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Dec. 5th, 2001 12:42 pmA fascinating fact arising from my editorial work today: Francis Bacon, and not the one you are thinking of, donated the late Frank Calvert's letters to the *American* School of Classical Studies in Athens in 1923, not to the British School. Don't make that mistake, gentle readers.
Yesterday was largely a loss for study. I'm a master of self-sabotage. When faced with a paper to write to be presented at a major conference in more or less exactly a month, I spend my time digging through old gaming pictures, like the one just below.
I did finish making some apple butter, at least.
Looking into the near-future:
Tonight: may or may not be hosting J.'s progenitors for emergency tapas. (The ingredients for two of my favorite tapas dishes need to be used before they go bad. One involves tiny potatoes deep fried and eaten with a garlicky aioli, and the other is a tasty sausage-and-fig number.) The doubt rests on the presence of the progenitors, not the menu.
If they do come, they will be bringing us a five-foot pine tree severed from mother earth, courtesy of an uncle's tree farm. We will then hang things on it and watch it rot and suffer cat attacks over the next few weeks.
I'm not sure where we'll put it. We've already added an enormous puppet theater to our living room decor in recent weeks.
Tomorrow: paper writing. Maybe.
Friday: work, then probably a punk rock craft show.
Saturday: game-geekery, and possibly a social outing thereafter, if I can find something 1942-ish to wear. Neither J. nor I have been to a party since Bush's first few days in office (unrelated), and we might go to as many as two this month. Wacky.
Sunday: paper-writing, if I know what's good for me.
Yesterday was largely a loss for study. I'm a master of self-sabotage. When faced with a paper to write to be presented at a major conference in more or less exactly a month, I spend my time digging through old gaming pictures, like the one just below.
I did finish making some apple butter, at least.
Looking into the near-future:
Tonight: may or may not be hosting J.'s progenitors for emergency tapas. (The ingredients for two of my favorite tapas dishes need to be used before they go bad. One involves tiny potatoes deep fried and eaten with a garlicky aioli, and the other is a tasty sausage-and-fig number.) The doubt rests on the presence of the progenitors, not the menu.
If they do come, they will be bringing us a five-foot pine tree severed from mother earth, courtesy of an uncle's tree farm. We will then hang things on it and watch it rot and suffer cat attacks over the next few weeks.
I'm not sure where we'll put it. We've already added an enormous puppet theater to our living room decor in recent weeks.
Tomorrow: paper writing. Maybe.
Friday: work, then probably a punk rock craft show.
Saturday: game-geekery, and possibly a social outing thereafter, if I can find something 1942-ish to wear. Neither J. nor I have been to a party since Bush's first few days in office (unrelated), and we might go to as many as two this month. Wacky.
Sunday: paper-writing, if I know what's good for me.
