![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
First, some quick notes on readables:
I somehow missed the fact that Tom Piccirilli had a novel out about the unnamed necromancer and his familiar Self. I loved those characters--I picked up a tiny little 124-page short story collection called Pentacle back about seven or eight years ago, and it was (and still is) like nothing else I've seen. Stories written in modern prose and feeling like they should be illustrated with woodcuts. A Choir of Ill Children didn't grab me, but for the necromancer and Self I will happily pick up another paperback. (Even with the god-awful eighties evil jester cover art which I *swear* I have seen before, somewhere. I mean, come on. The necromancer and Self, and they can't come up with better cover art than this?)
Also, ran across the poem "A Martian Sends a Postcard Home", by Craig Raine. Short little thing--thirty-four lines long--and weirdly... elegant. Not beautiful, but elegant. (William Caxton, by the way, was the first English printer, setting up a press at Westminster in 1476. His translation of "The Recuyell of the Histories of Troye" was the first book printed in the English language.)
--------
The end result of redying your hair and not covering it at work for the first time in months on the same day as you wear the skirt you finished sewing is that no-one notices the skirt. This is probably okay; if my judgement that it's work-suitable was off, I am *sure* someone would have said something.
Also, I've lost weight since cutting out the pattern and the skirt is lined (a.k.a. slippery), so it tends to slip around to the left. The weight of my pass-clip fixes that, so it's not an issue if I'm at work, but I will look at fixing that either by adding another dart or by putting elastic in the waist.
--------
BPAL's Typhon? *Does not* work on me.
Typhon: A fearsome creature from Greek lore. Typhon was born from the marriage of Earth and Hell, and is said to be so terrible in aspect that even the gods themselves flee from his venomous gaze. Our own blend of Earth and Hell: red patchouli, sandalwood, black musk and vetiver.
Right out of the imp, it's woody and raw; that's sandalwood and vetiver, I think. On my skin, they combine in an odd way and I'm getting hints of mint.
5 minutes; a kind of rich lather scent coming in; I'm guessing that's the patchouli and bits of the black musk. To clarify; it's not soapy, despite what the word "lather" may suggest. Just very soft. Reminds me of how good it feels to have someone shampoo my hair.
30 minutes: ugh. The vetiver and either the patchouli or the musk are teaming up, and the tang of the former with the richness of the latter means it's smelling like sweat. Yuck.
2 hours: mellowed out of the body odour thing, but nothing special--woody-musky, mostly. Just not doing it for me.
--------
End-of-the-month bills were taken care of, even before the insurance payment for my teeth came in. And I walked down to CIBC and paid the registration fee for Sunday's Run for the Cure.
It's weird. I don't feel like I've been productive. And yet it seems like it slipped in there sometime over the last week.
I somehow missed the fact that Tom Piccirilli had a novel out about the unnamed necromancer and his familiar Self. I loved those characters--I picked up a tiny little 124-page short story collection called Pentacle back about seven or eight years ago, and it was (and still is) like nothing else I've seen. Stories written in modern prose and feeling like they should be illustrated with woodcuts. A Choir of Ill Children didn't grab me, but for the necromancer and Self I will happily pick up another paperback. (Even with the god-awful eighties evil jester cover art which I *swear* I have seen before, somewhere. I mean, come on. The necromancer and Self, and they can't come up with better cover art than this?)
Also, ran across the poem "A Martian Sends a Postcard Home", by Craig Raine. Short little thing--thirty-four lines long--and weirdly... elegant. Not beautiful, but elegant. (William Caxton, by the way, was the first English printer, setting up a press at Westminster in 1476. His translation of "The Recuyell of the Histories of Troye" was the first book printed in the English language.)
--------
The end result of redying your hair and not covering it at work for the first time in months on the same day as you wear the skirt you finished sewing is that no-one notices the skirt. This is probably okay; if my judgement that it's work-suitable was off, I am *sure* someone would have said something.
Also, I've lost weight since cutting out the pattern and the skirt is lined (a.k.a. slippery), so it tends to slip around to the left. The weight of my pass-clip fixes that, so it's not an issue if I'm at work, but I will look at fixing that either by adding another dart or by putting elastic in the waist.
--------
BPAL's Typhon? *Does not* work on me.
Typhon: A fearsome creature from Greek lore. Typhon was born from the marriage of Earth and Hell, and is said to be so terrible in aspect that even the gods themselves flee from his venomous gaze. Our own blend of Earth and Hell: red patchouli, sandalwood, black musk and vetiver.
Right out of the imp, it's woody and raw; that's sandalwood and vetiver, I think. On my skin, they combine in an odd way and I'm getting hints of mint.
5 minutes; a kind of rich lather scent coming in; I'm guessing that's the patchouli and bits of the black musk. To clarify; it's not soapy, despite what the word "lather" may suggest. Just very soft. Reminds me of how good it feels to have someone shampoo my hair.
30 minutes: ugh. The vetiver and either the patchouli or the musk are teaming up, and the tang of the former with the richness of the latter means it's smelling like sweat. Yuck.
2 hours: mellowed out of the body odour thing, but nothing special--woody-musky, mostly. Just not doing it for me.
--------
End-of-the-month bills were taken care of, even before the insurance payment for my teeth came in. And I walked down to CIBC and paid the registration fee for Sunday's Run for the Cure.
It's weird. I don't feel like I've been productive. And yet it seems like it slipped in there sometime over the last week.