I hadn’t realized what a drag on my daily energy level wading through the mod queue was. This morning, as I remarked to the Selkie, I feel like I’m firing on all cylinders again. It’s amazing how many people misconstrue politeness, silence, or reticence as weakness.
The sun is out, though it’s a trifle chilly. Not a deep freeze, just what my grandfather would have called a “frost on the punkin morning.” I sent off a clutch of emails I owed to varying people as I was absorbing coffee, and now am struck with the thought that perhaps some of them were not quite grammatical. Oh well. This bothers me, in that it may be perceived as impoliteness.
I have mad thoughts of embarking on a grand experiment–a month, or three months, or even (if I get really, really ambitious) a year of following Amy Vanderbilt’s etiquette rules. (Except the horrid ones, like the homophobic bits the linked article points out.) I am a naturally rather formal person anyway–at least, to strangers. I can engage in great doses of informality, when appropriate, but by and large I won’t call you by your first name until given clear permission, I will hold doors, I will say please, thank you, and beg your pardon, and it’s an effort to say “nice to meet you” instead of “how do you do.” (Nobody says “how do you do” anymore. This is a fact I mourn daily.)
*looks over previous paragraph* I am parenthetical today too, it seems.
Miss B is heavily engaged in her post-run coma, possibly internally cataloguing all the delicious and varied smells she gorged on while we ran. I shall leave her to it and get cleaned up, throw on my I can kill you with my brain T-shirt, and begin the day’s work. The current book is about super-secret agents infected with a super-secret virus, and I am having a delirious amount of fun with it. More on that later, when I’m allowed to announce…certain things.
Come along then, Readers. Let’s kick Tuesday in the pants as it deserves.