studied; watching television in the middle of the day just makes me feel like a piece of dirt. (The worst part is that I just had it on while I was eating. I wasn’t even watching stupid Disney shows, I swear! Just a little “What Not to Wear” so that I could yell at Stacy because her advice can be so…awful. [No, I don’t yell at Clinton. Ever.] It even made me eat faster just so I could get away from the annoying woman they were “helping.”) I just wanted one day, conscience! ONE DAY! On the agenda for tomorrow: work for three hours, then go in my greasy, smelly clothes to a consultation with an oral surgeon to see about getting my wisdom teeth out (mm, this summer just keeps looking better and better), and THEN I get to go have a music lesson! At night! When I haven’t practiced since Saturday! Doesn’t that sound great?! (Not only have I not practiced since Saturday, but I also haven’t gone over what I just know my teacher is going to make me play in…a really long time. No, I’m not going to practice now. No, my conscience can’t make me feel any worse.)

Because I knew when I set out to write this post that it was going to be oddly normal (meaning disjointed and pointless), I decided to distract you with photos. Aren’t I clever?

Hey, look who it is!



Check out the marvelous mustache:



Failed attempt at trying to find something in common with my brother #219:

Dear Blog,

I’ve neglected you. I’m sorry! Really, I didn’t intend to, but all of these scary AP tests were flying my way, and I wasn’t feeling prepared. So I left you. You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise. In future, I promise to post my inconsequential nothings at least a few times a week (or as my summer boss allows time for).

Sincerely,
Ruby


Now that that’s out of the way, it’s good to be back! “Finals” are over as of this afternoon (which was an easy two hours of psychology questions and essays [easy meaning two hours feels short after spending near four on a European history exam]). Maybe I should catch you up on my life…

…Or maybe not. Really the only things it’s consisted of are intense study sessions and tests. And those are too boring to speak of. The only funny part of it all was when I overheard a couple of students talking to our proctor today about “Death of a Salesman”…which I actually almost really liked. Anyway, they didn’t like it:

“…And I spent the whole time reading it like, ‘why doesn’t Willy die already? We all KNOW he’s going to die!’ He was so mean. Arg! I hate that *book!”

Being the negative person you know me to be, I had a hard time not laughing. Or smiling. Or lecturing them on the symbolic depth of it all. However, I made life a bit easier for my social self by keeping my mouth shut.

So…what else to mention? Well, I had my NYSSMA competition, but since I spent all of that time studying, I really didn’t practice. Nor did I care. In fact, my teacher made me do it. So I…might have actually messed up a scale (a SCALE!) because I only started to get nervous when I went to play my second scale (a Db), so I didn’t even think about fingering…or key signature…or anything else. Yup. I messed up a scale for the first time ever at a competition. On the bright side, I totally rocked my sight reading (also for the first time ever), and the adjudicator only took off one point (for dynamics, which I thought was pretty cruddy of her). Even though I didn’t care about the year’s competition, I’m too prideful to post my score. I’m used to getting 98s and 99s (and I actually used to be upset with a 98), so it feels weird to publicize anything less than that. So let’s just say that it wasn’t a 99. Or a 98. On the bright side, it was above a 90 (and no, not a 91—I’m not that bad, even without practice). On the really really bright side, that was my LAST NYSSMA EVER! YAY!

The only other thing that I spent any time on would have to be reading. After studying at night, I’m too wound up to sleep, so I read. Then I get too wound up by the book, so I keep reading…past midnight. Past one. Past two. Occasionally past four. Anyway, I’ll mention a few books that I’ve sunk my teeth into.

The Bean Trees. This is by Barbara Kingsolver (who I’ve mentioned before, but I’m too lazy to look back through past posts to link to it), the author of “The Poisonwood Bible”—one of my favorite books. This one was actually recommended to me by an admissions councilor at Houghton College during an off topic interview. I enjoyed the book, but I couldn’t relate. Somehow I felt closer to the wilderness of the Congo than the desert of Arizona. Call me crazy, but arid heat is alien to me. Anywho, I would still recommend this book to y’all.

Sophie’s World. (This is not to be confused with “Sophie’s Choice,” a very different book.) I’m in the middle of this book right now, but I’m still going to tell you to find a copy. It’s basically like a philosophy textbook…that collided with a novel! Yeah! That makes me super excited, if you couldn’t tell. I’m learning and having fun and completely stumped by the mystery of the story. It’s good. Read it.

And Then There Were None. *WARNING* This is only for those of you who liked to feel shivers running down your spine at three in the morning when you can’t put down a book because you HAVE to know who the murderer is! It’s creepy! And disturbing! And delicious! Agatha Christie was a genius, and I’m pretty sure that she was one freaky lady, too. No normal person could be quiet so ingenious about sneaky murders. This one isn’t affiliated with either her Miss Marple series or her Inspector Hercule Poirot series. It’s actually more gruesome than either, so don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. While on the subject of Marple and Poirot, my impression is that Poirot deals with more cold blooded murders, while Marple is into the emotionally driven ones. This means that, ultimately, Marple is more chilling than Poirot. I must be twisted since I adore either (though I do prefer Poirot and his splendid mustache).

There were others, but those were the three that were actually coming out in cohesive sentences, so we’ll stick with them for now. I’m racking my brain for anything else that I might unburden on you tonight…

Oh! Well, as for more inconsequential nothings, my brother is officially home for summer holidays and I start work on Thursday (lucky little me, eh?).

…And that’s all! Until tomorrow, dear blog!



*Yes, they called it a book. Um, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never read a book with scenes and acts.