the twelfth day

I am happy to rest this weekend.

This morning was moist. I realized that I would like to be on a ship with the ocean breeze on my face, doing yoga. Then, later, I realized that somewhere in my dreams last night somebody had named their child "Jordan Marsh." Queer. Then, later than that, it rained. I was at work. A number of us were excited. We none of us could remember the last time it rained. I feel another cold developing (apparently colds have parallel capabilities, since my last cold remains yet), but I am hoping it is a response to the change in air pressure and will ease off without attacking my tonsils.

It's kind of worth it, anyway. I am sick of being sick, but rain is cool. Last night I finished Pride and Prejudice (1995: 5 hours long in total) and I'm a little nervous. I mean, how do you follow Colin Firth? Neil is at the supermarket and hot toddy ingredients are on his list, so hopefully that will help me through this distressful period.

Plus I have a few versions of Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park and Emma that are as yet unseen ... but I am trying to pace myself. I was thinking the other day about how I wish somebody would make some really good adaptations of Edith Wharton novels (anything with Gillian Anderson does NOT qualify) ... and then, gradually, it occurred to me that it's OK that every single terrific book hasn't been adapted into at least three terrific movie versions ... because I can just READ the books.

It is revelations like these that remind me that returning to college in the fall may be a tad beyond my capabilities.

But that's late August. And now it's the weekend. And I just worked 12 days and if right now I just want to read The Nine and softly blow my nose and smile at Neil and whatever, that's OK.

And also, Sacha Baron Cohen is not funny.