Mrs. Hargreaves is resting right now, and she musn't be disturbed!

Today (or possibly tomorrow, I'm not quite sure) I will be road trippin' it with Michael and Nathan to go visit Tommy at his college. Obviously these last few hours leading up to our scheduled departure seemed like the perfect time to alter my physical appearance as much as possible. I had mum whack off the unsettling mullet-esque expanse of hair that was lurking at the base of my neck (a misfortunate side effect of trying to grow out what was once a truly foxy 'do), and now I sort of resemble a timid old-lady-sitting waif from the 1930's. But not in that sexy Louise Brooks way. That's okay, I'm going with it.

Anyway, I had meant to dye my hair bright red as well, but talked myself out of it when I realized that the shade I bought was in fact not 'Spotlight Red' but 'Stoplight Red.' I find this a very unnerving name for a hair color, don't you? Anyway, red seems a less appealing choice for my new short locks than it did for the unruly mane of yesteryear. Maybe I'll go dark instead. Regardless, I'm leaving it alone until after I've gone to visit Tommy, because I haven't seen him since August and I'd hate to startle the poor boy into a heart attack in the event of any hair dye mishaps.

And God knows there'll be mishaps.

Update: This blog posting was interrupted by news from Nathan that we will not, in fact, be visiting Tommy this weekend, as it is apparently not a good time for him. I'm not sure what the lesson is in all of this.

A nice hot cuppa

You know, it's amazing how the taste of something can really take you back. And trust me, that's something I never thought I'd say till I was an old woman, or at least a middle-aged one starring in a Werther's commercial. I went into the kitchen just now to steal a piece of chocolate cake, which in turn demanded an accompanying cup of tea. So I opened the cupboard, only to discover that my ever-resourceful mother had it stocked with the exact brand and type of tea I drank at least twice a day whilst living in England!

And honestly, I swear to God, I took one sniff of a tea packet and immediately felt like I was in the St. Mary's refectory again, about to dine on day-old banana cake. Good times, my friends. Good times.

It's an honor just to be nominated

So I wrote a fanfic a while ago. I'm not proud of it, but there you have it. And now it's up for an award. Not one of those crappy "here, let me give you a random stamp of my approval complete with a little blinking graphic even though you've never heard of me before" type awards, an actual award with actual judges! And voting! Oh, the pressure!

I can't decide whether I should be happy for the critical acclaim (does it count as critical acclaim if it's just a nomination?) or creeped out by the extra attention people will be paying to my sordid fan-girl past (does it count as the past if it's just a year ago?). Plus, the story's a teensy bit smutty. Scandalous!

Viggo loves us more than Jesus

Last night Lindz, of Scurvy Dawgs fame, spent the night at my house. I was awakened this morning when she came in and said, "Quick, there's people at the door and I don't think we want them!"

"Froggle," I said, eloquently, as is the wont of my sleepy self.

She disappeared into the living room and I sort of stumbled in after her, only to stop dead in my tracks when I realized that the people at the door were two young, earnest-sounding Mormons.

Mormons!

I felt crazy trapped. There they were, on the other side of the door, with nothing but Lindz standing between the two of them and my immortal soul. It was terrifying. Fortunately, she got rid of them rather quickly and efficiently by looking as sleepy, bored and unhappy as possible. And for those of you who don't know Lindz, I assure you that it's the most pitiful thing ever to see her unhappy. The two of them quickly gave her a little flyer and went on their way.

I never know what to do in that situation. They sounded so sincere! I know if they knew what my religious persuasion was they'd definitely tell me I was going to hell and feel really guilty about it if they couldn't convince me. I want to make them sit down and tell them, "Look, I'm not going to hell, you don't have to worry about me. In fact, you don't have to worry about a lot of the stuff you worry about because we're all creating our own realities anyway! And I'm very happy with what I believe, and you should make sure you are, too, rather than just parroting something somebody told you. Because I think not at least making an effort to know yourself and what you believe is blasphemy in the truest sense." But obviously that's neither the right nor practical thing to do. Nor would it do any good.

I wonder if blogging about internal religious frustrations like this borderlines on proselytizing? Hmm. Leave me a comment if you feel taken advantage of in any way and I'll conduct an informal poll.

I've just had an apostrophe

I've spent the last couple of hours typing out an argument with myself (I hope I'm not the only one who does this, not because I fear it makes me crazy, but because it's an amazingly helpful self-recognition technique) which resulted in a personal, mysterious sort of epiphany. As the nature of the realization is specific to me (it has to do with my shadow-self and whatnot), there's no point in trying to explain exactly what it was. It's hard to put into sensible words, and it wouldn't have much application for anybody else anyway. But it's a happy moment of progress for me, and I just wanted to share.

So to recap: I know myself a little better than I did a few hours ago, and it makes me happy!

That is all.

More gauze

My mother, who is more obsessed with do-it-yourself than the whole of England, has been going on all day about what sort of materials she'd need to be able to handle any medical emergency that might come up should we find ourselves in some sort of evacuation panic type situation. It's creepy as hell.

Granted, she does have quite a bit of medical training and once lanced the neighbor cat's cyst using little more than a pressure cooker and an X-Acto knife, but I still find it highly unsettling when she starts talking about emergency field brain surgery and the chances of getting peritonitis should you have to have a bit of broken-off knife blade removed from your gut.

And here everybody else's mother is simply out stocking up on duct tape. You gotta love her.

War's a-brewin'

When I see the Wal-Mart parking lot full of terror-stricken soccer moms stuffing their SUV's to the brim with canned goods, it makes me sad. When I hear of people in London, both citizens and authorities alike, growing increasingly worried about such horrendous scenarios like terrorists setting off a dirty bomb, it makes me even more sad. But finding articles like this makes me happy again.