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.)

“Seriously, you just admitted to the entire internet that you’ve never really read Donne even though you keep insisting to me is that you ‘couldn’t quite follow Air and Angels but overall think Donne is a great poet’? I’m burning Harry Potter when I get home.” (Liam: “I’m a carbon copy of my dad, so what he said, but with a speech impediment…think ‘aiw and angews’ and ‘hawwy pottew’ and you’ve got it.”)


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