Hurricane Irene has finally struck the House of Jules. Power has been out for a little over an hour now and after rummaging through a dozen or so drawers looking for candles (my parents have long lived by the old saying hope for the best, fight through the worst and plan for none of it) I am typing this by candle light, computer battery and a verizon hotspot. Part of me wishes this blog posting was by inkwell, quill and parchment but since my handwriting looks like that of a moderately trained gorilla I'll settle for my keypad and the whimsical feelings of ye olde timey communication.
Having recently made my way through half of David McCulluogh's John Adams I couldn't help but wish I had on a long nightdress and stocking cap while walking around the house in the dark. It's a great book, an amazing mini-series and if you are a fan of the freedoms that we used to have in this country it's pretty inspiring. I hope you'll excuse me if I throw in some colonial times lingo here and there.
Whither to this morrow... kidding, kidding. Not even sure what that means really.
The other thing I was thinking about while I was stumbling around in the dark is how many bad horror movies begin like this. A sickly but classically handsome man at home alone in the middle of a storm. The power suddenly goes out. He thinks its the storm not realizing that a deranged serial killer just escaped from the nearby mental institute. While I type this someone could be creeping up behind me. I could be in grave danger and not aaggghhh... gkghjyrmvlhy.
I'm fine. The candles are burning, I'm still wickedly charming and I've still got perfectly curable Hodgkin's Lymphoma that I've managed to get way too much attention and sympathy over. All is right in the world.
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