There used to be a critical care attending at Children's who dictated extremely brief progress notes I once heard referred to, a bit derisively, as progress tweets. I thought the concept was howlingly funny, so I'm going to appropriate it for this post. Here, in no particular order, are my progress tweets on various projects:
I have to admit (sorry, folks) that my "Ren-faire" gown is actually finished, but I have pretty pictures to make up for it when I get the chance.
My PROCRASTINATE cross-stitch now includes both the Dalek and its armchair. Also 2 cans of beer and a bowl of popcorn, but I still need to give those a table. The force is weak with this one.
And the winner of the knit-at-work awesomely fun mindless projects contest is...Ringwood gloves? I cheated and surfed Knitty, breaking approximately 2 years of abstinence to do it. But gloves are cool. Warm. Oh, shut up, it looks good with the purple Kool-aid yarn if I have enough of it, and I have yet to make real gloves rather than mittens, AND it's not garter or stockinette.
Maybe later on the dice bag: at the moment I have only 1 proper set of gaming dice (RPG, not casino. Geez.). My boyfriend gave them to me after he realized the clear set he purchased in fact had iridescent green glitter in the centers, but he's quite content to shlepp them around for me.
The next time I bake cookies, I'm making them smaller than the specified size and using new flour and possibly new sugar. Unless anybody likes their Jammie Dodgers with an extra helping of porcelain shards.
Now for the forewarned tangent: random fits of poetry. Yeah, sorry, I have them. Definitely had "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock" stuck in my head last night when I got to work. Try explaining to the work crowd why the lines "Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?...I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each" are on the tip of your tongue. Go on, I dare you.
Today I made a trip/pilgrimage to Borders, which is closing down (the inside of the store, by the way, is enough to make a grown lit-nerd cry). On the shelves: "Birthday Letters," by Ted Hughes. I thought I'd make myself a White Russian (yeah, I realize that's not particularly apropos, but I had all the ingredients handy) and have a good cry over his poems addressed to his dead wife. The melancholy poet in me wouldn't mind a Ted to my Sylvia, actually, mental illness and extramarital affairs aside. The Muse wouldn't mind a John to my Fanny (Keats and Brawne, a perennial favorite couple for completely inexplicable reasons, in case inquiring minds want to know). There's something intoxicating about a man who knows the magic inherent in words.
Though, speaking of Poet Laureates, this is going to bother me until I've found the answer, so I'm just going to have to float it out there: which British TV star recently quoted Seamus Heany? Has to be one I've seen recently (and remembering which side of the pond I actually hail from, there aren't many I'd know of), so tentatively I've narrowed it down to either James May or Matt Smith. The car-guy or the Doctor? Erm....well, no matter, what's as important to me or more so is the quote itself, which I also can't recall, so please help a self-proclaimed poetry dork and put me out of my misery. It'll count as a work of community service or something. I'll be right here, eagerly awaiting your answer (especially if you're tall, dark, and handsome and see above note about magic inherent in words--I kid, I kid!).
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