A Suffusion of Yellow

*sticks head in* I was planning to get more social on here, but my chemistry grade's dropped to a C and I'm on strictly limited Internet time. Shall attempt to do fly-by waves. *waves*

Finally grasped the principal of putting my hair up with hairsticks. It only took sixteen years, probably about six of which have been spent, off-and-on, jabbing plastic things through a coiled ponytail and then wondering why it immediately fell apart.

This is actually sort of a revelation. I mean, my hair stays up! Without ponytail holders, even! And what's more, I have yet another excuse to wear shiny things with little wire butterflies on! I haven't got nearly enough of those.

http://web.okaygo.co.uk/apps/letters/flashcom/index_il.htm

Coolest thing ever. It's this interactive Flash thing like a giant online fridge with those magnetic letters, and you can move them around! and! I got this geek-recognition thing going! Somebody wrote A'TUIN using an I for the apostrophe, and I spelled out PRATCHET for them, and they wrote back YOU WIN AT LIFE. And somebody put up FORTYTWO, so I started PANGALACTICGARGLEBLASTER across the bottom of the screen, and some other people helped out.

It needs punctuation marks, but still!

Note to self: do not read Red Dragon or books of its ilk at home. Eventually you will finish the book, put it down, stand up and realize- A. that Mom's gone jogging, B. that you're alone in the house, C. that she left the door unlocked so she could get back in later, and D. that there's a weird rustling noise downstairs.

Fortunately, the house was not infested with insane tattooed serial killers. Lucky break, that.

Went babysitting for a couple of known brats. Was able to pacify them with The Incredibles, fortunately. Am still baffled as to how those masks stayed on. After they went to bed, read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Allowing for the fact that I'd read the first chapter already, and that I started skimming near the end, it still can't have taken more than two and a half hours. Am just a bit proud of myself.

Back in May or thereabouts, I once biked up to the old middle school and found, lying in the middle of the sidewalk, a pile of clothing. There was a white sweater, a pair of girl's jeans, and two library books, but no sign of undergarments, school supplies, or a middle-schooler running about in her knickers. There was nobody, clothed or not, in sight.

Maybe a few weeks later, I biked past the tool shed by the same middle school and found a tidy pile of somebody's athletic-type clothing. Again, no identification or any clue as to why the owner had decided to strip off, alone, in the middle of a parking lot.

Today it was by the soccer field at the middle school- a pair of boy's denim shorts and boxers. A jacket, even a shirt I could understand being thrown aside and forgotten about, and the running gear could have been dropped by somebody changing back to their regular clothes. I am utterly at a loss as to how somebody's shorts and underwear wind up in the middle of a path. Alien abduction? Sudden fits of insanity? Transportation to Edgar Rice Burroughs' Mars? Spontaneous combustion?

Okay. The new Charlie and the Chocolate factory sticks very closely to the book, much more so than the first version did. This is Good. I could have done without the Oompa-Loompa songs, but I've always felt like that, and it appears to be just me.

The one thing that baffles me: I've seen many reviewers complaining that with Johnny Depp in it, they spent the entire movie trying not to be attracted to Willy Wonka, which they apparently find disturbing. Warps innocent childhood memories or some such. (Wimps.)

The thing is? Comparing the two movie Wonkas, I utterly fail to see how anyone wouldn't go for Gene Wilder. I would. He looks like he'd be a good dancer. The only thing I feel compelled to do to Johnny Depp's version is wash off the pancake makeup, cut his hair, and send him to a voice coach, tying him down if necessary for any point of this procedure.

*pokes nose out*

Hey. Uh. It appears to have been a while. As in... a month and a half. Whoops.

I've been in German immersion camp. Spent a lot of time with glazed-over eyes saying "I have no idea what you just said. Ich heisse Ahayweh, dammit." I don't think I'll be able to stop myself saying 'danke' for some weeks yet. Or pronouncing 'euro' like 'oy-roh'. Mind, it's not as though I pronounce 'euro' especially often, so I don't see that becoming a problem.

Other clever insights from camp: mosquitoes are bad, as are leeches. I would dearly like ten minutes alone with the architect who said "Right-o, these two hausen will have twenty girls each and they'll be sharing a bathroom, I think five semi-private showers should cover it, yeah?" Nutella is, if not actually the famed ambrosia, definitely occuping a place at the gods' buffet table. Goose-down sleeping bags that pack up to the size of a football are just nifty.

Also, every single other girl in my cabin was hot. No exceptions. I find this suspicious. *eyes people suspiciously* (I don't know what I actually suspect, but I'm certainly very suspicious.)

Stopped by the library to turn some books in and managed to talk with nearly everyone who works there in the process. I have connections. Cool.

Today's panic was over the prizes for the Summer Reading Program. (Kids get them for two hours' worth of reading. They're vending-machine-quality stuff, mostly.) The temporary tattoos are bought in bulk, and apparently some had slipped in that consisted of a vaguely Japanese-looking character with 'SEXY' written in block letters under it. Gaspshockhorror. Well, to be fair, the horror was mostly over the likely reaction of some enraged parent whose six-year-old had picked out the pretty anime tattoo.

I cleared my throat and asked rather timidly if they were aware of the temp. tattoos with a little cartoon mushroom that had a peace sign on the round top.

They hadn't been.

(All right, so I probably should have paused at those when I was stocking the grab-box. They just gave me the tattoos and said 'Tape the plastic envelope shut, shove 'em in,' they didn't say anything about quality control checking!)

Stuff! Pretty, pretty stuff!
I have a knitted kittycat! *shows off* Like this, only denim blue. I think his name is Leiter (The CIA agent on James Bond? You know. Felix. Felix Leiter. ...Yes. I'm sorry). He's got his front paws on my laptop keyboard and is watching everything I type with his yarny little eyes. Except he doesn't have eyes yet, just a blank yarny face. So? He's still watching.

I think I'll make a half-size one to go in my purse. Oh, and, hey, I got a new purse. A messenger-bag khaki thing. I mostly get one purse and keep it until the thread rots and it falls to pieces in the middle of class, but the old one was pretty grungy, plus hard to get into. Plus, the new one is bigger, so more room for a little yarn-kitty to ride around with me.

This time gacked from Laun. The internet commanded. Who was I to resist?

01. Reply with your name and I will write something I like about you.
02. I will then tell what song/movie/icon reminds me of you.
03. If I were to apply an o'clock to you, I'll tell you what it would be.
04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you.
05. I'll tell you the most memorable moment I've had with you.
06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.
07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.
08. Put this in your journal.

( Last night my dreams had plot. And defined setting. Huh. )

Oh, and there was the bit where Neil Gaiman hung around my grandparents' house. I was curled up on the sofa trying to look bored and totally non-fangirly. Never got a chance to say anything.

I'm out of school, it's nearly June, and it's beginning to get hot for real.

About time. Real summer hasn't happened until you've burned your hand on the metal seatbelt-catch getting into the car.

Eventful day
Went to German lessons. I'm going to language-immersion camp later in the summer; they say you can come with no experience, but I figured a little beforehand knowledge would be a good thing. Had fun- the tutor actually complimented me on asking what the funky-B-letter was instead of pronouncing it like 'B'. (It's 'ss'. Only, you know, spelled with the curlicued B.) This apparently makes me already above-average. I hesitate to consider what the other people he teaches are like, in that case.

Also, fell off my bike. Note to self: wide turns cutting through lots of dry leaves aren't a good idea. Also, hydrogen peroxide stings. Avoid in future.

One more thought on women's clothing:

As I understand it, pantyhose came in some time in the Sixties. The point was apparently that stockings were obviously part of any well-turned-out girl's apparel, but... Stockings. Miniskirt. Attempts to get stockings long enough that all your legs are covered results in stockings four feet long and right up by your underwear, so why not just make the whole shebang a one-piece deal?

However. While I'm admittedly no expert on pantyhose, or fashion in general, I've gotten the impression it's the kind of thing women might wear to work. Sitcom women complaining about having to duck into the office bathroom and change pantyhose because their current pair has a run, etcetera. And yet these women are at work. And presumably, unless they happen to work for a very understanding company, they are not wearing miniskirts. Most respectable-looking skirt-suit things I've seen come down to at least a few inches above the knee.

So why pantyhose? Thigh-high stockings do still exist, don't they? I could have sworn I've seen packages for sale. Also, they come in handy pairs, so if one gets a rip, the other is still, amazingly, usable. And, going by an outsider's impression, they look a lot more comfortable. So. Merely the vagaries of fashion, or is there some amazingly obvious reason I've missed? (That sort of thing happens a lot.)

Note to self: When I am Queen of the World, brassieres in stores will be sorted by size, not brand name. Any store owners caught attempting to stuff fifteen of the abovementioned item into six inches of rack space will be summarily shot.

Also, more colors then beige and tan. And while I'm at it, size standardization. And Capri pants are outlawed, because they're stupid. Ditto with flip-flops. Shoes that are hard to run in are acceptable, but shoes that actually fly off when you try to move above a fast walk? Should never leave the beach.

Star Wars
You know, I like Anakin and Padme. Even in Episode II. Even Anakin's infamous 'sand sucks' speech. They like each other so much they've been reduced to that state where you stare at the ground a lot and occasionally say incredibly stupid things and realize how stupid they are halfway through, but now you have to finish saying them, and then you giggle nervously and inanely, and then the other person does the same thing, and then you look shyly at each other and back at the ground real quick. And every time you try to say 'I love you' it comes out all melodramatic and angstwoe, but you had to try.

Plus, I kind of like Anakin in general. Can I have a sulky, self-centered prettyboy of my very own for Christmas? I could make him do all the housework and give him half an hour a day to brood in a dark closet so as to keep him happy.

Signed up for volunteer library work again. I think this is the fourth summer running. The Misses (the librarians are all referred to as Miss Firstnamehere) informed my mother specially that while of course most of the teen volunteers would be limited to shelving in kids' and young adults' sections, they thought they could trust me to handle the dicey Adult areas without, um, being shocked by accidentally seeing badly-written sex scenes in the romance novels, I suppose. I feel so appreciated.

Tara King is nowhere near as cool as Mrs. Peel.

Of course, I probably shouldn't blame the poor girl, as Mrs. Peel's level of cool is so incredibly exponential I suppose it can only be matched by other kickass redheads with flippy hair and catsuits, and there's no great abundance of them. Much to the world's loss.

...Drat this, I miss Emma. *thumps the television* Damn and blast you, BBC America, start rerunning the not-Tara episodes again!

Current Mood: avenging

Tomorrow's Ascension Day. Remember to put an egg on the roof.

Current Mood: celebratorial

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