Do you think Vincent is super sad that they didn’t let him reprise his Greatest Role?
Okay, NOW I’m excited to have a baby…
(courtesy of Kate…go buy her book!)
pretty pleased with this year’s Halloween costume!
Four years ago today!
The weather’s less apocalyptic now, but not much else has changed…still pretty fond of this guy…
A lady gave up her seat for me on the train this morning!
Yes, I have lots of ultrasounds of the critter, and I find out the sex in six days, but this is the real milestone, right?
Celebrate Fitzgerald’s 117th birthday with a free eBook of his debut novel, This Side of Paradise. Use code fitzfb here: http://bit.ly/1636f9M
Is it just me, or does Fitzgerald have a slight Tobey Maguire-ness to him in this picture?
Is that why that terrible, terrible casting choice was made?
Is there a more despicable sentence construction in the English language than “I’m just a really __________ kind of person.”?
A fair question
One of my ESL students asked me today about a class listed on her schedule—“English Manners.” It took a little while to explain to her that “Manners” was my name, not the name of the class.
I sort of really love that she thought she had come to this school to get an American education, and was now going to be forced to take some lame etiquette class (and an English one, to boot!).
Of course, explaining the ins and outs of high tea and social mores would probably be a lot easier to mime than the nuances of Dickens or Shakespeare, so maybe the joke’s on me.
Following this incident, Rochester briefly went underground, impersonating a quack physician, “Doctor Bendo”. Under this persona, he claimed skill in treating “barrenness” (infertility), and other gynecological disorders. Gilbert Burnet wryly noted that Rochester’s practice was “not without success”, implying his intercession of himself as surreptitious sperm donor. On occasion, Rochester also assumed the role of the grave and matronly Mrs. Bendo, presumably so that he could inspect young women privately without arousing their husbands’ suspicions.
Wikipedia entry on John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester
There are few things that make me spiral into an absolute crazy person faster than the sneaking suspicion that someone thinks I’m stupid.
Milk! Miiiiiillllk! Milk!
*SCREAMS FOR MILK*
(terrified 3-year-old Alice)
I still get this stuck in my head every couple of weeks.
I don’t think there has been a single time in the past 10+ years when I have mentioned milk to The Husband (or myself, in my head), when this song hasn’t been sung. (By me, obviously. The Husband isn’t as much of a Sesame Street aficionado/girl autistic)