I Am What I Read

For the last fortnight or so, the weather has been unbearably hot; thus I have dared not venture forth, even to the library. Darn! It’s happening again! I’ll start over.

During this heat wave, I haven’t been to the library. I have had to hit my own bookshelves for reading material. This week I chose Anne Perry’s Victorian mysteries featuring Inspector Pitt and his wife, Charlotte. Ms. Perry gives us a view of Victorian London that spans the squalor of the rookeries to the hypocrisy, glitter, and moral squalor of the upper echelons of society. I find the role of women of the era appalling, but interesting. Besides, Ms. Perry’s plots are entertaining.

Last night I realized that perhaps reading six books in three days may constitute an OD of sorts.

Mr. Fixit was at Jason’s to help him replace the backyard fence. I glanced up at the clock noting the time, 9:45 pm. These thoughts went through my mind. “I should call Mr. Fixit. I fear that he may have met with some unfortunate accident.” What? “I fear. . .?” I was thinking in Victorian English.

I have to admit similar things have happened before. A few weeks ago I watched a “Thin Man” marathon. Suddenly, I felt the urge for martinis for breakfast; I almost referred to Mr. Fixit as Mr. Fixit Darling, and considered giving the white cat a name—Asta would have been perfect. My language could be described as snappy repartee for a few days.

If I decide to read Edgar Derr Biggers and watch a few Charlie Chan DVD’s, will I start quoting the wisdom of my ancient ancestors and referring to my children as Number One Son and Number Son?

After reading “The Whistle Stop Café” by Fannie Flagg last week, the phrases, “Isn’t that just precious?” and “Bless her heart” crossed my mind several times.

If I read Mickey Spillane or Hammett or watch a few Bogart DVD’s, will I think of men as “mugs” or refer to women as “dames, skirts, dolls, or babes?”

If I elevate my taste in literature to say, Shakespeare, will I be hark-ing, forsooth-ing, and gadzook-ing all over the place? When doing the laundry will I suddenly shout “Out! Out damned spot!” When Mr. Fixit is late, will I think “Mr. Fixit, Mr. Fixit! Wherefore art thou, Mr. Fixit?”

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Since I posted the above, the punctuation of the last paragraph has been driving me nuts! Where are the punctuation police when you need them?

Oh, and lest you think (here we go again) my knowledge of Mr. Shakespeare and his work is sadly lacking, I know that it is highly improbable that he ever used the term “Gadzooks.” It might have been fun if Petruchio had said to Kate, “Gadzooks, Woman! You are a royal pain in the arse!”

I find it a wonderful word. Perhaps I’ll start using it instead that rather earthy four-letter word that sometimes flows trippingly over my tongue and lips in times of stress or anger. “Gadzooks, I burned the cornbread again!”