caerula's Diaryland Diary

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to say nothing of the hairspray

FIL seems to be doing okay; no better or worse. They've scheduled the MRI for Friday, which we think must be a good sign. If they were anticipating finding serious damage, I would think they's squeeze him in sooner.

I finished several units of corrections this morning, so I'm rewarding myself by scanning Amazon and adding a bunch of stuff to my wish list, mostly Connie Willis and Diana Wynne Jones stuff. Not that it means anything, because I'm not mercenary enough to ask people to buy me things from it -- except maybe near Christmas I'll send the address to my mom, since she loves buying stuff online so she doesn't have to go to the store. Same reason I do it, too. And it's fun to think about all the things I would buy, if I could, and it gives me a reference point for ILLs from the library.

I finished listening to Say Nothing of the Dog, by Connie Willis, last night. On the way to work this morning I listened to the ending again, because I love it so much. I've decided to go with Recorded Books rental program, since I've listened to every unabridged recording they have at the itsy-bitsy library, and I just can't bring myself to listen to abridgements. This recording was wonderful. I read the book two years ago and loved it, but I'd forgotten a lot and the narrator did such a great job. He did wonderful voices for Tossie and Finch and all the other characters, including a sexy Scottish accent for Mr. Dunworthy. Next up: Doomsday Book, which should arrive next week. I read it a long time ago and I remember sobbing hysterically by the end, so I haven't been able to bring myself to read it again. I think I'm ready now, though.

YMB has school pictures today. We're spending a ridiculous amount of money on them, since everyone will want one, and they do a fairly good job with them at his school. He picked his orange polo shirt to wear (fortunately the orange Hawaiian shirt was dirty; people would have been yelling "my eyes, my eyes" when we pass out the pictures), insisted that I slick his hair back with Blue's hair goop, and obsessed about the scratch he has under his nose, and how it was going to ruin his pictures. I swear, sometimes it's more like living with a teenager than an 8-year-old. I tremble for the future.

11:38 a.m. - 2001-09-26

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