I’m a translating fool.

The problem with working at the kitchen table is that anyone and everyone can come in and use it and talk to me when I’m trying to do my Latin, as though it’s perfectly all right. If I had my own desk in my own office or study or den or whatever, even a quiet corner in a part of the house that no one else uses, it would be a different story. Sadly, it’s not the case. So I work at the kitchen table, talking out loud to myself, looking up Latin words, cursing because I can’t find their definitions because they are in some conjugation that changes the stem, and my husband, a really nice guy most of the time, comes downstairs, gets himself a snack, and starts talking to me about something in the newspaper, or something else, and I finally tell him, after I haven’t been listening to him, that I’m working honey, would you mind not talking to me. And of course, he gets that hurt look about him, and there isn’t a goddamned thing I can do about it.

So, apart from all that, we had our last belly dancing course last night and I came home feeling a little ill from all the spinning around (there’s one spot where we do four quick pirouettes) because I can’t get the spotting thing to work for me at high speeds. I tried to do some translating at the kitchen table, but Hubby and Buddy Boy were watching MI3 downstairs, with the volume way up, and it was too distracting, so I went downstairs to join them, after having missed the first part of the film. I watched for a while, but it was too much for my poor addled brain, visually and aurally, and I gave up at the point where Ethan’s wife has been kidnapped from the hospital and he is apprehended by his boss. Any more crazy camera work and I thought I would be sick.

Since he is broke, Buddy Boy has offered to make cookies for us all as long as we pick out a recipe from the book I bought him several of years ago. I think that means that I buy the ingredients, but he actually does the work. Well, I guess I can handle that.

Salvete!

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