Missus Magpie has been on a hiatus. I didn't think it mattered much but I recently found out a select few are actually interested in reading the nonsense I'm posting here. So, now I feel a moral obligation to give y'all some updates. Sometimes, it's actually hard to remember what I did with myself. Luckily, I keep a calendar with all the essential stuff outlined. In the past few weeks, there have been many overtime hours racked up at the paper. The news of our governor, James McGreevey, going all nelly on us has kept things hopping around here. The governor's mansion is named Drumthwacket. I try to work saying that name into as many conversations as possible in a day. The word really is delightful. I feel like Elmer Fudd and Mae West�s love child as I let it roll across my tongue. You try it. Drumthwacket. Yes, that's good. Drumthwacket. The Republicans arrival in Manhattan is also another complex news event that is taking up quite a bit of my time. It's only Tuesday and I've already put in ten hours of overtime. But enough about the news, that monopolizes enough of my hours. I'm happy to report I have snuck some good things into my pockets along the way recently as well. I have been longing to post about the Little Steven Underground Garage Festival. It's a good story, I promise but it will have to wait a bit longer. If the Modern Age can wait a month to post the Siren Fest review and then reveal she didn't even stay for the whole show, then a break should be given to a newbie blogger like myself for not being organized enough to post about the biggest, coolest show of the summer which I viewed from the front row and survived-including Iggy Pop. Enough teasing, I'll post all the dirt soon with photos as well. In the wee hours of the morning after I come home from work, I am forced to entertain myself in weird ways. Lately, I've had a jones for Colin Firth. I rented Pride and Prejudice. At an epic six hours, it took a few nights to get through it all. My friend, Jet, told me Firth smolders as Mr. Darcy. I scoffed, thinking Firth is simply a standup, all around, lovable stuffy English chap and not really the smoldering type. Well, I stand corrected. I'm not going to say I'm quite as taken as the character, Bridget Jones, she meets Firth to interview him and can only repeatedly ask him about Mr. Darcy emerging from a lake in a wet shirt. I thought Helen Fielding was genius when she wrote that passage and it's even funnier to me now that I've seen the inspiration. Rather unlike myself, I've spent more than a few occasions lately throwing back some cocktails. Ms. Moona and I indulged in blood orange martinis with brunch in New Hope,PA on a ridiculously perfect Sunday afternoon. The following Saturday, we convened at Cyndemouse's house to help her make room in her newly organized liquor bar. What started out as a friendly dinner party for the bad girl posse turned in a cocktail and cookie party. Dinner was forgotten when we opened the box of rainbow sprinkle festooned goodies I couldn't resist at DelPonte's Bakery in Bradley Beach earlier in the day. Mouse started us out with a round of mojitos. Ms. Moona arrived and stirred up several batches of her Crystal Meth Cosmos (Stoli, Rose's lime, white cranberry juice and raspberry Crystal Light). Then Mouse decided to experiment with the liquors. This is where things get ugly. She cracked open the creme de menthe. And mixed it with gin. When that proved undrinkable she added seltzer. This combo was dubbed the Scopes Monkey Trial because J-Po deemed it too mouthwashy to bear. Taking a different tack, Mouse added soy milk to the concoction which we called Bong water. Please, I beg you not to attempt to make these drinks at home. They suck. Suddenly, my head was gripped in a throbbing spasm that did not dissipate until I was home hours later tucked into bed with an Aleve in my mouth and a dog tucked under each arm. My stomach the next day, well, it's best left unsaid really. Needing some quiet time after that adventure, I read The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother by James McBride this week. My friend, Tess, a high school English teacher, has it on her curriculum this year. The story is particularly relevant to her school district, which has a high population of African-American and Jewish students. The book is the story of McBride's mother, a Orthodox Jew who left home in the 30's, married a black man and had twelve children. I wasn�t expecting to be impressed by the story but it drew me in. I didn't know McBride was a writer as well as a sax player, so I was pleasantly surprised with the writing. If you are interested in stories of coming of age, questioning identity, race or family relationships, I think you'll find this a satisfying read. Tess let me borrow the book and another, Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood until school starts. Looks like I'll be reading the Atwood book this week, too. Then I can give Tess a full report. I love talking about books with her. She gets so charged up. Recently, she was telling me I need to reexamine Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Which makes me wonder. When is it okay to go back? With so many books still unread, movies yet to been is it okay to spend time returning to the same ones over and over? Will The Idiot by Dostoyevsky rock my world now the way that it did a decade ago?