Friday at last!

Who wants to dive out that door into the ocean with me?

This week has been punctuated with something I’ve never had to deal with before:


Apparently DC is a virtual island of terrible allergens.  Even those among us — like myself — who didn’t have allergies in their native states are often struck down upon moving to the District.

Truthfully, I’ve always considered allergies to be sort of silly.  You sneeze a few times, maybe pump your inhaler, and you’re fine.  But after the awful cold-that-isn’t-a-cold I’ve had this week, I feel you, allergic friends.  I feel you.

Suddenly, every beautiful green thing looks like the enemy.

Someday I hope to look at a blooming tree without cringing, but in the meantime, we have some things to talk about …

Before Wild: outdoor adventure memoirs written by women.

Pre-Revolution Russia, in color.

Trying to explain mansplaining.  Boy, do I know mansplaining.  My favorite (and simultaneously least-favorite, because it was painful) example was on a first date at the National Zoo, when the man I was with walked ahead to every enclosure so he could quickly read the plaque and then lecture me on the animal.  I’ve been reading since I was 5, thank you very much. It got even worse when he decided to tell me all he knows about the Library of Congress.  I work there.  He doesn’t. There wasn’t a second date.

Shakespeare’s obituaryà la The New York Times: “According to the images that survive of him, Mr. Shakespeare was on the balding side and looked surprisingly good with an earring.”

Chernobyl 30 years later, in pictures.  I look at these and wonder whose ledger that is, who last slept in that bed …

F. Scott Fitzgerald in Minnesota.  Remember that time I stalked his Summit Avenue apartments? You think I was lying about that roll into the bushes.  I was not.

You know that heartachy feeling when you’ve finished a beautiful book and can’t think what to do next?  This book finder might help.  It makes recommendations based on what you’ve already read and loved.

Speaking of book heartaches, last night I finished the stunning When Breath Becomes Air.  Pick it up on a day when you can lie in bed and read the entire thing (it’s only 200 pages long), and don’t skip the forward or the epilogue; they’ll make you cry, too.


What are you up to this weekend?

I have some highly secretive Mothers Day plotting to do, Claritin to gobble, and a dress to buy.  Because darn it, I want a new dress.

Have a good one!

P.S. For those of you suffering through finals right now: keep your heads upYou will survive.


Image source: Rooms By the Sea, Edward Hopper, 1951, Yale University Art Gallery

Note: This post isn’t written on behalf of nor endorsed by the Library of Congress.  Nevertheless, it’s a magnificent place.  Come visit sometime.

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