wishfulaces: (jeremy)
Oh! So, based on somebody's recommendation--it might have been NPR (I read a lot of NPR at work when I need a 60-second brain break, rather than listening to it on the radio, because I continue to have no auditory concentration ability at all), it might have been a RL friend, it might have been one of y'all--we've started watching Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries on Netflix, these glorious mysteries set in 1920s Australia about a young woman whose sister went missing and who now makes it her business to get into everybody else's business. I've started making a game out of identifying who will be her new lover in each episode, her outfits are always gorgeous, and she is so unapologetically, unabashedly determined to make sure things are done right--and so unapologetically, unabashedly disinterested in judging other people and how they live their lives--that the show is a real delight to watch. We're only 5 episodes in, which makes me happy, because it means there's still a couple dozen episodes to go.

Okay, it's a little ridiculous how much I adore period mystery drama. Or even modern mystery drama, come to that. I've also been working my way through the Enchanted Chocolate Pot books (for lack of a better unifying title for the trilogy?) by Patricia C. Wrede and Caroline Stevermer and I'm pretty sure there's at least one or two new episodes of Castle and Forever we haven't seen yet. w00t. GIVE ME ALL THE MYSTERIES. Ahem.
wishfulaces: (socially awkward)
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So many choices! I could go with Barney Miller, he'd be very understanding and compassionate. Dalziel & Pascoe would be alternately witty and crass but they'd have my back (if they thought I deserved it, anyway). Emerson and Ned and Chuck would sort it all out, and I'd probably get pie. But I think I want to go with Albert Campion. After all, he's a universal uncle. I've always liked uncles.


I was just reading Dr. Seuss poetry. Which may or may not explain why I wrote the above paragraph the way I did. (At least it involved no rhymes?)


I spent today up to my eyeballs in microfilm. My eyeballs hurt.

I'm still getting used to the cubicle thing. I see out of the corner of my eye people walking past and get easily distracted. One of my co-workers sort of glides exactly the way a character from an animated Monty Python sketch would. (As if my headspace weren't surreal enough.)


I like to use my bookstore receipts for bookmarks. They're a handy way to remember where I was when I got a book, a way to ground me--Ohio when I found that Doctor Who novel, Colorado when I picked up that book on architecture with a gift card. My mom uses anything she has at hand and leaves it in the book for the next person to stumble across--I've found appointment reminder cards from the dentist or eye doctor, a note from my brother, a hall pass I had my senior year of high school because I was in NHS, even a picture of me from a play in high school. (I swiped that one; it's hanging on my wall now.) It's a bit like finding signatures or notes from people when browsing at used bookstores, glimpses of whole other lives that have been lived.


April may or may not kill me. It's my fault for scheduling so many things, but April may very well kill me. And if it doesn't, May and June come close behind...


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September 2015

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