Dear Wayback Machine

Dear Wayback Machine:

Thank you for helping me unearth some of the most cringe-worthy pieces of writing I've ever committed to paper and for capturing my barely passable web and graphic design skills and for reminding me once again just how unbearably pretentious and annoying I was in college.

It all started with Geocities...

Unfortunately, there isn't much archived from that page. Pity too. I had tabs called "art", "poetry" and "jesus". Although actually the Jesus link still works, and so does "quotes". And how about that awesome copyright?

geocities.com/dj_xia - about me page

Then I entered the world of domain names and Dreamweaver and voila. Superlori.com was born.

superlori.com

Then I got married and two websites (well a website and a Xanga) became one.  Meet the original scottandlori.co.uk.  This might be the most cringy thing I've ever seen. Complete with a "Books to Burn" list in the sidebar. Puuuuke.

scottandlori.co.uk - 2005

The site progressed, as websites do...

scottandlori.co.uk - 2006

These were the days of interactive images. (Go ahead, scroll over.)

scottandlori.co.uk - 2007

And everything was in web frames.

Finally I got tired of designing my own sites with Dreamweaver and resorted to using Blogger's own templates. Which I still use today because I finally realized I'm really not a web designer.

scottandlori.co.uk - July 2011

And to bring it all full circle, we finally managed to catch scottandlori.com after vying for it for years. The previous owners released it, and we snatched it up. We became a dot com.

scottandlori.com

Through these sites I found not just bad web design and embarrassing blog posts. I also found some essays I'd written in college. I'd like to share them with you, but I don't have it in me to be that self-deprecating.  My essay on the Jonathan Edwards' sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" for instance made me want to punch a baby penguin. My "creative non-fiction" piece about childhood imagination made me gag and roll my eyes and cry a little for what a terrible writer I was.  But I will give you this - the least cringe-worthy piece of them all - my creative response to John Donne's poem "The Flea".

Thank you, Wayback Machine. No really, I can't thank you enough. I now marvel at the fact I had any friends at all.  Ta.

Lori Arnold

WLIT

April 26,2001

The Flea's Response: A Letter To the Editor

Dear Editor:

My name is William J. Bennet, more infamously known as just "the flea". I am writing on behalf of a highly offensive poem published by Mr. John Donne. I am an upright citizen, who believes in morality and decency; this man has carelessly involved me in all sorts of indecorous deeds. I would like to state that I would never engage myself in the fornication or seduction of which he has accused me. In this letter, I would like to publicly state that I had nothing to do with the conspiracies of this man to entangle his mistress into the act of pre-marital lovemaking, and to correct any and all fallacies presented in his poem, "The Flea."

First, I would like to comment on his insulting remark regarding my size. He states "How little that which thou deny'st me is". Excuse me for having self-confidence, but I believe that, despite my size, I have worth. However, for the sake of argument, let us agree that I am quite small. Mr. Donne would like to imply that the act of fornication bears no more importance than a flea. This is simply not true; sex is created for marriage, and in my opinion, to take it out of that strict limitation is a far bigger ordeal on the Scale of Importance than what he perceives a flea to be.

Now I will admit that, yes, I did indeed bite both of them. However, Mr. Donne blew that mild and God-created instinct out of proportion. I bite because I am a flea; I bite because I am hungry. This is my humble rank in the food chain. I do not grumble over my existence; nay, I eat for survival and expect others to do the same. He is correct in saying that this is neither "a sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead." Yet, he then goes on to accuse me of enjoying the blood in a sexual manner. I, in no way, had the foul intentions of creating a "marriage bed", when in my stomach their "two bloods mingled be." I am a flea. Yes, I enjoyed my meal, but the implications made were simply horrifying. Mr. Donne goes even further to say that what I have done was so crass that it was more than what his mistress would do with him. These accusations are so humiliating that I am red-faced just addressing them.

Mr. Donne seems to have the idea that three lives now exist within me. Before I go on, allow me to point out the ludicrousness of this point. If he would like to believe that now they are "more than married" because his blood was mingled with hers, then he must also believe that he is "more than married" to the ten other people who I had bitten within that same period of time. But to remain on topic, Mr. Donne tries to convince this chaste woman that in me lays their only "marriage temple," of which I have already stated was purely coincidental. I would like to say that no "temple" has been crafted inside me that would compromise anyone's morality, as would be the case in this particular circumstance. I shall never approve of pre-marital intercourse, and therefore would never help others to facilitate it.

I must commend this woman for staying true to the morals instilled in her by the church and her parents. Mr. Donne seems to ridicule her for it, and perhaps even shame her, comparing the provision of her parents to a prison of darkness. I can even forgive her for her murderous intentions, for at least they were sincere. Mr. Donne shows no sincerity when he beckons her to resist. His only argument was that if she killed me, she would not only be committing one crime, but three: two murders, and a suicide. He reasons that he and she live in me, and I adamantly refute that. I am outraged by the despicable and cunning techniques he uses in his attempt to convince her to participate in his debauchery. He has turned her own convictions against her, causing confusion over which deeds are ethically better or worse. If this were not wicked enough, he involves me, an innocent passer-by, in his vile machinations!

I must now clear up yet another misrepresentation. His lady did not kill me. On the contrary, I promptly left the scene after biting the couple. I had a stomachache and needed a respite. Hours later, I was informed that a dear companion of mine, Donald McNeil, was mistaken for me and "purpled thy nail" of Mr. Donne's mistress. Truly it was the "blood of innocence." I weep now, remembering my friend and how his life could have been spared had not Mr. Donne brought us into his extended metaphor, his conceit. My pain increased when I read his careless remark about the situation. The only thought on this man's mind was sex. He had asked her before to spare my life, even though for selfish gain, but that was put-on. I realized he did not care whether I lived or died when, instead of rebuking his mistress, he uses the opportunity to make another point for his defense. He has the audacity to tell her that by murdering the flea she mistook for me no harm was done, similar to the harmlessness that would ensue after an unbridled sexual experience with him. I find this purely offensive.

I took this poem to be a personal assault on my character. I do hope that in writing this letter I have sufficiently cleared my name and regained my dignity. Once more I declare that I am innocent of these accusations brought before me in this poem by Mr. John Donne.

Thank you,

Mr. William J. Bennet

One Year Later: Throwback Thursday

I guess I should say something about this.

Today marks one full year we've been in Arkansas.

On June 17th, 2013, we stayed up well into the early hours of the 18th finalizing our packing - re-weighing all our suitcases, re-evaluating WHAT we packed, double checking all our documents, and eating chicken pakora and drinking Diet Irn Bru with family: Kate, Faisal, Adam, Andy and Marion. The girls slept on the one mattress still in our house. Jaguar, Scott and I slept on the floor on blankets getting taken the next day to the charity shop. The only things in the house besides that mattress and our suitcases were a few boxes of things to be delivered by Scott's parents to various places the next day and a few boxes of things the family was keeping for us until we would be able to bring it over to America at a later date.

On June 18th, 2013, Scott and I, our three kids, and Scott's mum Marion drove early to the airport with Scott's Dad, Kate, Faisal and Adam. We ate overpriced bagels in a coffee shop at the airport. We cried and hugged and said our last goodbyes. We boarded the plane and flew to America.

We should've arrived in Arkansas that night, but our flight had a problem. There were massive thunderstorms in Philadelphia, our port of entry. Our plane circled for a few nauseating turbulent hours, before running low on fuel. We were redirected to Baltimore to refuel, where we sat in an un-air conditioned plane on a hanger for an hour and a half, not knowing what was happening, everyone panicking about their connections. Fifinally we flew back to Philadelphia to an empty airport. Everyone who missed connections were given hotel and food vouchers.

We, however, with our twelve suitcases, had to wait for another hour or so in that empty airport, with staff giving us odd, suspicious looks, while Scott went through his Port of Entry Immigration procedure. Fifinally, he emerged from the immigration room with the final stamp of approval from the US government and a green card, and we lugged our suitcases and children (thank goodness Marion was traveling with us!) out to the curb to wait for a shuttle to take us to the hotel. We had to get twelve suitcases onto the tiny shuttle. It was almost midnight EST, which was 6am our body clocks' time. We'd been awake for over 24 hours.

We got to the hotel and unloaded twelve suitcases. We checked in. We took twelve suitcases up the elevator and rolled them down the hall to our two rooms, where we had to fit them all. Scott and I ordered dinner for everyone, our food vouchers barely covering the price of even half our meals. A glass of wine was almost $10. We managed to crawl in bed around 1am. We had to wake up at 4am to catch the shuttle to the airport to board our newly booked flights.

Three hours later, on June 19th, 2013, we woke up and rolled twelve suitcases down the hall, down the elevator, out the door and back onto a tiny shuttle. We took twelve suitcases and three children off the shuttle and into the airport where we waited in the check-in line. The woman did not have proof that we had purchased those six extra cases and thank heavens I'd shoved the receipt from the day before into my handbag, or she'd have made us pay another $600 to get them on the flight. We boarded a flight to Little Rock, Arkansas.

At about 10am, we arrived in our new home state. My mom and step-dad were waiting for us. With two extra adults to help us, we loaded twelve suitcases, three children and five adults into two cars. We pulled into my parents' driveway. We talked for a few minutes and then fell fast asleep.



We've been here one year. Within that one year, Scott and our children successfully immigrated to America, Scott got a job, I started a business and got a job, Fifi started a new school and Girl Scouts, Lolly started and completed a homeschool program, we got a house (rental) and a car, our kids played two seasons of soccer, Jaguar learned to walk and say a few words, we got two cats, made several friends, visited Seattle, WA, and countless other things that I'm sure will start popping into my head as soon as I hit 'publish'. It's been a long, eventful year. It's been really wonderful at times and really sad at others. Over all, we are happy. We know we made the right choice. While we have no intention of staying in central Arkansas forever, this is where we are right now, and slowly I'm learning to be okay with it, happy even.

It's been kind of an emotional few days as I've reminisced over what these days were like one year ago. We said a lot of sad goodbyes and a lot of excited hellos all in a matter of days. But when I think of where we've already come in just the space of 365 days, I'm amazed. Life is good. We are good. And it's only going to get better.

Hashtag TBT

It's embarrassingly been a whole week since I blogged last, and even though I've *thought* about blogging many times, I just, well, haven't.

So it's Thursday, and I'm insisting to myself that I post something, so it's another lame "hashtage TBT" day. Throwback Thursday.

(These are the photos I tried to scan in last week.)


Going way back, this is a picture of all the Cornerstone church youth group girls. We went to the Old Mill and like dorks got photos made. I look at this picture and think we are all such babies -- and now most of the ladies in this photo have babies themselves now! Cray cray.


I wouldn't be much of a good sister if I didn't post a dorky picture of my brothers. No idea what ages they were here, but it was a while ago, judging by that awesome wallpaper in the foyer.


College. Hair. Denim shirts, cardigans and "ironic" tshirts. College.

(Amanda, Erika and me.)


The last vestiges of Scott's lustrous long hair. This was before Stevie was a professional hair expert. I'm guessing he was just finishing school, judging by the signed tshirt look. Scott and I were only *barely* dating here. Had held hands at this point, I think. I can't believe I let -- encouraged, even -- him cut his hair. It was beautiful.

Happy Thursday, errbody!

Throwback Thursday at 11:11pm

Started feeling a little nostalgic tonight, so I got out an old shoebox of photos, with intent to scan them in and mock the people from my past.

Unfortunately, I'm an idiot and can't get them to scan to my new computer. So I just reviewed old Flickr photos instead.


Carol, Maria and I. We are now at three different corners of the earth, but I still love those two girls to death (and miss them all the time).


Scott and I on our second anniversary. We went to Inverrary for the weekend, with fetus Fifi in my belly. No wine for Lori on that trip!


Debbie and I on our Paris Day Out. So sorry for the crazy face photo, Debbie, but it's the only one I have that I am actually in. The other 21 photos in that album are all of Notre Dame.


Amanda and I and a box full of wigs. This photo is epic. I wonder if Amanda still has the giant blown up version I gave her for her birthday ten years ago? I'll maybe have to make her a new one as a wedding gift just in case she's lost it...


Fifinally, Gwen Stefani and two little Hannah Montanas. My Music-Mania 30th birthday party. Best birthday ever. :)

Throwback Thursday

In high school, my friends and I started a book. A part of the story would be written by someone and then left hanging at a crucial moment and passed to someone else to continue. The end result was a mixture of all of our individual narcissisms, ideologies, insecurities, obsessions with the sex we weren't actually having, passive aggressions, and opinions of each other, and very interestingly interspersed with the influence of all the literature we were reading in AP English. This book begins with:

"Once upon a time in the Land of Flowing Waters, lived a small community of students, dwelling together in a cottage. Life was grand to these people... Centuries later, we come to today. The community consisted of all punk teenagers."

And it ends with almost Hawthornian ambiguity:

"The club was a success until the monster Grendal..."

In between those pages were witch burnings, heists, multiple partner-swapping, betrayal, lies, poisonings, giant killer chickens and murder. Every once in a while, there were brief moments of happiness. This book is a classic waiting to be published.

I once tried to type it up (which I may try again when I get it back from Scotland... or did I bring it with me? Must check my stack of papers and folders I brought with me), but it made no sense if you couldn't see where one writer finished and another picked up. One day, I'll type it up, using some kind of formula to indicate who wrote what. I still recognize half my friends' handwriting!

(By the way, this is the first time I've ever done a Throwback Thursday. I think it's kind of lame. But it might be kind of fun too. Maybe I should also bring back the Friday Fifive.)

(It also gives me an easy excuse to blog on Thursdays.)