I never read Robert Louis Stevenson's novels so the closest children's piracy novel for me is Peter Duck. Charles Hawes is somewhat more serious than Arthur Ransome, and the first half or so is of the finest swashbuckliness I could want. Hawes didn't expect to die ony two years after this won the Newbery, because it's set up for a sequel--even in 1924--in a way that The Story of Dr. Dolittle, in 1922, is not (Dr. Dolittle's adventures are each independent of the others). The protagonist--not nearly Will Turner, though the latter surely owes a debt to Phil--does the right thing more easily than Johnny Tremain does, but the eve of revolution shtick and the proximity of my readings made them similar.
Without a chaperone I am a lazy sot with the diet of a spoiled 7-year-old (did Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle treat a picky eater? I remember a mother calling other mothers and learning the bizarre and restricted diets of other children, but she never dealt with finickyism...did she?*). I have been tracking my poundage and fat percentage since June, with no cumulative change. Because I haven't tried, because I eat peanut butter toast and cookies and chocolate candy, because I don't exercise enough, because I am not active enough, and because my diet (and I mean "what I eat" and not Atkins or Grapefruit etc.) sucks.
So let's see what we can change.
This morning I had my teeth counted (Tales of a Fourth-Grade Nothing) and shined ("Firefly"--I don't think "Firefly" had dentistry but they did say "shiny" instead of "cool."). Dr. Dentist said I must have to dim my teeth for oncoming traffic, and I said yes, I am on call on Dec. 24 in case Rudolph is sick. He laughed at that, and said, "That was funny!" as if in surprise. Hmph.
Later he palpated my face, one hand in my mouth, one hand under my jaw-- checking for cancer of the chin, I guess, but reminding me that I should schedule my annual gynecological examination. This I did not tell him.
And then the cleaning! I started what is supposed to be fall but is really quadrennial cleaning. My study could wait until this winter, when supposedly I am going to paint it, but it was fun and easy so yesterday I started there. From the floor of my study to that of the den I removed the gateleg table, the futon, the floor pillows, the little bookcase, the camp mattresses, the little chest of drawers, the old Apple printer, the not-as-old photo printer, the surge protector, the two cassette tape cases that live under the futon, and the box of travel memorabilia I am never going to make into albums.
I stripped the walls of posters and photographs, dusted the ceilings and walls, emptied the two bookcases and the shelves, tipped the cases over to dust and vacuum behind them, removed the shelves to clean them, reshelved dusted books, and reorganized photographs in frames and collages. I threw out dry pens and little bits of this and that and remembered that I have an address book (a gift from PGN when I went off to college, with its address in SMS's bright pink handwriting already entered) wherein to store slips of addresses.
The purging of tapes was ruthless. ITunes has enabled me to get rid of many 20-year-old tapes that I hadn't listened to in 10 but somehow was keeping for archival or nostalgic purposes--such the Flock of Seagulls' "I Ran," which is perhaps the most embarrassing of my recent purchases. I still need Men Without Hats' "Safety Dance." ITunes should offer a wishlist as Amazon does. Now I have one 50-cassette box, way less than full.
When I put away my haul from the used book store crawl last Sunday, I discovered two copies of The Stranger, which I previously might have kept on purpose because one is RDC's Vintage edition and therefore nicer than the Signet pulp I had in high school, but that Signet matches the Signet Fall I had in college. This time I tossed it into the give-away pile. This time I discovered One Hundred Years of Solitude twice on my favorites shelf, once in a good trade paperback on the main shelf and again in pulp on the shelf constrained by the brackets to hold only pulp and no bigger books. Plus it's in the main stacks (ha!) again in pulp under G. Though not for a fourth time under M. So I tossed the worse of the two pulps.
Also, and this is huge, I actually noted the poster sizes of Starry Night and Jack in the Pulpit No. IV so that I can buy frames for them. Oo, and I should get the size of Picasso's Columbe avec Fleurs, which hangs in the den, as well. Especially since its bottom hem is all pinked from when I had the couch against that wall while painting the doors and someone amused himself by gnawing the poster.
We are having Dot Com guests in two weeks and until they are gone, Blake is not allowed on the topmost shelf, which has been his for some time. My writing books, on the second shelf, do not soldier along at the edge of the shelf but an inch back, safe from the bolt of Tash falling from above (do I have that right?). On the top shelf are art supplies in boxes, which he chews on, and a basket I was given, which I gave to him, also for chewing, and a peacock feather. But, as of last night, no poop, no chewed scraps of box and basket and feather.
Tuesday I start the den--the main library, from Kundera to Z; nonfiction; the television shrine with its shelves of CDs, VHS cassettes, DVDs, and practical books (the other nonfiction). If I got that book cataloging software, it would just feed my obsessive tendencies. I would arrange the books according to LOC (grudgingly, I admit it makes more sense than Dewey), more than they are already.
* In the Slow-Eater-Tiny-Bite-Taker cure, Wetherill Crankminor won't stop eating and Pergola Wingsproggle horrifies her mother by sometimes chewing her food only 71 or 93 times instead of 100, but it is in the Bad Table Manners cure that we hear of Percy, Pamela, and Potter Penzil eating peanut butter and poppy seeds (only at night), weenies and bananas, and junk food. Dear Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle.