When we here at Olivia Waite hear that Leap Day is coming up, surely we’re not alone in thinking, “Frederic finally gets a birthday!” Because if anything is always culturally relevant, it’s the nonstop patter-filled story of an uptight young British man finding true love after being mistakenly apprenticed to pirates in his youth. Poor Frederic won’t be free of the indenture until he turns 21—since he was born on February 29, it will take him about six decades. Pity the poor soul with a Leap Day Birthday!
A recent episode of Parks and Recreation (Knope 2012!) titled “Jerry’s Sweet Sixteen” was based on the same premise: perennial joke-butt Jerry Gurgitch was born on February 29, so from a very technical standpoint he’s only had sixteen birthdays.
Of course, the Leap Day Birthday does not mean Jerry has not spent sixty-four years on this planet as it revolves around the sun. The Leap Day Birthday is an aberration that reveals the way we culturally build the idea birthdays: you can live however long you want, but the anniversary of the date you were born is the important day, and if that day comes around only once in four years then those years somehow don’t count toward your total age. Like dog years, but in reverse and for people.
Annual birthdays of course were invented by the ancient Romans. This is quite true: according to Denis Feeney’s wonderful and mind-bending Caesar’s Calendar, the fact that Ovid shares a birthday (and a calendar day) with his brother is the first documented instance of the same date occurring with precisely 365 days between. This was made possible by the recent invention of the Julian calendar (which included leap days, and eventually fell to the Gregorian calendar). Before then, the ancient Greeks would celebrate the date of their birth every month, which sounds like a pretty transparent justification to have symposia all the time with your friends. Hey, οινοχορος! Βring me more birthday wine! It’s the 15th again!
Before the Romans began to standardize the calendar, each nation, region, or city-state kept its own history on its own time, with its own reckoning. This sounds terrifyingly chaotic—but it bears pointing out that after the Gregorian calendar was contrived in the 16th century, it took centuries for other nations to adopt its use. Which is to say the date varied from country to country during the periods we like to call the Renaissance, Enlightenment (don’t forget the French Republican Calendar!), and Industrial Revolution. The US adopted the current calendar just in time to screw with George Washington’s birthday, and Greece only changed calendars in—wait for it—1923.
Let me say that again, because it kind of blows my mind: Greece has not been using the Gregorian calendar for a full century yet.
Maybe it’s that I’m always kind of obsessed with the nature of time, or maybe I’ve just been watching too much Doctor Who lately, but thinking too hard about calendar changes and moving dates and adding/vanishing days is starting to make me fundamentally nervous. Wednesday doesn’t exist, not really! It’s all just a vast conspiracy by popes and world leaders and elite historians and astronomers and, um, people who enjoy being able to make plans in advance, I guess.
Therefore, as a pleasing distraction, and since we’ve been talking about time and Romans and Doctor Who, here is a picture of Rory Williams as the Last Centurion. Because nothing is more comforting than a devoted geek in Roman garb.
We here at Olivia Waite have a long history with paper dolls—not merely the basic kid kind, but the fancy and detailed presidential kind you can buy at the Smithsonian. Jane Austen paper dolls. 1920s flapper paper dolls. We had sharp scissors and infinite patience for fiddly tabs and zigzag edges.
But the magic of the internet provides instant gratification, infinite customization, and increased safety for our scissor-scarred thumbs. So it is with great delight that we point you toward today’s discovery: The Victorian Doll creation page on Doll Divine.
Here is my first try, which is pretty much me in Victorian gear—note that I am something of a bluestocking:
Here I am with blue stockings:
Here I am as a vampire:
And as an adventuress:
Leave your own creations in the comments, or on my Facebook wall!
For the next three days, I will be at the Emerald City Writers’ Conference—meeting people, attending workshops, pitching to editors, hearing speeches, and generally pretending like being an author is a thing of dignity and craft, never to be practiced while hungover, pantsless, and ungroomed.
Blog posts will be sparse until later next week—but I hope to be very entertaining on Twitter, so follow along with me and plenty of others at #ECWC11!
And if you’re in the neighborhood, stop by the Emerald City Book Fair in the Bellevue Westin on Saturday from 4:30 to 6:00—I’ll be there handing out business cards. Or, if the business cards don’t come through, I’ll be making paper airplanes and origami cranes with the initials O-W.
On a recent trip to Astoria, Mr. Waite and I were walking back from dinner when we quite literally stumbled over a man on the sidewalk outside a tattoo parlor. He had a butane torch and was running it along the back of a small metal rectangle, held carefully in his fingertips. Beside him on […]
Welcome, O Reader, to the final entry in this spontaneous Bad Poetry Week Celebration. Spurred by Amanda Palmer‘s example at the start of the week, we’ve since gawked at horrifying lizard-themed word-butchery by Troy Lumber, a cringeworthy WWI song, and and ode by the Cheese Poet. But lest we start to feel superior, in comparison […]
For our penultimate day of Bad Poetry Week, I’d like to introduce you to the work of Canada’s James MacIntyre, also known as the Cheese Poet. This is a man who cruelly and with malice aforethought rhymed “cheese” with “squeeze” in more than one poem. So please allow me the dubious pleasure of presenting my […]
The First World War is often remembered for the amount of poetry it produced. Alan Seeger’s beautiful and chillingly accurate “I Have a Rendezvous with Death” speaks for the pro-war poets, while Wilfred Owen’s harrowing “Dulce et Decorum Est” comes down on the side of war being absurdly horrifying. And then, sitting in the middle like your […]
Bad poetry is like karaoke: best when shared. One site dedicated to doing just that is the aptly named Very Bad Poetry, where I found the gem of a poem below. Which, incidentally, definitely needs to be a song — I’m thinking a kind of folk-metal combo, with a jazz flute. Reptilicus by Troy Lumber […]