Act natural

( Thursday, Feb. 20, 2003 11:26 pm )

>Good Charlotte Bronte

Hello, all. Currently I am ass-tired as a result of spending a full day as a nurturing caregiver to Baby Boy, who was a bit sick and therefore still cute but somewhat of a diva. Landlady Ellie was off and on about the babysitting thing, depending on whether schools were open or the kid still had a fever, but the stars aligned this morning, and she knocked on our door (still not closing properly) at quarter to seven (ass-early for lazy assholes like myself), waking me out of a dream that she (Ellie) was cooking pancakes for me and Juney while we (Juney and I) sat in the studio audience of a game show hosted by Will Smith. I was like, "Oh, the pancakes are ready! Oh wait, no. No they are not."

The flying thing didn't go over so well today, but I pioneered new fun as always, including my renditions of "Hard Day's Night" and "Donkeshein." I also tried the Bob Wills classic "Stay All Night, Stay a Little Longer," but with less success.

I also was disappointed to not have the opportunity to watch "Bridget Jones" for the eighty-seventh time today. The movie has some things that improve on the book, including the line "Fuck me I love Keats," the part where everybody asks Salman Rushdie where the bathrooms are, and of course Mr. Daaaarcy, especially in the scene where he scrambles eggs in a shirt and tie, which is the sexiest thing on land or sea. The weird thing, though, is that the movie, which actually has Mr. Daaaarcy (ok, Colin Firth) right there in it, totally loses all the good stuff about Pride and Prejudice and the Mark Darcy/ Mr. Darcy comparison. Also, why doesn't my local library have said P&P miniseries, because believe me, if you're a fan of rude hotness and you have six hours to spare, you cannot go wrong. Yet another wonderful discovery with my old friend Victoria in the dorm basement. I am the saddest girl of all time.

Speaking of the saddest girl, I'm forging through the Charlotte Bronte biography, and now I definitely understand why she could write heroines who refuse to hope for anything. I was explaining the tragic history of Haworth parsonage, the consumptive Brontes, and the plot of Jane Eyre to Baby Boy this evening, but I don't think he understood all the stoicism and drinking of life's bitter dregs and whatnot. The only thing left for me to do is to stitch together my What Would Charlotte Do? bracelet.

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