Sheesh, it's cold!
In the 30's last night!
That's cold for us!
All you people who are three feet deep in snow can just stop rolling your eyes right now!
Dry cold and wet cold are two different things!
So there!
Anyways.
Been sick.
Yucky.
Been tired.
Work.
Busy.
But out of the blue, I was told that I got a raise at work.
Very timely, since my nice parents are still paying my health insurance and it went up again, so the raise will probably go towards helping that bill.
We make more money to pay for more things to make more money to pay for more things.
Endless cycles.
Found out that Grandma Gooch has more tumors. They can't operate because the tumors are too close to her heart. Don't know if they are b/m or what yet.
Steven Ray is probably going to come out this week.
Guess that means I need to spiffy up "our" room.
I love my uncle. He's a peach.
The parents are leaving Friday night for their cruise.
This means a week alone with the sister.
Yay for me.
Dad tells me to think of easy meals while they are gone.
I said Uh, we can cook ya know...
He cracks me up.
When I was sick and woke up in the middle of the night with the fever and was having bad dreams, he found me crying in the bathroom. He asks what's wrong. I say I think I have a fever - need medicine. What does he do? He goes and gets Mother. I bet Adam went and got Eve the first time one of their kids had an owie.
It's very interesting to note that in general, mothers are the ones who fix bodies and fathers are the ones who fix things. Dads are the ones who hear about the clogged toilet. Mothers are the ones who hear about your skinned knees.
I am sooooo ready for this blasted Statistics class to be over.
Only one more week of regular classes. Yippee.
You know those Christmas cards that are a picture and just have some type on it that says Merry Christmas (or what you will) Love, So and So?
I hate those.
So insultingly impersonal. No signature, no nothing.
I have nothing against the picture thing. My cards this year are a photo holder.
But those mass produced ones where all you do is throw them in the envelope...
Don't like them.
They disturb me.
If I ever get lazy and want to do one of those, I'm going to remind myself of this post.
I've been thinking about something.
Jane Austen did not write real people. She wrote caricatures.
The Brontes wrote real and dreamlike people.
Elizabeth Gaskell wrote real people.
If we randomly selected a Joe Shmoe off the street, I think it's safe to say that he would know the caricatures, not the real and dreamlike ones.
Why is that?
Becca went to a conference put on the JAS across the pond and one of the speakers theorized that period re-enactments (when done by anyone other than the JAS) are morally wrong. He said it's the equivalent of painting yourself black and pretending to be a slave.
That guy has way too much time on his hands.
He needs more cookies.
.
