Eep. That last entry I am going to keep around only to remind me what not to write ever again. I posted it and then went over and reread the summer reading list at Salon and ran across the phrase "gothic orphan saga". The reviewer was describing a novel that wallowed too much in the squalor and meanness of 19th century London and I have to agree: any scene involving a little match girl playing with an infant's corpse like a doll should probably do something to advance the plot, not just qualify as local scenery. And then I realized that I was heading down the gothic orphan saga road myself with that litany of weenie woes and dramatic lightning photo. The lightning photo can stay, but seriously--lighten up, Francis.

The weather here has been gorgeous, as long as you like freak gusts of rain and thunderstorms which, luckily enough, I do. The day in general is overcast and gray, but then you'll turn around and boom! 10 minutes of torrential downpour followed by a return to the roiling moodiness of clouds. It's either the meteorological equivalent of Tourette's or a lot like being a teenager, depending on who you ask.

This weekend we rearranged the house, and returned our bedroom to the back of the house, away from the street. We can now sleep under the open window and look out on our landlady's sculpture garden and trees and sky. The downside is that this beautiful space, coupled with whacking great gusts of rain, is not conducive to getting to work on time. Or indeed getting out of bed at all. Additionally, I jammed all our books in the bedroom too, so that the bed itself is wedged under the window by dint of being surrounded by not just shelves, but books piled into the shapes of popular furniture items. Our headboard is books. Yo's bedside table is books. The minibar is books. I have taken my theme and run with it, and an award from Hilde Santo-Tomas will arrive in the mail any minute now.

Other than that, the weather is a perfect excuse to drag El Yo over to the dark side, by which I mean that together we will see every SciFi Channel original movie ever made. If it involves a big ole honking CGI snake being eaten by another, bigger CGI snake (Boa vs. Python), we will watch it. If it involves Roman emperors being reincarnated into utopian societies and practicing a little Nero-fu on men with serious brow ridges (Riverworld) we will watch it. Left to his own devices, El Yo might not have caught these little gems, but for every Man with the Screaming Brain, we watch a four-hour installment of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Or as I like to call it, Hot Wartime Hobbit Love. Compromise makes a relationship work.