More of a Potato Chowder Maid than anything.

My Mom and I have been reading some books lately. Mostly about the Sweet Potato Queens. They're so much fun! Apparently the SPQs go sashaying through life and love with cute majorette boots on their feet, a tiara on their heads, and a margarita in their hands, leaving broken hearts, besotted admirers, empty wallets, and bare dessert tables in their wake.

I've recently found out that my own mother is a SPQ, Barrow chapter. Wow. The only trouble is, these books cause Mom to turn a perhaps slightly critical eye to the mousiest, most hermity, least heartbreaking/besotting/emptying/baring of all her daughters. (That would be me.)

"So!" she says, out of the blue. "What have we done to reel in a husband?" And while I sputtered over that, I get to hear about all the intensities of life I'm missing because, as it turns out, I'm not living life to the fullest. I already knew that. I'm in Barrow, for crying out loud. I don't even go outside half the time. And I was never the go out/meet people/party/run around/social butterfly type. I was always the stay home and read type. I don't know why that was expected to change after three years of isolation in an Alaskan bush town. The SPQ herself said that people don't change as they get older, they just get more of what they already were. And in my bookwormy, homebody case, that much is true.

(no subject)

Wrote a Hellsing drabble today. Also walked to the library. My legs were burning at the halfway point but I perservered. Twas cold and windy, but the wind was to my back, so I went on anyway. Didn't find the book I was looking for. (The Dragaeran books by Steven Brust have been very highly recommended, but alas were not there.) I did however impress the librarian with my knowledge of how many HP books there were and in what order. Bwaha.

I ran into the missionaries on the way back (which was decidely worse since the wind was to my face and my glasses kept freezing up.) They seemed in good spirits for children sent out into a blizzard to convert the unwilling. Poor things.