That happens whenever he makes an event for Google Calendar from Thunderbird. Somehow it defaults to private events and doesn't show any of the details. I have been very serious about his "busy" times this semester, trying not to chat with him over IM even if he's online and other such things.
We just discovered that when his calendar says "busy" on my end it isn't necessarily all that important on his end. Glad we got that cleared up.
Anyway, I just opened up the "details" of my "library books due" appointment for today (which I missed and had to send Andrew scurrying off to the library to attend for me). This is what it said:
Guess how much I love youAndrew, who isn't egocentric at all, saw the first line and assumed that I had hidden a love poem in a random event in our calendar for him. He stared at it for some time and then looked at me like I was slightly off my rocker.
the color kittens
the aunts go marching
a cat and a dog
winter days in the big woods
the noisy way to bed
a stolen tongue
the blue flower
angel pig and the hidden Christmas
you silly goose
my beak, your beak
do pigs have stripes
do monkeys tweet
That's 15 children's books and 2 of my books
Then he reached the last line and realized it was a list of all the books that were due...in the "library books due" appointment, go figure.
Apparently the exclamation mark on "baby day!" looks like poetic punctuation since I missed most capital letters and all other punctuation.
By the way, in case you're wondering. Rachel and I really liked "Do Pigs Have Stripes?" and "Do Monkeys Tweet?" and "Baby Day!" which we read over and over. We didn't so much enjoy the books that had more words than pictures. I don't know what Rachel's problem is...she has no attention span. But then again, I didn't really enjoy the books I checked out for myself all that much. I didn't finish either of them. I couldn't bring myself to. I need to check out some books that come recommended but those are forever on hold and I'm bored now.
Andrew just read the "poem" to me very rhythmically to show me that it could be a poem. A, quote, "twentieth-century, finger-snapping, weird poem" end quote. Perhaps I will compile all the lists of books I check out and publish them in an anthology. I've never been a fan of "twentieth-century" art, in any form, but hey, I don't have to read it.