Sunday, November 18, 2007


Rimidalv! (that’s your name backwards)

Long time no post ... So how was your Halloween? Any events of particular insanity? Did you egg a house? Trick-or-treat? Kiss a girl (ha ha, you don’t have to tell me …) Pete and I went to a party as his friend Max’s house, Pete was a slickster senator and I was a toilet stall—we were so politically on-message—and my stall was excellent, graffiti-on-cardboard and massive amounts of toilet paper stuck to my shoe. We got a prize—one dozen caramel candy apples. The vote for worst costume went to Art Wechler, for his cumbersome invention that he called “Happy Hour.” Which was basically Art wearing a shirt made out of Ritz crackers and real, processed cheese, plus swizzle sticks and olives glues to various body parts. I brushed up against him and didn’t smell right for three days. But it was good times, I love Halloween. Didn't get much chance to talk to Dylan Easterby, though. Swarms and schools and hives of females chase him down wherever he is...

But Halloween is a distant memory, compared with what we're doing now-- trimester finals. We have them mid-Nov, end of Feb, and early June. Just to make sure that nobody is too psyched for Thanksgiving, Spring Break, or Summer vacation.

In other news, Dad’s sister, my Aunt Malin is staying with us this week thru Thanksgiving. She is an Old World hybrid who is also a fortune-teller slash herbalist slash troublemaker. First thing she did when she got here was throw peppercorns in the carpets “to blow out the ghosts” and we’ve all been sneezing our hearts out. She read my cards and told me: “forget all about the last four hundred years, Lexie, your heart-wrenching, hirsute, hoary love is just around the corner.” So I looked up hirsute and it means: HAIRY. Yich! I have decided not to go around any corners for the next few months.

Auntie Malin also taught me how to make short-term-memory-loss-pumpkin-pie. She's an herbalist, after all. You have to use real pumpkins, and brush them with Malin’s Madderberry Juice while they roast, then after 130 minutes, you open the oven and mutter the name of your intended victim. I took the pie into school and gave it to Mrs. Dowd, my chemistry teacher slash intended victim, who them totally forgot to give us her weekly quiz. How cool is that? Just when I'd lost faith in my own ability to be completely superstitous. Anyway, delete this incriminating email after reading …

What’s going on with you????
Fill me in on the deets.

Your bestest herbalist slash vampish pal, L.