Can I Do This Week Over?
It's been a down week over here, north of the border. My kilted fellow has taken ill with a bad cold that I fear may turn to something rather more bronchial, and I myself seem to have a much milder form of the same cold manifesting itself as a persistent sore throat. Aside from that, there's been a whole load of unexpected academic stress from Monday evening on, and although I think it's worked itself out fine, it sparked some panic and depression that I still find myself working out through academics... from complete apathy in my literature class, to an almost manic level of participation in my history course (that may have been the sleep deprivation, actually, since the class is at 9 and I'd gone to bed at 3:30am two nights in a row).
I brought my poor, sick Kilt Boy home from the library and put him to bed while I made him chicken-and-dumpling soup. While out running errands to buy ingredients, kleenex, and throat lozenges, I trekked down to the Chinatown post office to pick up my not one, but TWO packages: my birthday present of Y Geriadur Mawr, the standard Welsh dictionary containing the Middle Welsh glosses, and my shipment of birthday sock yarn from Blue Moon Fiber Arts. The entire way home, I was reminding myself, "Will not wake up sick, sleeping boyfriend to make him look at yarn. Will not wake up sick, sleeping boyfriend to make him look at yarn."
So here's some conversation snippets to give this post some semblance of a conclusion before I go off to bed to read Simon-Evan's "Middle Welsh Grammar":
KB: I'm not worried if some small part of your heart belongs to Hugh Laurie. I don't think there's going to be a situation in which you two will meet and he will say, "Come, Alice, and I will make sweet passionate British love to you..."
YT: British, in particular?
KB: British, in particular.
YT: What are they going to do, quirk their pinkies?
YT: Just so you know, If I get this cold from you, there's going to be hell to pay in the form of bidding on me hand and foot.
KB: I know.
YT: I mean, waiting on me hand and foot at my bidding. There will be no auctioning off of my appendages to buy yourself a less crabby girlfriend.
KB: However tempting it may be.
(Enter Celticist Roommate)
CR: All I heard was, "there will be no auctioning off of my appendages..."?!
I brought my poor, sick Kilt Boy home from the library and put him to bed while I made him chicken-and-dumpling soup. While out running errands to buy ingredients, kleenex, and throat lozenges, I trekked down to the Chinatown post office to pick up my not one, but TWO packages: my birthday present of Y Geriadur Mawr, the standard Welsh dictionary containing the Middle Welsh glosses, and my shipment of birthday sock yarn from Blue Moon Fiber Arts. The entire way home, I was reminding myself, "Will not wake up sick, sleeping boyfriend to make him look at yarn. Will not wake up sick, sleeping boyfriend to make him look at yarn."
So here's some conversation snippets to give this post some semblance of a conclusion before I go off to bed to read Simon-Evan's "Middle Welsh Grammar":
KB: I'm not worried if some small part of your heart belongs to Hugh Laurie. I don't think there's going to be a situation in which you two will meet and he will say, "Come, Alice, and I will make sweet passionate British love to you..."
YT: British, in particular?
KB: British, in particular.
YT: What are they going to do, quirk their pinkies?
YT: Just so you know, If I get this cold from you, there's going to be hell to pay in the form of bidding on me hand and foot.
KB: I know.
YT: I mean, waiting on me hand and foot at my bidding. There will be no auctioning off of my appendages to buy yourself a less crabby girlfriend.
KB: However tempting it may be.
(Enter Celticist Roommate)
CR: All I heard was, "there will be no auctioning off of my appendages..."?!
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home