“Borkin: Ladies and gentlemen, why are you so glum? Sitting there like a jury after it’s been sworn in! … Let’s think up something. What would you like? Forfeits, tug of war, catch, dancing, fireworks?”
― Anton Chekhov, Ivanov
Hope all American minions had a happy 4th of July, that the BBQ was tasty, and that all appendages remain in a state of attachment and good health.
First some blog business. I’ve been thinking about this for a while and it just seemed like a good (if random) time to do it. Now that I no longer work at a police department and have no more professional secrets to keep, I’m retiring the semi-anonymity. Those friends of the blog who continue to write anonymously will have their privacy protected, of course, but other than that, we’re throwing off the shackles. I’ve felt a bit constrained lately in sticking to a semi-anonymous blog where there was no need. Prepare yourself, minions, we may even talk politics, religion, and favorite colors at some point.
So, hi there! My name’s Cadence – yes, the musical/military term – though lots of my friends call me “C..” But please, I beg you, don’t call be “Candice,” it’s a seriously sore spot. I’m married to Jeff, formerly known as J.. Everything else you already know: we’re moving to the UK (I just got back from my visa appointment, actually, a grueling 5 hour process factoring travel), he’s an accountant, I’m a freelancer/TBD, and we’re making the rest up as we go along. Howdy.
Back to your regularly scheduled linkage.
I love this gallery of old “seabathing” photos. Thinking about how many clothes people at the turn of the century wore compared to now, you can see why the bathing costume, which looks ridiculously covered up to us, was such a scandalous garment back then.
The heat this week has been insane (though in our neck of the woods it’s mostly been a mass of thunderstorms).
David Suchet IS Poirot, I will fight anyone who says differently. Here’s a charming short film he did about the Orient Express, created for his much anticipated role in Murder On the Orient Express Poirot film. The best part is the little old lady who teases him in mock alarm because if he’s about, someone must be dead!
There are a number of reasons I get huffy when people, usually not related to me, ask when Jeff and I are going to get around to having babies. First of all, unless we’re close friends, it’s well and truly none of your damn business. But close behind this primary irritation is the fact that these people, who are so apparently invested in my as-yet-non-existent spawn, will not be contributing in any substantial way to the care and maintenance of said tadpole. Which means, I firmly believe, that they don’t get a vote in any way, shape, or form. If you’re not going to help feed, tend, monitor, psychologically mess up or in any way help me parent this prospective kid, you don’t get to tell me I should be having one, ask me why I haven’t had one, or lecture me about how selfish I am for not having one. Simply bearing, to say nothing of raising, the next twig of my family tree is a hilariously priced venture in this country, as this piece from the NYT making the social media rounds lays out well. I could rant about this a lot longer, but I’ll just say that simply continuing the human race shouldn’t be this costly, especially while still delivering (no pun intended) one of, if not the highest rate of natal and maternal deaths in the developed world.
Of course it has a cocktail already. Gah, that poor kid.
Pinterest find of the week. This hilarious board follows the future exploits of “Quinoa,” the fake future daughter of the creator and all her ludicrously well dressed and celebrity-baby-oddly-named compatriots. Seriously, the names slay me.
I’ve baked my summer pies for the year, but you minions get on this and report back.
Small Dog Syndrome 