Oh Husband, Where Art Thou?

I don’t mean to be MIA, but the Ogre is on another continent entirely (literally) and even though he’s only home for a few hours during the day anyway, still his absence is like a black hole, negating all reason and rhyme and hope in our lives. My mom came to visit, thank the Lord, so that helped. But I can’t blog when my thoughts are mostly focused on a bearded fellow in Gdansk who, bereft of his luggage thanks to Lufthansa’s efficiency, is proving to an international circle of colleagues that American academics really are scruffy, ponytailed, jeans-wearing menaces to civilized societies, no matter how brilliantly they read Donne and Dickenson.

(PS: He does read Donne and Dickenson excruciatingly brilliantly. It sometimes makes me wish I had ever read Donne or Dickenson at all.)