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Wow.
After three weeks of wandering, it's good to be back in my own place. Maryland is welcoming me back with snow, to keep me from missing the northlands too much. I do like snow, except when plow-created piles make trouble for my car-driving friends.
It's even better, however, to be back online.
After my delightful visit with E in Philadelphia, I took the train up to Boston on Thursday Dec 19. Spent Friday helping my mother with the last of her Christmas shopping and wrapping, and had dinner with K before watching the extras from the FotR dvd. We have now added 'BRING THE PARTRIDGE!' to the lengthy list of Things Only We Laugh At.
On Saturday the 20th, brother J and dad and I loaded up the car to trek north to Vermont. Despite getting off later than we'd planned (due, as usual, to the complicated nature of getting presents for seventeen people, as well as the ones for among the four of us, into a sedan of modest dimensions) we arrived in good time to get the Chicago branch of the family at gate two of the vast complex that is the Burlington International Airport. After a full week of reunion with the extended family at The Ancestral Home (est. circa 1975), it was back to Boston for another week.
Between Christmas presents and an outlet-mall spree with L, I have some nice new clothes to wear that will ease the sting of returning to work tomorrow, some interesting new music to listen to, and Anne Lamott's latest novel to finish reading.
While I was home I reread Josephine Tey's Miss Pym Disposes, Sharyn McCrumb's Bimbos of the Death Sun, parts of Dorothy L. Sayers: Her Life and Soul, and a whole bunch of Connie Willis' short stories.
I went to a Lori McKenna concert on New Year's Eve that I enjoyed very much, though an overactive lighting technician and an acoustical nightmare of a hall did their best to obscure her lyrics. ImprovBoston's first set, earlier in the evening, was not plagued by x-rated suggestions, but neither did they soar to the heights they did last year. By which I mean I never laughed until I couldn't breathe. Which is an unreasonably high standard to hold any group to, but they have frequently been up to it.
After three weeks of wandering, it's good to be back in my own place. Maryland is welcoming me back with snow, to keep me from missing the northlands too much. I do like snow, except when plow-created piles make trouble for my car-driving friends.
It's even better, however, to be back online.
After my delightful visit with E in Philadelphia, I took the train up to Boston on Thursday Dec 19. Spent Friday helping my mother with the last of her Christmas shopping and wrapping, and had dinner with K before watching the extras from the FotR dvd. We have now added 'BRING THE PARTRIDGE!' to the lengthy list of Things Only We Laugh At.
On Saturday the 20th, brother J and dad and I loaded up the car to trek north to Vermont. Despite getting off later than we'd planned (due, as usual, to the complicated nature of getting presents for seventeen people, as well as the ones for among the four of us, into a sedan of modest dimensions) we arrived in good time to get the Chicago branch of the family at gate two of the vast complex that is the Burlington International Airport. After a full week of reunion with the extended family at The Ancestral Home (est. circa 1975), it was back to Boston for another week.
Between Christmas presents and an outlet-mall spree with L, I have some nice new clothes to wear that will ease the sting of returning to work tomorrow, some interesting new music to listen to, and Anne Lamott's latest novel to finish reading.
While I was home I reread Josephine Tey's Miss Pym Disposes, Sharyn McCrumb's Bimbos of the Death Sun, parts of Dorothy L. Sayers: Her Life and Soul, and a whole bunch of Connie Willis' short stories.
I went to a Lori McKenna concert on New Year's Eve that I enjoyed very much, though an overactive lighting technician and an acoustical nightmare of a hall did their best to obscure her lyrics. ImprovBoston's first set, earlier in the evening, was not plagued by x-rated suggestions, but neither did they soar to the heights they did last year. By which I mean I never laughed until I couldn't breathe. Which is an unreasonably high standard to hold any group to, but they have frequently been up to it.
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I agree that Reynolds' is the best biography. Brabazon is my next favorite. Such A Strange Lady is trash and I have insisted that my father not keep it on the shelf beside his copies of Strong Poison and the rest.
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