3. Ada Byron, Pea Island (NC), Ozempic Creating Industries, Black Jeans Photo, Red Hair Update
Happy Friday. It's weird here.
Hey, friends.
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Currently, I’m reading (my fourth book in rotation as of today, 22 March 2024) The Innovators by Walter Isaacson.
Full disclosure: I’m on chapter one, Ada, Countess of Lovelace. There are many mentions thus far of Ada Byron being “interesting”. Allegedly, it was precisely this reasoning that is used in her husband’s decision to marry her. So far, this has proven true.
She’s poetically minded (like her father, Lord Byron, whom she spent nearly zero time with—her mother’s choice) and yet her skills in mathematics are already boggling my mind (and as of my current reading, she’s only twenty).
Her mother seems bent on destroying her idea of her father who, at this juncture in the book, is now dead. Lady Byron (she was only married to the man a year but is referred to as this still; glad we tossed that practice into the trash) reveals to Ada her father’s incestous relationship (he probably had a child with his half-sister) and Ada responds with, I know mother, you’re boring me.
I’m lying. She actually said, in a letter, “I am not in the least astonished.” And went on to call him and herself a genius.
Needless to say, I am loving this book and we haven’t even gotten to the innovations yet.
Red hair update: Still obsessed. Usually by this time I’m wanting to change to another color after I’ve left my usual blonde. Not now, friends. Not now. (Don’t mind the underside of my Ugg slippers)
Pea Island, North Carolina
This is a real place I visited on my trip back to the Outer Banks. It is deserted—with the exception of tourists and wildlife—although I did see one house on it. It was also home to the only lifesaving station in the US to have an all-black crew. (A lifesaving station was for shipwrecks)
This story was conjured as I rode along there. It’s ridiculous. Here you are.
Walter Newton did not kick the tire of his car because he didn’t believe in displays of such immaturity, despite the fact no one was around to see it (or, well, almost no one). Instead, he very soundly placed his hands upon his hips, fingers gracing the waistband of his navy Dockers, and swore under his breath as he listened to the swell of the Atlantic Ocean.
Sand blew about his ankles, whipping up higher than his mid-calf argyle socks, and he leaned against the rental car; some sleek German invention that, despite the high price tag for merely a weekend, could not drive over a veritable river of water and sand and muck that the brief but violent spring storm had concocted over what was once the road leading onto the enormous bridge off of the wildlife refuge.
The wildlife refuge. That’s why Caroline wanted to come here. She convinced him merely four hours ago at sunrise with her hands at his throat as she straddled his lap in the 38-bedroom, 44-bathroom rental they were staying in alone.
Walter had wanted to sleep in, but when your mistress only gets you for forty-eight hours every few weeks…
“Fuck.” He cursed under his breath again.