So I went back to figure out what number of the Compendia this should be… and realized I haven’t posted a Compendium since August . No wonder I’ve got like 50 tabs open. So here are a smattering: I want to buy this computer. I think I really will. The American Chesterton Society has virtual meetings!! And they’re on Mondays! I might have to participate one of these coming months… (Kudos to my sissy for the link!) What kind of book reader are you? The Atlantic Wire will tell you. I think I’m a chronological reader: You are the tortoise to the promiscuous reader's distracted-at-any-turn hare. You buy a book, you read it. You buy another, you read it. Perhaps you borrow a book at the library. You read it, and then you return it, and you get another, which you will read. You may not remember where you began, what the first book that kicked it all off was, and you likely have no idea where you'll end, but the point is, you will go through each book methodically and reasonabl

If you’ve met me in person, you know how much I hate the cold. I like socks. I love coats. I adore blankets, gloves and hats. I’m best friends with my scarf. But surrounded by all these bosom buddies, I’m still a pitiful mess if subjected to temperatures below about 58 degrees. So what do I do when it’s cold outside at a reenactment? Well, my usual go-to solutions are out. (They’re all made of non-period-correct materials in non-period-correct patterns using non-period-correct machine stitching.) So I wear an old wool tablecloth that doubles nicely as a wrap/shawl thing. It’s adequate, but not ideal, to be sure. So at the reenactment’s evening dance, I was happy to be someplace – at last! – where the heat was trapped enough to provide about 68  degrees of temperature. And then the dancing began. I was supremely happy to be almost sweating. So you know how guys are always reluctant to get up and ask a girl to dance? Apparently that transcends time. But one of my cousins did decide

This is my favorite holiday. It’s all the family togetherness and gratefulness to God without all the stress of Christmas. This year, I’m mainly thankful for my family and my best friends from college. I could have the best job and the most awesome possessions, but none of it would mean anything without them; but with them, I could be working at a school supply warehouse all my life and living out of a basement and still be happy! But I’m also thankful for: Peanut butter fudge Sweet potatoes Texting Christmas lights Guitar music Gloves Car wax Socks Back pillows Laptops The internet Sewing machines Glasses Card games Facebook (never thought you’d see that on my thankful list, did ya?) …and lots of other trivial things. But I digress. Since the Thanksgiving holiday has officially come, I allowed myself the inaugural Christmas gesture: I put up my Christmas tree this morning before going to work! It’s a Goodwill find, and it’s all intact and it even came with that ti

Back when I was mulling my art gallery choices – the modern art gallery or the portrait gallery – the hotel concierge had confirmed my inkling that the modern art gallery charged admission, but entrance to the National Portrait Gallery was free, as it was a portion of the Smithsonian. Or, I had already paid for it, he clarified, by being an American. Well, if tax dollars are going to support part of the Smithsonian, they must’ve paid for some high-end museum planners, because the exhibits were enthralling. Washington: US History Museum VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

I’m such a nerd, I wanted to dress up like I was back in Jane Austen’s time. Well,  maybe not for that precise reason. I wanted to participate in a reenactment, and conveniently, my cousins were planning on going to one they’ve done for the last five years that’s not too far from my new home. It was set in the War of 1812 time period – like much of Indiana history is – so I was tasked with sewing myself a period-correct dress, complete with all visible stitching done by hand. So there I was, perched on a Windsor-style wooden chair in my bright red linen dress. (Side note: I hate empire-waist dresses, but I suffered through this one all weekend for the sake of faithfulness to the period fashions. Would I ever do something like that for modern fashions? Nope. Call me inconsistent.) My cousins were all around, likewise attired in an oh-so-obsolete manner. We had two chickens trapped in a period-correct, reed-woven chicken cage. Then the kiddies came along and wanted to pet the chicke

Two or three guys enter the hall to the upstairs apartment. I, the innocent little downstairs-dweller, am sitting here. This is what I hear through the thin wall. “That smells like poop.” Some rustling. Mumble, mumble, mumble. Keys unlock the upstairs door. Sniff, grunt, mumble. (What, are they drunk or something? It’s too early.) “Yeah, that’s what Brian’s like…” and some strange groaning. Laughter. Dragging some sort of tarp-sounding thing upstairs. A chime or something. Singing. Yes, singing. More speech I can’t make out. A large burp. Whistling. And it’s not me. Talking. “Huh?” No response. “What? Where’d he go? There it is.” “Yep, it’s still there.” More tarp rustling. Mumbling. “No they’re not.” Mumbling. “Huh?” More mumbling. These guys have communication problems. I think I hear a TV or something. Singing… Speech. “Whoa, juice!” (Well, that’s what it sounded like.) ---------------------- No joke. I really did hear that in the last three minutes. I