Ali, trying to convince Nate that the beverage on offer is acceptable:

"Black tea! It's like coffee...but tea!"

"He's been inducted as, from what I can tell, a knight of cheese. They have knights of everything in France... Fish are funny. I mean, snails are sad, and so are frogs, but fish are just funny. You use them to hit people with...there aren't a lot of foods that aren't novelty foods that are just funny. Fish are funny. And then there are sardines and anchovies and kippers. Kippers are funny."


--emma goes on what is an almost beat-poet-esque stream of consciousness rant while reading a Peter Mayle book.

Real life?

How confusing it is not to be in San Jose dancing with Persian aunties. What is all this cold whiteness on the ground? Where are the huge mounds of saffron rice? Why is Maria not laughing at my cell phone? Why is Todd not explaining local flora, and why is James not asking if they are edible? I am a little sad.

Outstanding week. God bless Ali and Rachel Hadiashar!

Here is Oscar Wilde, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Lord Peter Wimsey.

Ali, luckily, whipped out her camera and got a picture-- not of Lord Peter actually carrying the Oscar Wilde doll downstairs in his jaws, but of the immediate aftermath. Lord Peter dropped Oscar Wilde in the middle of the kitchen floor and then went to sit on the rug in front of the kitchen sink. It was a very peculiar situation all round. The picture will be posted when Ali emails it to me. There's now a cat toothmark on Oscar Wilde's left eye.

Poor John Harmon.

He needs to formulate a Cunning Plan.

From the Department of Massive Understatement

"The Blitz makes me nervous."

--Emma (she's not the only roommate I have who makes blogworthy comments-- she's just dominated that catagory recently.)

You know what would make election week more fun?

If, after all the results were in, everyone got invited to Washington to a feast, in which we acclaimed the president-elect as our lawful chief, and were fed on roast venison and frothy tankards of mead. That'd be pretty sweet.

Emma's interpretation of

what's going through Eugene Wrayburn's head when he first sees Lizzie Hexam:

"Hey! You're cute, and surprisingly clean for your station in life."

Emma, while ordering tea catalogues:

"Twinings is too exciting for _words_!"

So I came home, and

Emma had some troubling news for me.

Apparently Lord Peter Wimsey has figured out how to get himself up on top of our fridge.

I guess it makes a little more sense if you know he's a cat.

A little bit shameful

I've joined Facebook. Not very hortus conclusus, is it, this blogosphere?