May 3rd, 2004

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Speaking in English-English, as opposed to American-English

I have sadly neglected my journal. Circumstances, and such. I am currently dictating to myself in a very haughty, faux-English accent, as I have been listening to books on tape read by people with very haughty English accents, and I find that it is addicting. For instance, I am peppering my internal narration with phrases such as 'for instance' and 'quiet right.' The difficult thing is remembering to turn off the fake accent when I actually open my mouth to speak. So far today I've done alright. My colleague across the room hasn't noticed yet.

Books on tape are lovely things, provided they're read by the right person. The person reading my current book on tape is a bit old to be Cassandra Mortmaine, heroine of one of my all-time favorite books, "I Capture the Castle." However, she does have a fantastic posh-London accent. It is a shame my natural speaking voice is so squeaky (I've heard tapes of my voice and am convinced I sound like a cross between a rubber mouse and Punky Brewster, of 80's sitcom fame). I should love a posh-London accent. Actually, any kind of posh accent would do, as long as I could make words like "Fabulous" "Parking" sound as if they had more syllables, and thus, be a more important words than they are.

Prior to "I Capture the Castle" I was listening to "Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants." If you have never read/heard of the Confessions of Georgia Nicholson, I am very sorry for you. They are some of the funniest things I've read in a very long time. They are shallow, but intentionally so, and thus are very sincere in their shallow-ness. "Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants" is the fourth Georgia book. The first time I listened to it, when I bought it about a year ago, I laughed so hard I had to pull over my car on the side of the highway and calm down for an hour or so. My sister, my friends, and likely my roommates will tell you that I laugh very loudly. I think it's because I just want to laugh, so even at stupid sitcoms that aren't particularly funny, I laugh with exuberance (another word that would sound much better said with a posh accent). Georgia is actually funny. Yes, concerned more with lip gloss than the world around her, but as she would say, filled with hilariosity. In this installment she encounters "Little Furry Baby Jesuses" and visits "La Belle France." The new book comes out in a few days, and though I am probably too old for it, I will purchase it with my next paycheck.

I spent most of this past weekend in Scullery maid-mode, trying to cheer up my dad. He had surgery on Friday to repair his deviated septum, which required him to stay over night in the hospital and be in recoup mode for the next week or so. He was very depressed, and three straight losses by the Red Sox did not improve his mood. Friday he spent most the day moping about Mom not being at the hospital (she was working), and the rest of the weekend at home moping because, again, Mom was working and not there to help him recover. I tried to be cheerful, but in the end I gave up and read some and did some laundry and spent some time trying to repair the computer.

My parents, bless them, don't know much about computers. Well, I think my Dad might know a lot about computers from the 80s, and possibly into the 90s, but I think at some point he's just gotten a tad bit out of touch. This is because instead of going out and being nerdy and asking clerks at computer stores questions as he used to (for instance about Commodore 64s and the snazzy 486 we got in 1992), he gets his current info exclusively from the computer shows on the Home Shopping Network. Thus something is ALWAYS wrong with my parent's computer. And my mother, who claims to hate computers, is constantly bitching about it. So I sat down and discovered that my father had no firewall on his computer, and a constantly open Internet connection to boot. Which meant that something wicked worked its way onto their hard drive, and filled the computer with porn. Oh, how I wish I were kidding. There was so much crap clogging up the hard drive that the computer was barely functioning. Deleting this stuff didn't help - as soon as you reboot, the stuff is back, it's that deeply planted in the system. From the look of it, the entire computer will have to be restored to factory defaults - which means I can currently hear the melodious sounds of my mother's complaints ringing in my ears... as soon as she has to spend actual money on greeting cards (the one things she uses the computer for), she's going to have her own little furry baby Jesuses.

I'm having my own computer woes. My laptop, my faithful writing partner, has died. I'm going to have to take her in for repair (her name is Penelope, by the way). I must have her repaired, as most of what I've spent the past four years writing is on her hard drive. Yes, I have back-ups for the important stuff, but bugger if I can find them. I don't label very much.

I've really had no time to write about American Idol, which is just a shame. I was very upset when Jennifer was kicked off, because although I'm not too fond of over-singing divas, I liked her. I won't say she was "real" but I think she'd have used her pop-stardom in a fun way.

To have kept the Red Head on so long was just cruel. I sincerely hope when he gets back to whatever all-American high school he came from, that he doesn't get the snot beaten out of him (though it might do him some good to get the Frank Sinatra impersonator thoroughly beaten out of him and, get some personality beaten into him.) I very much miss the Hobbit. Not his singing, understand, but his dancing and general dorky-ness. The geek quotient on TV is considerably low. Although I did catch Adam Brody unexpectedly on "Grounded for Life" this weekend, which was a nice little plus.

I've just about shaken the English narrator from my head. My regularly scheduled internal narrator has returned, though the English broad is putting up a fight. The English was nice for a while because forcing myself to think in an accent meant I wasn't as easily distracted by shinny objects.

Ahh well, toodles.
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If I Ran the Zoo

Today I got a spy of the literary magazine the college I work for produced. Oh my was that sad. Let's just say it was highlighted by the most excellent photo of a teddy bear lying prostrate on the ground, blind folded, in front of a church. I feel like I should do something about it. Life is too short to read bad poetry.