I WANT ONE.

Forget the Turkey. Find me a Bagel!

Some things for which I am grateful:

* Coffee.

* Snow.

* Fantastic roommates who I have no desire to smother with a pillow.

* Margaret's inside scoop on where to buy good bagels in Kensington market (after being told that I had become so obsessed with the lack of good bagels, I dreamt about my search)

* Yarn.

* My cousins. Example:
Lydia (Ages Seven): Mommy, when a woman has a baby, do they cut her tummy open?
Kris (who is a nurse): Well, sometimes, but ususally--you know how you have a hole between where you pee and where you poop? Usually the baby comes out of there.
Lydia: I think I'll get a dog.

* The sight of snowflakes on yarn (that was previously knit into warm clothing).

* Being on top of my Latin, Huzzah!

* Did I mention coffee? And snow?

In Which I Am (Obliquely) Mentioned on the Shrine of the Holy Whapping

It's what happens when this post about Neil and Garett meets the HWTN's donut shop:

The Infelix Eggo Waffle.

Okay, so it's not quite as cool a reference as my POD Pastry, but I feel almost famous!

I just died laughing.

Kilt Hose!

You're my Axiom of Choice, you know it's Truuue...

I've had this stuck in my head for two days, so here you go, with thanks to Em the Elder:

Yes, we talk like this.

So today, in my class on social history, we discussed marketing arrangements between various religious groups in Medieval Spain. Like Muslim shoemakers buying leather from Christian tanners, and buying said leather on credit, and what that says about interreligious interpersonal relationships.

Then some of us went to the common room to do Latin, and the following ensued.

Yrs. Truly: Ooooh, I hope he calls on me to translate this sentence: "And we knelt down and prayed that God would take our souls, for our eyes had seen his judgment on the earth."
Nordicist from Winnipeg: Yeah, that's a good one.
...
Nordicist from Winnipeg: I don't like [our social history] class.
Yrs. Truly: Yes, you looked pretty miserable today. You looked about ready to kneel down and pray for death, as your eyes had seen God's judgment on the earth.
N. from W: Yes, and it is tanners.

I miss Carolyn.

A: I don't understand this grocery store. How can they not have any cream cheese? ...Wait, why am I in this section of the grocery store looking for cream cheese?
C: Where *are* you?
A: I'm in the world's most yuppified Loblows' grocery store.
C: No, I mean, where in the store are you?
A: Oh. I'm in the cheese section.
C: It should be there, look between the butter and the sour cream.
A: No, I'm in the *fancy* cheese section.
C: Oh, the *fancy* cheese section. No, you don't want that. Go to the shredded cheese section.

C: Ooooh, Pop-Tarts! You should get Pop-Tarts, they're good for you!
A: No they aren't, you liar!
C: They're good for your *morale*.

More Language Madness

Last night, I dreamed that 'craic' was actually a Scots Gaelic, not Irish Gaelic, word.

Let me make this clear: I had a dream. About a word. From a Celtic language. I do not know.

In the dream, I was terribly embarrassed about having thought it was Irish and having defined it as such to Podraig.

I'm going to attribute this to Language Madness and lie down with a cold compress to the forehead. Or, you know, brew some coffee and read some Latin. Yeah, Latin.

Latin is to Guinness as Welsh is to Bailey's

It appears I hadn't yet seen the worst of my language overdose on Monday, as half-an-hour of lunchtime translation, followed by an hour of class and another half-hour of vocabulary, brought the 36 hour total to 9 hours of Latin.

... after which I went home and tried to do my Welsh homework (apparently I do not believe in rest.)

... after which I went to bed, picked up the primary source on which I am supposed to present on Thursday afternoon, and not noticing that it was not in English began reading the left-hand, medieval Spanish, page of the dual-language edition.

... but having read a few sentences, my brain went *poit* and I realized that although it was only 11:00, no more work was going to be finished that night. So I said Night Prayer and went to sleep.

The only way I can really explain what happened is by analogy to having too many and diverse mixed drinks at a club... it was, in fact, the Irish Car Bomb of language-mixing. Having already had about a pitcher. Or two.

(This analogy caused some discussion at the coffee shop over whether one makes such a drink with whiskey or Irish Cream. I'm glad to say that Wikipedia agrees with me,* and says both-- and can now report that it very helpfully (note sarcasm) explains the historical origin of the drink's name.)


*Not that I've ever had one. I'm going by Tom's description of his roommate's frat parties.

7 Hours

That is how much time I spent translating Latin texts yesterday. Six hours of the Life of St. Macarius, one hour scanning Aragonese/Valencian law codes.

Studying languages with that much diligence rather warps your brain. On Saturday I had the following logical disconnect:

"I want to go to confession. Confession runs for an hour before Mass, and Mass is at 5:00, so confession should be between 3:00 and 4:00."

Catch that? It's just like August in the Llanbed Wlpan: Language Study Induced Insanity.

(As an example of LSII, the following conversation was once held in the Prifysgol Llanbed Refectory:
A: John, I'm terribly jealous, because all I wanted for breakfast was a raspberry yogurt, but they were out when I arrived... and you have two!
J: Wait, I have two yogurts?)