Welcome to My Hell.

Again, with the sickness, though this time it's of the UTI-sort. And this is the worst one yet. Over the last four years, they've been increasingly frequent--and in ten days, the doctor will pump me full of dye and watch my kidneys with an MRI-type procedure.

You know, to make sure they work.

I'm in so much pain, and scared, because what if they don't work? Countless UTI's and two kidney infections later, I guess it wouldn't be all that surprising.

No more thinking about this. Heating pad and water and sleep, that's all.

I need to stop reading "prom" as "porn". One-track mind.

So, the debate: Do I do the good thing, take the bus to work, then take the bus back to my car, then drive back downtown to run my errands, then drive up to the Wet Spot, then home?

Or should I just drive to work and save myself the hassle? So much to consider.

Also, I managed to cut my bellybutton. Don't ask, it's from that run-in with the almond oil last night. I still don't know how it happened.

Driving it is.

LAST ONE. I swear.

take the which one of the trading spaces cast are you? quiz!

Which Angelina Are You?

I couldn't resist! Now, to bed.

Oops:

I'm an asshole!
Do you post too many quizzes in your journal? brought to you by:

And on that note--bed.

no comment.

In the Which Barbie Are You? quiz, I tied:

Not so bad:

and

Great.

Yeah, yeah.

Take the What High School
Stereotype Are You? quiz, by Angel.

Uh. Who knew?!

Thanks to the Evil Plan Generator, my plans for the weekend are already made:

Your objective is simple: World Domination.

Your motive is a little bit more complex: Sadistic pleasure

Stage One
To begin your plan, you must first seduce a rock star. This will cause the world to sit up and take notice, stunned by your arrival. Who is this despoiler of all that is good and nice and true? Where did they come from? And why do they look so good in classic black?

Stage Two
Next, you will contaminate/poison the Internet. This will cause countless hordes of robot warriors to flock to you, begging to do your every bidding. Your name will become synonymous with the spice girls, as lesser men whisper your name in terror.

Stage Three
Finally, you will demonstrate your needlessly big weather machine, bringing about pain, suffering, the usual. This will all be done from a Island of Mu, an excellent choice if we might say.

These three deeds will herald the end, and the citizens of this planet will have no choice but to elect you their new god.

Ha! Mu. And a weather machine! I love weather machines.

...

time for bed, i'm getting loopy.

Good: Bathrooms.

Not So Much: Only having one of them.

Rilly Rilly Busy.

...but that shouldn't keep me from updating, aye?

...

It's a fucking gorgeous day, brightly hot--so long as you're standing in full sunshine. Which I am not, thanks to the glory that is work. Even when I went outside--shadows of the Qwest building and the Nordstrom Tower and Westlake made it impossible to find more than a crosswalk's worth of direct sun. Wind didn't help much either, but I guess it's silly of me to use those as an excuse for being chilled when I'm wearing one of the tops I got at Rockin' Bettie's this weekend--printed mesh, slit cap-sleeves, extremely low neckline--I feel half-trashy wearing it, but the tanktop underneath helps.

Helps me feel less slutty, not helps me feel any warmer. I might as well be naked but for undergarments.

While I'm on the subject of new clothes: 1) a white sleeveless tee with pink and red glittery flames across the tits and a gash at the neckline to provide a peek of cleavage; 2) a red sleeveless knit top with a swirly stripe of mesh (1/2" wide, maybe?) swooping down the front. Fun stuff that I'd never buy if it hadn't been 40% off.

Also--all the clothes I bought last weekend went on sale today, so I have to find my receipt and go back for my refund.

It's amazing how cheap I've become now that I actually have to work for my money.

...

Yesterday was pretty fucking gorgeous, too--Boy and I headed to Greenlake for fish'n'chips, then drove around looking for art-cars. Almost-fruitless, our search--they're never around when you need them. I was most looking forward to finding that guy with the General Lee, but he wasn't parked in his usual spot on Phinney Ridge. (I saw him a couple weeks ago, driving down 10th--I wanted to honk and wave and roll down my window to say, "Hey, I had wet dreams about your car!!"--but didn't. I'll do it next time.) Dinner meant barbequing with Dave and Quincy--we had great intentions of sitting outside on the deck and watching the sky turn purple, but again--chilly.

And I fell asleep! On the sofa! While they were still there! I feel bad, I'm always doing that--Boy says he woke me up when they were leaving, but I fell back to sleep immediately. I have no memory of this. Also, I have no memory of (most likely) stumbling from living room to bed, but I do remember talking in my half-sleep--I was trying to keep my mouth shut, but Boy kept asking me questions. "They're coming," I said. More than once, I think. They're Coming.

Confidential to Dave and Quincy: Sorry! I blame it on those time-travel guys on Nova, all their postulating and theorizing and British teeth! Put me right to sleep.

...

I think I'm rapidly losing my mind--I keep seeing things, things that aren't there. I glanced down under my desk and I could have sworn that something scurried away, but I know there's nothing there. I looked at my water bottle and saw a spray of water fly out--but it didn't happen! Nothing got wet, no one else saw it.

Feel free to start making cuckoo noises.

...

Hey, whatever happened to Coolio? And did he ever do a song that wasn't entirely comprised of other artists' music/lyrics/samples? Just curious.

...

Oh, and I remembered why I've never been able to listen to Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds all the way through--it makes me dizzy.

Pleistocene quarters with looking-glass ties? Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

Talk about crazy.

...

We had tentative plans yesterday to have dinner with my family--then in an attempt to weasel out of those plans (c'mon, bbqing with Dave and Quincy on the nicest day we've had all year? Dinner with the fam is almost no comparison.), I told Mom that I wanted to wait until the whole family could be together (illustrious stepfather had a last-minute conference call on Sunday night that just couldn't wait until after the trip he left on today). Now she thinks that I've got some huge announcement to make, and keeps pestering me over it. She's called three times today, and twice last night--I almost feel like I should make something up, just to get her to stop asking. I think she thinks I'm going to tell them Boy and I are getting married (now just stop right there, don't get your panties in a wad--nothing has changed. I mean "we're getting married" in the sense that we've talked about it, and we both want to eventually, it seems like a great idea, but nothing has been made concrete. There have been no serious askings [I do NOT count him asking me to marry him so I have health insurance when I'm a pr0nstar as a serious asking.], no ring-proffered-from-bended-knee. Okay. Just so we're clear.).

Note To Boyfriends: When this situation occurs, and your girlfriend explains to you how her mother is being slightly nuts (so that's where I get it from.), and then she (the girlfriend, not the mother) turns to you and says, "I guess you'll just have to marry me"--do NOT say yes unless you mean it. Even if the girlfriend is generally easy-going and isn't looking to get married right away. Even if she went through this phase where she said getting married is silly if you're already committed to each other. Especially if she had a fruitless engagement to a man who didn't really love her, it's not always so funny.

I'm being slightly sensitive, and it surprises me.

...

Had an email today from Nicole, whom I haven't seen or spoken to since...who knows, 1998? She's been in England, taking a break from Reed, and while I'm glad to be in touch with her again, I'm also more than a little apprehensive. How much of the last four years does she want to know? I guess there's no sense in worrying about it--I gave her this URL, and anything that isn't included in this journal doesn't need to be known by anyone but the parties involved.

Ooh, that was ominous!

...

Home now--I'm looking forward to the bus ride for once, I'm 100 pages short of finishing my other Peter Mayle (Chasing Cezanne, it's better than Hotel Pastis but still nowhere near as wonderful as Anything Considered. Not enough guns or thugs).

This is the Best. Project. Ever. (via not.martha)

Also amusing: Digs Magazine. If only they didn't have evil pop-unders.

...

The weekend has been good, though thoroughly unproductive. Friday night brought no chixxx into the equation but the female partner of this guy who couldn't stop staring at me (perhaps because I was wearing my PVC miniskirt with a g-string and sitting on a low sofa in the social area at the Spot, and every time I crossed my bare legs or shifted in my seat, he got a view of everything, the lucky bastard), who ended up watching us fuck in one of the back rooms. I was enjoying the chemistry (c'mon, you know I love an audience), but the guy was freaking Boy out (admittedly with good reason--they were on the bed directly across from us in a room that was otherwise empty. the proximity was unnerving.), and eventually we headed back to the social area for some hydration before heading home.

The crowd at the Hot Spot party was pretty much what we expected: Mostly older-than-us swinger-types, men in jeans and polo shirts women in their "slut" clothes (sparkly lycra-jersey and hooker-heels). Disappointing, but we're not giving up. We'll find the right girl, come hell or high water.

...

Yesterday was laaaaazy, morning spent in bed before dashing off for sandwiches followed by a healthy dose of consumerism at the Broadway Market--jeans and polos at the Gap for Boy, slutty tops at Rockin' Betty's for me...

Oh Christ. We're becoming swingers.

Headed home, lazed some more, then met Dave and Quincy for dinner. Dave had never witnessed the spectacle that is the Old Spaghetti Factory, and I'm secretly (pfft) hoping he got his fix--it's so noisy! The atmosphere did allow for some amusing jokes--It's the only time you'll find the four of us in a twin bed together, I say, because our booth is made of the headboard and footboard of an antique monstrosity. It's also the only time the four of us will fit in a twin bed, replies Dave.

Good times.

...

Today! More laziness, despite it being the most beautiful day we've had all year--hot and sweaty and brilliantly blue skies, a perfect backdrop for film exchange photos.

Which is what I need to do now. After lunch. Then BBQ with Dave and Quincy. Eek! I can't wait for summer.

A few new links to peruse--I can't believe I haven't been reading The New Topography all my life. (thanks to Cate for reminding me.)

...

Hot Spot party tonight. I'm wearing my new shoes. Goal: Chixxx.

...

Boy doesn't want me to link to him. I don't know whether or not I should be grateful that he's protective, or miffed because he said no. Or implied no. Whatever.

...

Confidential to Blondie: fucking call me already--this no-DSL business is crazy. NEED TO TALK.

...

miffed.

This is the part of the day where I start wishing I had a note from my mom to excuse me from participating. I would like to sit. And read my book. And drink a cherry Coke. And not be in the office.

It's that last bit, the not-being-in-the-office part that's eluding me. I've managed to get in some book-reading, but I should probably hold off reading any farther. See, it wouldn't be a problem but for the nature of the subject--I'm reading Brothel, and given my history with and fondness for sex-workers...Suffice to say that despite the almost-clinical telling, there are certainly some parts that get my motor running. [sidenote: instead of 'motor', I typed "mother". please do make your own snide remarks.]

Then the Psd to HTML or PSD to CSS conversion is carried out by hard coding the image to fit into HTML frames or layers

And that's the last thing I need right now--to be horny on top of hungry (I'm trying Steve's starvation diet, and i hate it) with another hour left of work, added to the fact that we've another birthday dinner to attend this evening, again at my father's house (this time for my brother's birthday. I know, we celebrated that last night. Welcome to the perils of divorced parents. I shouldn't say perils--Buddy made a $400 haul last night, and he'll likely make that much tonight since my evil grandmother will be there. Here's what I have a problem with: If she's upset with me over my hair or my tattoo or "ruining my life" because I broke up with Brian [hell, HE broke up with ME! I had little say in the matter, and I realize now that it should have happened months and months earlier. In fact, we had no business going on a second date. Well, no, that's mean. We had no business ever getting romantically involved. But I was 18 and trying so desparately to be an adult, only to have it thrown in my face in the end. way more story than you asked for.] that's fine, she can be upset--but is it really necessary for her to make it so damned apparent that I'm no longer her favorite grandchild? She used to much prefer my company over my little brother's when we were children--He was energetic and always had a cowlick, and I was the quiet, bookish one who didn't ask for a hotdog when she took me to high tea. I'd like to say that it was a quick change, that she suddenly stopped liking me for one particular incident--but it's been gradual. Over time, my christmas and birthday checks got smaller and smaller and my brother's checks got bigger and bigger...And I'm resigned now to the fact that she'll never understand me, never understand why the paths I've chosen are bringing me to my perfect place, with my perfect Boy, living our perfect lives happily ever after.

Wow. That was an unexpected tangent.

I guess I'm just feeling snubbed--Monday night was Evil Stepmother-to-be's birthday dinner at Gran's house...and they didn't even invite us! Never mind that we weren't really in the mood, didn't feel like driving out there, had no interest in making small-talk with the family. It's the principle.)

Anyway, the last thing I need is to get all worked up and then have to sit through dinner with the family.

How My Day Began: I ran around this morning trying to find my white and black capris because it's gorgeous, all sunny and bright and it might even get warm! but they weren't where I expected to find them (in the bottom of the whites hamper, where they'd been since we got back from Florida in November), and I was getting a little frantic, because I'd planned my day around these pants that always get me compliments (although I fail to see what is so terribly unique about these pants, aside from them being extraordinarily flattering) and then I found them! in my bottom drawer, where I keep my pants.

And I put them on! They're delightful, so lightweight and springy without being flowery or stupid-looking, and then I realize that wearing blue panties with stars will never do--here is where lightweight works against me. So I dig for different underwear in my underwear drawer, and what do I find? red panties, gray panties pink blue stars and moons and cherries and stripes and black panties upon black panties upon black panties and thongs! but all black, because that's just the way I am. Do you think I found any white panties?

One. Pair. And they were granny-panties to the extreme, they covered my whole butt and then some! and I panic. Do I wear the black and white striped panties in hopes that they blend with the plaid on my ass (because that's what we're most concerned about, the panties being visible in the ass-ish area)? Do I say fuck it, and just wear red panties under my white pants? Do I keep digging in hopes of finding those white Body by Victoria panties that I know are in there somewhere (or in the laundry, or in a ditch somewhere because I bought them years ago and didn't even really like them, i wore the black ones yesterday and regretted it all freaking day)? So I dig. and dig and dig, past bustiers and strapless bras and g-strings and that velvet nightgown that boy loves (and I love too, sort of, except for the fact that body-hugging velvet and sueded egyptian cotton sheets [haha, i just typed "shits"] do not make for comfortable sleep. they make for feeling trapped and dreaming about straighjackets) and I find them.

Crisis averted.

...

There is something infinitely irritating about people who call San Fransisco "Frisco". Ugh. They should die.

...

Dinner at mom's last night was incredibly entertaining--between my brother and his friends, and illustrious stepfather being in a surprisingly good mood (and advising me to screw over my evil-bitch coworker, since she seems to have it in for me these days, but that's another story for a less-public audience), we had an excellent evening. Illustrious Stepfather offered us tickets to last night's Mariners' game, and I said yes! even though it was barely 40 degrees with extreme wind! and we were tired! so we didn't go. But now we have to pretend that we did go, because he'll think we're ungrateful otherwise--I know, I should have just turned down the tickets in the first place! But he's got this thing where if you say no once, he'll never ask again.

They lost, 10-6.

If I cared, that would make me sad. Ha!

...

I'm terribly proud of myself for taking the bus today--I waited until the last possible minute to decide. It's so easy to drive! And so trying to ride the bus. but spending six dollars a day when I can ride for free is just plain silly.

Today I ended up at the same stop as the Bus Molester, who stood about ten feet away with his Diet Pepsi (at 7am, makes my teeth hurt just thinking about it.) and sent furtive glances my way until he worked up the courage to take two steps towards me. Then two more. Then another. From five feet away, I turn to him, lower my kittenish sunglasses and send him a withering glare. He turns, walks back to where he was. I sneeze, slightly ruining the effects of my highly crafted glower--he turns back and gives an enthusiastic "Bless You!", to which I do not respond.

The bus arrives, and he attempts to sit next to me despite plenty ofseats. I pointedly clear my throat and plop my messenger bag down on the seat as he aims his ass downward and--phew! Crisis averted yet again. He sits three rows ahead of me, but faces sideways so he can keep an eye on any potential molestees.

Something must be done about that man.

There's been a slight stir over Marty's operation (with which I have no bones--he's an adult and knows what he's doing)--but it reminded me exactly how public we make personal details. Things that I wouldn't necessary announce to my friends and acquaintances (much less hundreds of strangers) are available for all to see and judge and wonder about.

I know, it's a big duh, but you forget sometimes.

...

We've had few inquiries yet about the room--Boy and I both sent notices to our classifieds mailing lists at work in an effort to avoid having crazies contact us (although I guess we're just as likely to find crazies here--like that girl in design who wears those pink pants with an orange t-shirt! Nuts.)...but I think we're going to have to break down and post an ad on Yahoo! Classifieds or something. Unless you happen to know someone who's looking to live with two hep cats on the lake? Let me know.

(confessional: for a split second after typing those last sentences, i had a mild freakout--after all, if I'm worried about people finding us through an ad in the paper or something, I should be doubly worried about randoms finding us through my weblog! but then I came to my senses: if you read my weblog, and you're still interested in being our roommate, then I think I have less to worry about. You already know that we're freaky-deaky perverts--no need to hide the riding crop and bondage tape. Boy's right--we should advertise on the Wet Spot message boards. Wait! No, I remember why we decided against that--we need someone who can pass as [god, i shouldn't say this, it doesn't sound right] normal in front of our families. It's a sad truth, but we are the most closeted of closet-cases in around the family. Maybe someday we'll reveal to them our deepest darkest kept-from-them secrets...but not any time soon. wow. this is a long confessional.)

...

I dropped into a funk last night, and it's not completely gone. You know how when you feel down, and then you start thinking down thoughts and remembering things like when you were 10 years old and got your head stuck in a porthole in the v-berth on the boat while under sail and you thought you were going to drown any minute because it was just about time to tack, after which your head would be underwater and the boat would start flooding because you have a skinny neck, it wouldn't form a seal and no one would hear you scream--

Okay, maybe that's just me. I learned then and there to stop sticking my head in places it doesn't belong. Never mind that it's widely known that I take sickening pleasure in getting myself stuck, giving myself a challenge.

No more challenges that involve sticking my head in a small hole.

Anyway, funk. At least it was slightly tempered by Boy introducing me to Norah Jones--she's not indie enough for him, and just the right side of pop for me (don't bring up my mediocre taste in music, my fondness for blaring Britney--I keep anmind, and almost never touch the pop-station button on my car radio anymore). She's distinctly jazzy, but in a good way--think of a young Ella, circa 2002. She's a good find, so let's all give a hearty thanks to Kazaa.

...

For Posterity's Sake: Happy 18th Birthday, Buddy. Can you believe it? My baby brother turns 18 today. I remember Mom telling me "Don't pick on your little brother, some day he'll be bigger than you", and I didn't believe it--but it's true! He's all grown-up-like now, or at least a little more serious than I was at his age. But I don't think mom counted on me finding some leverage--he might be big enough to pick on me...but he's not old enough to buy his own beer yet.

I had the best sleep ever last night--not a dream, not a cough, just pure, blissful snuggling sleep. Here's the secret: Instead of going full steam and then dropping into bed, it was a gradual effort. Instead of passing out to the sounds of Blind Date, we read our books (Hotel Pastis for me, Brothel for Boy. I'll get to that later.) and snuggled and had a whose-toes-are-colder contest (he most certainly won. I got him back by tickling his balls) and suddenly--sleep! Excellent.

Books! I'm enjoying Hotel Pastis (Peter Mayle), but not as much as I thought I would--I adored Anything Considered, it was dashing and slightly seedy, with a mouthy heroine and a drunk monk--not to be repeated in Hotel Pastis. This reads like the mildest mid-life crisis, slow and ponderous and the female love interest is greedy and fake.

Okay, so maybe I'm not enjoying it all that much--it doesn't have me gripping the edge of my seat, desparate to read about what happens next--and I think that's a good thing. I can put it down in mid sentence and not worry about when I'll next have time to start reading again.

...

Now that I have someone working on a design for the members' site, I'm desparately trying to come up with a domain name--Steve may have picked a winner (but I'm too paranoid to post it here before Boy gets it registered), now we just need a slogan. He likes "Dirty, Nasty Filth With A Touch Of Class", which is charmingly gross--but it reminds me of an escort service or a limo rental. He claims that I could co-opt I'll Take You Home And Make You Like It (it's had a home in my sig file for a while now), and I might just have to do that.

and in case you were wondering, wontappearonyourcreditcardasporn.com is still available.

In an effort to get myself good and calcified, I've been trying to drink a big cold glass of milk every day--it hasn't worked well, I'm not fond of plain milk in the least. I tried chocolate milk--no good, that stuff's like sludge. I want the fluidity of 1% milk with the drinkability of a five-dollar milkshake. Solution? Nestle Quik Strawberry powder. Good christ, that's good stuff.

One small problem--their mixing directions are sorely in need of revision. Directions: stir 2 tbs. of powder into 1 c. of milk. Drink.

Let me tell you this: 2 tbs. of powder into two and a half cups of milk is too much. My teeth are aching like a thousand burning fires.

...

Dooce is gone. For good, she says, unless you can find her new, assumed identity--I say, if she wants to avoid prying eyes and familial observation, let's just let her be. Best of luck.

...

I've never read this woman before, but I think I'm going to start. (Confidential to Boy: Take notes.)

I heart weekends.

This one was especially terrific--the first weekend in three weeks where I haven't been nearly incapacitated by illness. I wouldn't have minded the weather improving, but I was fairly please with what we got--good enough on Saturday to get the most irritating of garden projects started, and the lawn mowed.

When I say "the most irritating of garden projects", I do of course mean "anything involving prickly things, bugs, being on my knees, dirt, and cleaning up my mess", which is to say all of gardening. I had such grand plans for improving upon my meager horticultural knowlege, but I'd forgotten how dirty it is--and then the pulling and kneeling and exposing my tattoo to my father (who knew about it, but he thinks I'm going through a "rebellious phase" [to which I must raise two points: a) he's my landlord, and antagonizing him isn't likely to do me much good; and b) did he forget ages 12 through 17? If that wasn't rebellious, I don't know what is.])...I really don't think I'm cut out for this gardening business. There's no stopping in the middle and coming back a week later to finish--you have to just get it done or it looks half-assed and heaven knows there's nothing worse than a half-assed job (If only my stepfather was here to read that--he'd be so proud! And then he'd read about what freaky perverts we are, and how we got a call girl for our birthday, and he'd quietly murder me so as to not jeopardize his career and/or reputation.)

Talking like this makes it sound like I've never touched a spade or rake, but let me tell you--every single weekend spent with our mother and illustrious stepfather involved some form of yard work, be it mowing or raking or weeding or planting or laying bark or some combination of them all (until about 1999, when they ceased to care). It was either yard or boat, and if you worked on the yard, there was a greater chance of escape. I guess in the last four years of living on my own, I'd repressed all memory of that--it all came rushing back this weekend when I started pulling green-weedy things out of the ground.

You want to hear about nasty work? Try building a residence in what used to be a riverbed. When we lived at the Cabin (why yes, it is built in what used to be a glacial riverbed. Fancy that.), our little fingers were put to use picking up rocks. As in, "Go pick up every rock you can find, and put it here on this pile". These rocks had to be related to the rabbit family, because I swear to fucking god, they multiplied--we'd pick up rocks until a whole patch was bare, and by the next weekend there were rocks everywhere you looked.

A particular someone suggests that perhaps this torture was designed as an exercise to keep two children busy in the middle of nowhere--and that perhaps after we'd finished picking up rocks for a weekend, they'd just get tossed back...But that's too horrible to contemplate.

What a pathetic story about my childhood: Picking up rocks.

...

I suppose I should mention some slightly worrying news from Saturday: The roommate is moving out.

I know, it came as a shock to us, too--things seemed fine! We all get along, share chores, we're respectful and relatively quiet...But it turns out that one of her dogs has pretty bad arthritis, and going up and down the stairs to her bedroom is making it worse.

So.

She'll be gone in three weeks, leaving us only slightly in the lurch--Dave suggested last night that we break into her email to make sure that was why she's moving, and I reply with a vehement no! I don't want to know what she's thinking.

But now we need a new roommate. If only the members' site was ready! and profitable! and allowed me to quit my job right now.

I promised not to complain, and I won't--but all I dreamed about last night was being here, making it So Damned Hard to want to get up and come in this morning.

...

It's actually been a pretty good day at work, in that I've had interesting little projects that make the day pass quickly--here it is, 230, and I haven't had a chance to have lunch...or breakfast...

That's okay--I had a banana with peanut butter and an orange, so my vitamins and protein are taken care of, right? Now I just need something from the whipped group, the chocolicious group, and I'll be set!

...

My latest favorite song in all the world was Liz Phair's cover of Turning Japanese--I couldn't stop listening to it, all peppy and bouncy and full of good cheer. It seemed like such a sweet love song (I often kiss you when there's no one around), and it makes me dance around--and then Boy tells me it's all about jerking off (I want a doctor to take your picture, so I can look at you from inside as well) and suddenly the song isn't nearly as charming.

Laundry folded. Training Day watched. I'm deeply surprised that I enjoyed this movie. And deeply surprised that Denzel got an Oscar for it--my secret theory is that the Academy is apologizing for not giving him the nod after Malcolm X and The Hurricane.

I know, that's not very nice of me--but I have a hard time calling any movie with Snoop and Dre cameos "Award-winning". Oscar award-winning Training Day". Say it out loud! It just sounds sillly.

...

I don't know when it happened, exactly--maybe last summer? but my blog has become my memory, my record of events both meaningless and important. Duh, you all say. More than just a diary--When I've forgotten something, I go back and read about it. When I can't remember the last time I went grocery shopping, I read the blog. When I lose my way, I read--you get the point.

I'm not sure whether to be thankful that I've got this daily account of the last year, or frightened that I've relenquished my ability to remember.

I'm sure there's a line from Memento that would fit here, but...I can't...remember...

I just got spam with a subject line that says:

GET A SICKLY HUGE COCK!!!

I pictured a big rooster with colon cancer.

Krispy Kremes have been had (ugh, bad grammar), shopping done (two shirts, two bras and a pair of capris for $120. rawk. and one of the shirts says "HOTTIE". double rawk.), lunch eaten (at this creepy 50's-style diner coated in Coca-Cola propaganda--there were model trains running around the ceiling!) and now home. And it's only 330. That's a pretty full Saturday for us, usually we're just leaving the house right now for sammiches. It's nice--I'm going to go work in the yard before it gets too chilly or starts raining, while Boy puts together the photo album that we'll both be using.

Eep! Dad's here!

We watched the Fast and the Furious last night, and I feel all the more dumber for doing so.

I think that was easily the worst movie I've ever seen--no, wait! 3000 Miles to Graceland was worse, because it didn't have hot chicks in hoochiewear(tm) to distract. It was just plain-old-bad. At least the Fast and the Furious had Ja Rule and hot lexxxbian action.

...

Had a dream last night that involved laying in a muddy ditch and shooting at someone with a big rusty musket. Heh. Rusty Musket.

...

Going to Krispy Kreme now--we haven't been in months, and while I know better than to give in...must...eat...doooonuts...

This seems so surreal to me--is the WP an Onion affiliate?

"The approach was unusual, given that many retailers have heightened their cultural sensitivity as they attempt to attract minority shoppers. Pulling merchandise from the shelves is even more rare, said Burt Flickinger III of Reach Marketing in Westport, Conn.

'Sometimes retailers pull clothes that don't sell well,' Flickinger said. 'It's almost unprecedented to pull the clothes for any other reason. Almost no apparel retailer would let sophomoric humor pervade mainstream-brand American apparel."

Okay, that's not all that funny--striking a little close to home, actually (note to designers: Naming a shirt "Orchid Orgy" isn't a bad idea--until you try to sell it in Utah), but Burt Flickinger III? Total Onion name.

"Sunny Chung, a graduate student at Stanford, said she has never seen any of the past T-shirts but saw the ones now at issue on Abercrombie's Web site. Chung said she and about 60 other students contacted the company to complain.

Asian Americans were not the only ones offended. Lauren Rhue, an African American student at Stanford, said one shirt in particular really peeved her. It featured Buddha and the words 'Buddha Bash -- Get Your Buddha on the Floor.' 'My aunt is a Buddhist,' said Rhue, 19. 'It wasn't funny at all."

My Aunt Is A Buddhist. (if I ever start a band, that's our name. [tangent: on our way home from dinner last night, I picked the best girl punk band name ever: Bitch Vixen and the Pussy Twats.])

And the rilly serious grad student--"trivializing our heritage"! This is better than the Onion, and do you know why? Because it's true. (via kottke.)

Had two dreams last night:

In the first dream, I was Liv Tyler as a prostitute servicing prison inmates, but instead of the regular human genitalia, they had stuffed animals where their packages should have been. After I finished with one guy, he went over to another bunk and started snuggling with his cellmate. The whole dream was bizarre, all fetishy and bloody and I hope to god I never have it again.

In the second, I was me--I was going to a funeral with my mother and sister and illustrious stepfather, but first we had to go to the drive-in for hamburgers.

I'm beginning to think that a sleeping agent of some sort would be helpful to avoid these messes in the future--the problem with that being the inherent grogginess the next morning. I already feel like the walking dead when I wake up--why compound that with drugs?

...

No more talking about work, it just stresses me out, and it's not interesting. It's boring and whiny and helps nothing.

...

We had another lovely date last night, this time in the company of Dave and Quincy--pizza at Piecora's followed by...well, going home and going to bed. We both needed it, it's been a long week. I had a hard time falling asleep and for no good reason at all. Tonight will be different--I have great plans to just fucking fall asleep.

...

Speaking of great plans, I've got a few for this weekend provided the weather stays slightly dry (and if mother nature wanted to heat things up a bit, I wouldn't complain. I don't have Jackie-O's problem, unfortunately). I'm finally going to get my herbs planted, and attack the Parking Triangle because it depresses me to see it every time I pull into the drive. I might try to fill in the planter, but I'm not sure what should go there. The box gets sun from noon to five or six all summer long, and since I'm very very bad at taking care of things, the filler would need to be extremely hardy. I'm sure that if I just went to the nursery and asked a...nursery professional? I don't know what they're called. Professional gardeners?, they could tell me exactly what I need--but I have no actual knowlege of these things! They could be selling me anything! And then what would I do? You can't return plants after you kill them, can you? I should find a book on this, but I've already bought
one "Compleat Idiots Guide to ________" book this year, I don't think my self esteem can handle another.

Speaking of Compleat Idiots, that sewing book has actually served me pretty well so far--it's at just the right level for me (I know what a needle is and have a general idea of how to use it, but I'm not so advanced as to actually create anything) without being too condescending--but christ, it's annoying. Lots of unnecessary exclamation points and obnoxious alliteration, and the diagrams are difficult to understand but I think that's just me.

Speaking of Me! I've got a lunch date with my darling this afternoon, and I couldn't be more thrilled.

...

Good Idea: Leftover pizza for breakfast.

Not So Much: Leftover pizza that sits in my messenger bag for three
hours.

I had planned to start my day with a light, fluffy, isn't-life-grand entry--but then I saw this, and nothing feels right anymore.

I mean, my life is grand, my family is safe and I'm healthy again and I have the unending love of a wonderful man--but is this going to happen every time a plane crashes? I got shaky and clammy, my palms were sweating, heart racing, mind racing too--for a split second, I thought I was really going to have a heart attack, right here in the middle of the office.

...

Had a dream last night that my grandmother's husband was divorcing her because he found out about an affaire she was having with the butcher (they don't have a butcher, nor is she the type to stray.)--so she was moving in with me and Boy. I woke up in a cold nasty sweat (yeah, it's been a sweaty morning.) and vowed never to fall asleep again. Ever.

Then I fell asleep and woke up an hour late. Second day in a row.

...

You know what? I can be full of sweetness and light. In fact, I'd better be--my day is rapidly heading downhill, and if I don't keep smiling I'm going to end up going straight home, wrapping myself in the down comforter and not leaving bed until morning. We can't have that.

Do you know what else we can't have? A big slug of scotch, three of my little girlish fingers at least. It's too early! they say. Pfft, I reply. It's five o'clock somewhere.

Actually, I've never been a morning drinker--Too garish and gross, all this daylight. I've always preferred the cover of darkness for my inebriation, it hides my furiously red cheeks (one drink, that's all it takes for me to show my true colors--it starts as a charming blush, then spreads to my nose and suddenly I look like I've been dragged through every gutter in the lower West Edge.) and makes me feel more dangerous than I am.

I can't believe I actually just used the term "West Edge". See, here's the deal--Seattle has a very very small downtown area for a major city, less than a quarter of the size of Central Park I heard somewhere but I wouldn't be surprised if it was smaller than that. It's about nine blocks wide (east-west) and maybe...twenty blocks long? Depends on your definition, I guess--if you were to combine the International District, and all of belltown up to Denny, and maybe even go as far east as Boren...Well, that would make it slightly larger. My definition is Yesler to Broad (that's north-south), and from First Ave. to Ninth (that's the east-west). If you hit Boren, you're on Capitol Hill, and any farther south of Yesler, you're in what used to be SoDo (South of the Dome, before they razed the Kingdome. I forget what they're calling it now.) or the I-Dist...either way, it's not downtown. To be honest, there are streets farther west than First Ave, but they're not technically downtown, either--they're mostly under the viaduct, I think there are only two? Western and whatever that street is that runs along the waterfront--Alaskan Way!--Elliot Ave, too, but that's pretty close to being out of bounds. And past Alaskan, all you'll find is...well, the aquarium and the ferry terminal and that creepy Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe and a decrepit Red Robin--and after those things, all you'll find is water water water. (if you write to me and say "technically, after water [Puget Sound] you'll find West Seattle, and then more water, and then Vashon and Bainbridge and the Peninsula, and then it's just water all the way to Japan", I'll...well, I'll kick you, that's what!)

So what does this mean? It means that the core downtown area is too damned small to be split up into even smaller "neighborhoods". This hasn't stopped the GSCC from trying--they've started calling everything from Third Avenue west to the water and from Virginia south to Columbia or thereabouts the "West Edge", which is just dumb.

A very long explanation for a very small thing.

...

I feel like a crabby old bastard, all wrapped up in polar fleece and wool socks while everyone in the office has dragged out their capris and tank tops and cute little slides--and then I see them surreptitiously covering shoulders and laps with sweaters and coats. It's almost May, but that doesn't mean it's warm! 45 degrees here today. Two sunbreaks in six hours. Fools! I may be crabby and pale, but at least I'm not freezing.

Had a dream last night that Boy and I were supposed to take a bus to the cemetary, but I couldn't find my bus pass. Woke up this morning, got ready, went to catch the bus--and couldn't find my bus pass.

...

I rediscovered my camelias last night--I've got a white and a pink, both on the side of the house by the hottub--but the white camelia has become so overgrown that you can hardly see the pink unless you go around to the street side and peek through the mews. I love these bushes, they're incredibly flowery and green--but the driving rain we've had lately has absolutely destroyed all the blossoms. Camelias are a bitch that way--beautiful blooms, but the second you touch them they turn puke-brown and glue themselves to anything nearby...onto leaves, deck, hottub cover, railings, siding...

I cut a few white blossoms to put in a vase last night, and by this morning they were speckled with brown. No matter, I guess--there's no shortage.

...

Had the lovliest evening with Boy--and I think the cheapest date that we've ever had: Taco Bell drive-thru and Ocean's 11 at the $3 movie theatre. It was fantastic. In general. Taco Bell gave me heartburn, and I accidentally got raspberry iced tea, and it tasted like those things, what are they called? where you bite the tip off the little wax bottles or tubes or whatever and suck the weird juicy stuff out? you know, when you were a kid! I can't remember what they're called. Anyway, my iced tea tasted like that. But we had an excellent time--Boy even liked the movie (I had my doubts), and I got to bask in the warming glow of the G. Cloo's warm glow.

Actually, he looked pretty craggy and saggy in this movie, though I suspect that was intentional. Brad Pitt was the one with the warming glow--and I'm not normally even a B. Pi (okay, shortening his name doesn't work. bugger) fan. He was just so slick, all poker-playing and silly-disguise-wearing.

I love that movie so very much.

...

Trying to work while listening to the Banana Boat Song is nearly impossible.

...

I've talked about renewing my search for chicks of the freaky persuasion--I updated my Nerve ad for the first time in over a year, gave it a complete revamping. I've had a few great responses, some responses that went straight to the trash file, and got an outright rejection--because of my weblog. Pretty humbling--though I suppose I should get used to it. Not everyone wants their first dates dissected for public consumption. At least we were both upfront about it--I mentioned living in the public eye (heh, understatement?), and she said it (the weblog, I guess) was too much information too soon.

/shrug/

Chicken and pasta tossed with a light balsamic vinaigrette does not a satisfying lunch make. It seemed like a good idea at the time (the time being: last night, when I was waiting to start dinner but didn't feel like doing anything but cooking--I couldn't start our actual dinner yet because Boy was an hour away from being home), but my hatred for this lunch burns like a thousand fires. (sorry Steve)

...

I can't believe it's only noon.

...

Okay, noon-thirty.

...

It's so very difficult to be sneaky when everything you touch turns pink.

(well, not everything turns pink, but there are pink smudges everywhere. The keys on my keyboard, my hairbrush, the left button on my mouse...and my face! My face is slightly pink around the edges.

...

one p.m., and I just fell out of my chair. Nothing like having your coworkers stand in a circle and laugh to make your face turn pinker.

shut up, I know it's bad grammar.

You know, as I contemplate the pink smudges I'm leaving everywhere and the fact that the dye won't come out of my cuticles and fingernails that Kendall mentioned something about how this stuff wasn't approved by the FDA. I'm probably getting fingernail cancer right now.

and my poor little keyboard is getting keyboard-cancer as well.

...

My dad's birthday is tomorrow--I need to find a DVD player. What am I saying?? I don't want to buy him a DVD player! I'm entirely too poor for that sort of thing.

He was um...less-than-pleased? when he saw my hair on Sunday--"Why on earth would you do that to your hair?!?" or something to that effect. Because I'm young, and I can, and it's only hair! I reply. He shakes his head reproachfully, "It boggles the mind" he says. Boggles The Mind.

I have a secret confession: If I'd known that my evil grandmother and her husband were coming home from Arizona this early, I might have waited a few weeks longer--now I'm going to get grilled at Dad's birthday dinner tomorrow night. Shucks. I think I'll push the envelope a few feet further and *gasp* wear pants to dinner. (please do remember that the evil grandmother is the one who gets snippy when I don't wear dresses, despite her own fondness for glittery sweatsuits. I think she thinks it's still 1963, everyone in bouffants and polyester. Silly woman--this is the time of dreadlocks and poly-cotton-nylon blends!)

...

Oh, speaking of throwbacks! In Nordstroms on Sunday, Boy shopped for shoes while I perused my company's merchandise in the Men's Sportswear section--and do you know what I came across? Pastel polo shirts with little alligators embroidered on the chest pocket with turned-up collars. Horrifying.

...

1:30. Two hours to go.

...

2:10! Holy cow. And suddenly I'm slammed, so I'll stop piddling around.

Another day at the thankless job, another eight hours in which to be miserable.

I promise that eventually I'll stop being so dramatic about this, I'll get used to being desparately unhappy for a majority of my day--but I can't say that I'm looking forward to it. Why can't things be the other way around? Be at work for an hour in the morning, right after you wake up, then have eight hours in which to do whatever you want, and then four hours at the end of the day, you'd go back to work before coming home for ten hours of sleep (I think my math is off). ...Ehh, that doesn't sound any better, frankly. There really is no solution to this but the improbable. Boy asked me last night what would make this situation better--my reply? To never have to work. That would make everything better.

See? Improbable, unless his options pay off or I suddenly am possessed of Midas-like powers. That would probably suck, too--how would I touch my darling boy if I had to worry about him turning to gold? And sex with gloves on is creepy.

...

I got really bummed about it last night--Boy and I were driving to the mLife store (shut up) to pick up his new phone, and I started talking about work, and the more I thought, the more depressed I got, and I could tell that it definitely put a damper on Boy's excitement over his phone. It's smaller than you can imagine, and the lcd screen is in color! On a cell phone!

I swore I'd never buy into the cell phone thing again, but...I want.

I can say no. There's no logical reason for me to have a cell phone anymore, I'm either at my thankless job or at home or with Boy--phones aplenty. (That covers about 93% of my time, and for the remaining 7% it's just as well that I'm unreachable.)

...

Had a dream last night that I was at work (at work! even in my sleep I can't escape), and we'd turned the kitchen into a drive-in movie theatre, where all my gradeschool crushes were making out with the girls I couldn't stand.

I woke myself up, turned over and snoogled my darling sweetheart--and smirked. Bastards. What's that about living well being the best revenge?

...

Another question: How can I possibly be getting another damned UTI after a week of antibiotics? If you write to tell me it's the antibiotics that gave me the UTI, then I ask: How can the thing that cures my ills give me ills as well? Who let that design flaw get through to production? Sheesh.

...

my fingernails and cuticles are hot hot pink. So are the cuffs of my turtleneck, all from touching my wet hair.

Yeah, turtleneck. And my thickest polarfleece, do you know why? Because it's 43 motherfucking degrees here today, with an 85% chance of heavy, drenching showers.

...

Okay. Enough. No more complaining. I can be full of sweetness and light if I try hard enough.

but probably not until I've fully woken up. I couldn't figure out why my eyes were so sore and burning--and then I remembered how I just couldn't fall asleep last night, and ended up with barely five hours of sleep.

Ouch.

...

I made a miraculous discovery last night--I've been having the problem with leftovers, specifically: we have too many, and they end up just making the fridge stinky because Boy won't eat leftovers and I have a difficult time choking them down myself. Last night, I solved the problem: I made half as much dinner as I usually do, and there was nothing left over. Perfect.

...

[one hour later]

Okay, now I can stop complaining. Somewhere in the last hour, I managed to relax so well that I'm practically falling asleep at my desk. Perhaps that's the cough syrup? I think it's being all cozy in my polarfleece and listening to Dean Martin sing "Dream A Little Dream". Sooooo relaxed.

Here's a rough idea of how my morning goes, in timeline form:

6am: alarms start going off. Yes, alarms-plural. I groggily slam the first one off, while the loudest and most horrifyingly-loud alarm continues to go off every seven minutes until 730am.

645-715: somewhere in there, I wake up. Today it was 630. Yesterday it was 715. I'm always at work by 745, no matter where I wake up in that window. It's a painful thing, waking up--Boy is always coziest in the morning, spooned in front of me. I sleep with one arm around his waist, so he can't escape, and one hand on top of his head, so I can suck his brainwaves in the night.

645-730: This window is tough to nail down, due to my flexible waking-up schedule. But between waking up and walking out the door no later than 730, there's a lot of groggy stumbling and mumbling and looking for socks. Today there was a lot of scrubbing my pink palms.

730-745: traffic, and not much of it. This is the secret of commuting in Seattle--take the express lanes, and take them early. If you work somewhere where you can't use the express lanes to get there, get a new job. Also in this 15 minutes is a snatch of NPR, but I'm rapidly tiring of the local deejays--they're awful lately! There used to be a few decent ones, but lately they've had this new young guy who sounds like Rob Lowe on valium, and it's very distracting. Instead of contemplating means of peace in the Mid-East, I start thinking about The West Wing, and how wonderful life would be if Jeb Bartlett really was president.

Then again, wouldn't that make Charlie Sheen and Emilio Estevez the President's kids? Something like that.

745-9: at work, but not working. occasionally IMing, mostly just not doing work. Too bad I'm not a smoker, I'd have another excuse to not-work.

Of course, if I took up smoking, my lungs would collapse and I'd die.

9am: Bosslady arrives. Look busy.

945ish: Toast. Or bagel, whatever's handy. Fruit, too.

1130-1215ish: lunch, accompanied by rapid firing of email and some checking of blogs.

1215ish until eternity: Okay, it's not eternity, but it certainly feels like it. In reality, it's something like 12ish to 330-4ish. More work. Work work work.

330-4ish: Escape!

4ish-415: Trapped again. In traffic. Unless you take the Express Lanes! If you live somewhere that is not accessible by Express Lanes--move.

415-7ish: Home, errands, grocery store, laundry, working out, book-reading, Buffy reruns, sticking a few more pins in my sewing projects, wasting my life away on the internet, IMing cute girls who sent me messages on Nerve, pining away for Boy.

It's usually some combination of those things. Working out has been at the bottom of the list lately. As soon as I can manage to climb a few stairs without feeling like I'll black out, I'll step it up. (don't worry, it's just because I can't breathe very deeply right now without coughing up a lung. Thus, I breathe shallowly and see stars.

7ish: Hooray! Boy is home! We make out.

Oh, and make dinner, or we dither about trying to decide where to go for dinner. We often spend more time deciding where to go to dinner than actually eating when we finally get there.

(shit, this timeline turned into my entire day. you can figure out how it goes from there.)

...

My hands look like they've been strangling Peeps.

oh dear sweet lord in heaven.

I forgot to do my taxes.

Back at work for the first time since last Tuesday, and I can't help but ask why! I was gone for four days, and do you know how many messages I had in my voicemail inbox today? Zero.

I reiterate: A trained monkey could do my job.

Boy suggests I start looking for something else, if not outside the company then internally but--Ugh. I can't even think about it right now. Besides, if I look for another internal position, my boss will take it personally and then if I don't get the job it'll just make this more uncomfortable...

Man, I hope pr0n pays off.

...

Got my hair cut and colored on Saturday--it's taken some time to adjust to it. I'll post a picture soon, and you'll understand why.

...oh fine! I'm horrible at keeping secrets anyway--the cut is nothing much, just a trim; it's the color! My same dark brownish-black with Candy Apple Red highlights. Boy says it's hawwwttt, and I completely agree (but washing it yesterday turned my bathtub pink). I've been a stylist-slut for the last couple years (after I stopped working at the salon, I didn't have the heart to keep going back to get my hair done. Too...weird.), but this is the best fucking hair ever. I've already made two follow-up appointments with Kendall--let's hope he can follow through.

(it took four bloody hours. I almost fell asleep under the dryer hood.)

...

Had a dream last night that Boy and I were cruising with mom and illustrious stepfather, somewhere near the tip of Vancouver Island--Boy and Mom were at the helm, illustrious stepfather and I in our hammocks on the foredeck...it was gorgeous. I don't remember the last time I had a dream so relaxing and calm, the water was flat and beautiful, Jimmy Buffet wafted from the stereo...

Someday.

...

Seriously--why am I here? I have no work of my own to do, so I'm tallyingto sell units for someone else. This doesn't even take a trained monkey! I am a human calculator!

I am desparately unhappy with this job now. Not kill-myself-unhappy--it's just so damned draining and pointless.

...

Dave and Quincy came to dinner last night--or, more accurately, Dave and Quincy brought dinner last night, heh. I did my part and made more cookies for dessert, and these are even better than the ones I made last week. Someone speculated that they're so addictively good due to the illicit ingredients, and I agree--two sticks of butter make all the difference (c'mon, butter is illicit--I'm supposed to be on a dirty stinking diet. I'd be better off doing smack than eating butter.)

(that sounds sort of gross, "eating butter". only sort-of, though. Mmm. butter.)

...

I neglected to mention a few pertinent purchases also made on Saturday (you know, along with my glorious hair. glorious.)...Boy and I met Blondie up on Capitol Hill for lunch and hair appointments (again with the hair! once you see it, you'll understand.) and between those two activities we made a stop at Babeland to pick up some bondage tape (my god, why have I waited so long for this? I should have had some of this years ago.) and a riding crop (again. my god.) and we've put both to good use since purchasing. It was nice, having the house to ourselves this weekend--made it much easier to play with our new toys--and then the roommate came home last night (she'd been visiting family in the Midwest).

Boy will just have to learn to stealth-swat with the crop. It's too damned hot to give up just because we live with a conservative roommate. (I should stop calling her that, she's not that conservative--she even liked my hair!)

We've had a lot of discussion lately about our adult proclivities--we're both ready to start going back to the Wet Spot after an extended hiatus. We were going to go to the Hot Spot party on the 5th, but stayed home for obvious reasons (cough cough hack hack *pneumonia* coughcoughcough). Next time we'll be there, and with bells on! Okay, not bells. PVC and glitter. This will be our first Hot Spot party (okay, sidenote time. For those not in the know, Hot Spot parties are Friday-night sex-focused play parties where BDSM activities are not allowed. We've always gone to the Saturday-night Pan Parties, where anything goes--the social interaction seems hot [well, it was hot when I was involved with Nia, who knows all the stars and elders of the scene, but then we fizzled and I felt like I was getting the cold shoulder, and who needs that? short explanation for why we stopped going.] and there's always a show, some crazy heavy-impact stuff or a suspension scene--fun to watch, basically. We'd play in the back room mostly, but it turns out that all the hot action makes for loud screaming and such. That was so much more explanation than was necessary, I'm sure.)

We'll see how we end up liking Hot Spot parties--our motivation for going is to pick up chicks (potential co-stars?), but I don't want to end up getting lumped with "swingers". They just seem so...tacky, although I'm sure there are some lovely people who are into The Lifestyle. I just don't want to be one of them.

Comparing the Hot Spot parties to the Pan Parties has raised some interesting ideas--I've always been fairly intrigued by impact play, but never wanted the heavy stuff done to me. Spanking is one thing, and now this riding crop--but what's really intriguing me is the idea of topping another woman. I don't need to have sex with her or even have any sort of relationship--I just want the dark stuff. I guess topping a man would be fine as well, but I don't want to top Boy. And I don't think I'd enjoy topping a man as much as I'd enjoy a woman--something about making little girls scream definitely does it for me these days.

...

Oh! I got new shoes this weekend, too--they're extra-cute, and they match my hair. I'll slap a picture of them up, too--when Boy shows me how. I've yet to figure out the picture-posting thing.

...

My sewing projects are going extraordinarily slow--I started pinning the hem of the curtain I'm supposed to shorten, but it took me 45 minutes to put three pins in. I couldn't help it! I had to reorganize my pincushion, all the colored heads were...well, they were just in the wrong places. There were a bunch of pink ones on one side and some blue on the other, and then all the rest of the colors were scattered. I was going to separate all the pins into colored sections, but changed my mind and wanted an even scatter.

I know. I'm killing me, too.

Another problem (oh shut up) is my inherent lack of space--when you live in a 1200 sq. ft. house, space is at a premium--and there just isn't room to spread out yards and yards of fabric. Dammit.

Have solutions? Tell me.

...

meeting now.

There is nothing sadder than broken miniblinds. They're so crumpled and helpless, and nothing can ever make them right again.

Note to my companions of last night: That Fucking Movie Gave Me Nightmares.

It was so suspenseful! I walked out of the theatre feeling like one big knot of flesh (ew), my heart racing and pulse pounding, etc etc. Can you guess what we saw?

Ice Age.

hahahah that was funny. No, we saw Panic Room, and I hope to fucking gawd i never have to see close-ups of Jodie Foster's face again. Ooh, wrinkles. She's still got a pretty nice rack, though.

being at home all day is boring and lonely.

Three hours ago, my dad left with my car to get me some oranges. And to replace my burned-out headlight. Three. Hours.

Why is my font all tiny-like now?

[I had to delete those damned quizzes, they made everything nuts. bastards.]

I shouldn't betray my northern roots, but man--O, Canada sounds fake. Do you know what I mean? It doesn't sound serious enough to be a national anthem.

...

I had a dream last night (this morning! I keep forgetting.) that I was waiting in line to pick up Jish's passport for him, but I didn't know his last name. Also, in order to receive a passport, you were required to show proof of success or popularity or something--so I had a highschool yearbook that was actually a 1995 Who's Who. It got weirder from there.

Been a good long while since I was up this late--I'm not finding it to my liking. The quiet is nice, no roommate or dogs or children or phone calls...but it's lonely. Boy sleeps like the dead--he didn't hear me get up the first time, around 2, I'd woken myself up with coughing and then started to puke (making all my sickness dreams come true :P). Now, back in bed with glowing iBook, he sleeps silently beside me dreaming of god-knows-what; he mumbled something about "barracuda" or "B.A. Baracus", I couldn't tell. TiVo's recorded enough A-Team lately for it to be a Mr. T-mumble, that's for sure.

I'm not sure what's keeping me awake--I certainly shouldn't be up, not with the amount of codeine-laced cough syrup as I've been taking before bed. Then again, it hasn't stopped my coughing so I shouldn't be surprised that it hasn't put me to sleep.

Actually, I do know what's keeping me up: I can't stop thinking about all the things I want to do, all the projects and words and pictures that are bouncing around my head--several new sections I want to start for this site, the new members' site, my sewing projects, my planting projects, submissions for Seattle Stories, and I know that if I were a good daughter I'd be helping my family ready themselves for their trip--but it starts to become overwhelming just thinking about this stuff. I need to take it one chunk at a time.

The new sections for this site are easy--it'll be like adding three more weblogs to this one, which will allow for this to turn into a more journal-like entity, justifying the longer posts, farther between in entries. The first section would be scans from a hand-written journal; I find that I'm more thoughtful when I write by hand, it's slower than typing, and I generally write in permanent marker (don't ask), so I have to think to avoid mistakes. I like the idea of a few entries a month, it seems so much more...intimate. And you know me, I'm all about the intimate, yo. The second section would likely just be for my own benefit--a section full of all the recipes I have floating around on scraps of paper, because they're going to get lost if I just keep them crammed in the back of my Joy Of Cooking. I don't like the idea of keeping an actual, physical recipe box (hello, grandma? and we're talking my evil grandmother, that's what recipe boxes remind me of.), so this section would serve me pretty well. If people are interested, it'll be there. The third section is...shit, I can't remember. It's so late! ...oh, wait--the third section would be something akin to Mena's Sew Wrong--a mini-blog to keep track of my sewing projects and progress.

Speaking of, I made some progress today while Mom was here picking the kid sis up--I learned to thread the machine and wind a bobbin, which sounds desparately pathetic--how could I not have learned these things?--but trust me, it's a big step. Mother was duly impressed with my fabric choices and Gingher shears, but snickered when I fretted over thread composition. Finally, she says "oh, shut up and sew", and life went on. (I didn't make any actual progress on the pillows--just testing thread tension and stitch length and learning to step on the pedal without freaking out. I know. I'm a wuss.

Next, on to the Members' Site. The To Do List is frighteningly long--but manageable. I'm concerned about time--mostly Boy's (will he have time for this?), but also--how do I manage to concentrate on work when all I want to think about are non-work things? Another also: scheduling time for photoshoots--sessions with Boy aren't a big deal, but I have to be considerate of schedules. Not everyone is as willing as I am to dive head-first into this project.

Sewing projects we covered, really--the three pillows that match nothing in our house (nor do they match anything in the houses of anyone we know--though they might do well in the office I'm trying desparately to get out of. o, the irony), but they're a good place to start since they need no buttons or zippers or darts or basting. Simultaneously, there's a curtain being used as a closet door that needs hemming (which wouldn't exactly justify a mini-blog entry, but it needs doing) as Boy keeps reminding me--just another thing to add to the list.

Planting projects! I had a brilliant idea for planting bulbs in what's now My Garden--but the day after I had the idea, it snowed. for the third time. In March. And I lost the will to bulb. However, there are things that need to be done before any actual planting can occur: the green area in the corner of the parking area desparately needs weeding (it's a funny triangular-shaped area at the corner of the kitchen and the guest room, with a small maple and some ferns and a couple other weird bushy-things that probably don't belong there--I'd like to see flowers and pretty things instead, but it's most likely a bad idea to plant anything delicate there as the dryer vent empties purple fuzz into that patch of green. For the longest time, I couldn't figure out why the side of the small maple was a delicate lavendar--then I realized it was wet lint.

--speaking of lint: it only recently occured to me that when you do loads of all-black laundry [as we are wont to do], the dryer lint comes out completely black. I'd never noticed.)

Along with the Parking Triangle (not to be confused with the Hospital Campus Parking Triangle @UW, which is what immediately springs to my mind when I say "Parking Triangle", though you're all likely just thinking of the small, planty area I described two paragraphs ago--fuck, i need sleep), there is a planter outside the spare room bay window, and when I say planter I do not mean a small box with dainty flowers. This planter is two and a half feet tall and at least three feet long, and it's made of the old planks from our dock. It's mossy and looks ancient (which the dock was--it hadn't been replanked since...1983?), but I love it to pieces. You know me and my attachment to history. It was gorgeous when my dad first built it, with a climbing rose and some spiky grass things and other little flowery stuff--but then there was the dynamite incident, and the box has never recovered. Perhaps if I filled in the gigantic crater in the soil...

And the small planter boxes on the stairs leading to the lawn. And the huge round planter on the dock. And the herb pots on the middle deck, they need help--we've got rosemary galore, and some limp chives, but that bitch of an evil stepmother-to-be took all the basil with her when they moved last summer. I'd like some lemon thyme, too, if that could be arranged. Then there are the beds beneath the rhodadendron and the camelia and the magnolia...so much to be done. And the hanging baskets. See? Overwhelming.

Seattle Stories are just driving me nuts--I love this place, my damp green city, and I want to share all my misadventures...but who has the time?? Or the energy? Or coherence? Today while chatting with Dave, I signed off with "must to put away the cookies now", which somehow translates to "I need to put the cookies I baked in a ziploc". (yeah, I baked cookies even though I'm supposed to be resting--Kid Sis was bouncing off the walls! she needed entertainment that didn't involve my hand-eye coordination.) (they're really fucking good cookies, too. Boy's taking them to work. If you work with Boy, go to his desk and beg a cookie. and then thank me.) I'll write another story tomorrow and submit.

Yeah, I'll submit. If you beat me hard enough. heh.

For being so wiped out from illness, my libido is positively raging.

And then, the guilt: I really should be helping my family get ready for the trip. Mom's refinishing the entire interior of the main salon on the boat, a grueling but delightfully challenging task--I suspect I'll spend at least a weekend or two assisting with that. I'm secretly praying that once we get everything stripped she'll decide to go with oil instead of varnish, but in my heart of hearts I know how much she loves to laquer, and I resign myself to fumes and cheesecloth. I'll be the first to admit, it does look wonderful when it's finished...but the labor! it'll be backbreaking, especially if we do the cabin floors (I'll be we won't, we're not pros and they don't reeeally need it, not yet), and hell on the skin and sinuses.

What, you didn't know that I did brightwork? Another hidden talent.

Also hidden: my secret love of polishing brass. i need to polish my bell.

(here's the quick story of my bell: when my boho parents got married in 1978, they were living on their boat, a beautiful Hans Christian with gorgeous brightwork and a little white dinghy--and my grandfather, ever the sailor [from whence my love came, he's dead now of pancreatic cancer. i was thirteen, and wasn't allowed to see him before he died. I was angry at my father for that and everything else, but I think i'm glad now--i remember him as lively and always half-sloshed, loud and pretending to be scandinavian when in reality you can't get much more irish than us], my grandfather, he gives my parents a bell as a wedding present, engraved with their wedding date [July 1, 1978], and the name of their vessel: The Together. The irony? They were divorced seven years and two children later. Thus, the bell remains affixed to the doorjamb of the house they bought together when they settled down and sold their boat, giving up the boho life for waterfront and real jobs. I love that bell.)

it's almost five a.m.

Chatting with Steve now--he's just now getting ready for work in New York, and I've yet to get more than three hours of sleep. I'd planned on going to work today, but I guess that's out of the question now.

Dinner tonight with Dave and Quincy, Marty and Loree--I think it'll be delightful, Boy thinks it'll be like all the mob guys having dinner in Heat. I haven't figured out yet who he thinks are the mob guys in this bunch--I'd put money on us ladies.

I think I'll sleep now.

Yup. still sick. and the airport-wireless-hub-dealie went kaput, so there is no blogging from bed. i am very very dizzy.

..and yet...my brother drops my kid sister off to stay with me today (spring break, donchaknow), she runs all over the house looking for the dogs, wants me to play x-box with her, needs me to make lunch RIGHT NOW, won't sit still for longer than thirty seconds--what's her deal? normally she's a pretty relaxed kid, knows when to tone it down (that would be NOW, thanks)...must have been the sleepover last night. somebody's gotta stop those kids and their meth.

so. tired.

Why, yes--I do have pneumonia.

I wrote a big long post for yesterday, but have been fairly bed-ridden (and with the Airport hub-thing on the fritz, blogging from bed is not an option.). Perhaps later.

My life has just flashed before my eyes.

I'm watching "Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead" (circa 1991), and Rose just grabbed a stack of reports from Swell (or Sue-Ellen, whaddev)...and they look just like the reports we use at work. The reports I generate twice a week. Green-bar paper printed on a dot-matrix printer. From our antiquated wholesale system created in 1983. Can you believe that? Almost as old as I am. A movie made eleven years ago, using "technology" that we STILL HAVE TO USE in my office.

This makes me want to cry. Boy says I'm overreacting. He's probably right, but...I'm just so excited about the member site, after looking at potential studio space after work today!

News on that later, i hurt too much to type right now.

See, here's the thing: Work was great at first, it was fun and high-energy and something I'd never done before with people who are my age and always up to something--but it's not very much fun anymore, and it's not particularly challenging, and I'm pretty tired of the people and their petty differences. I know! These are things that everyone deals with! But if you had a chance to do something you feel you're good at, something you think you'd enjoy, and feasibly make enough money to support yourself (I'm hoping for *more* than enough, but that's a different discussion.), then wouldn't you go for it? Even if it was a little less certain (and a little less publically acceptable) than the job you were unhappy with? And I am unhappy, I've been slowly sliding down the unhappy-meter for a while now. It's not a miserable-can't-get-out-of-bed-god-just-kill-me-now unhappy (I don't have those anymore, not with Boy around. I know. We're disgusting), but why not take this chance while I've got the opportunity? I can settle down later, why not take advantage of my youth while I've got it, and do something different?

I sound like I'm talking myself into this, but trust me--I'm Not. I want to do this, I want to build this with Boy and make it work and enjoy it--I want to stop dreading Sunday nights because I know I have to go to the office the next morning, and I want to stop complaining about my boss and/or coworkers (not that I've got it all that bad, I know. I've had it much worse--but these things are all relative, right?). I just want you to understand this.

...

It's going to be so much fun, though--and so much work. Here's my To Do list so far (and this is just the barebones stuff, with a rough schedule--remember how I said we would likely shoot for a June release because that's when my parents leave the country? Yeah, well, they're talking about leaving in August, instead. We might just have to risk them finding out, because I want this baby up and running by the time we leave for the East Coast at the end of June.):

+domain registered (we don't even have a name picked out yet. any suggestions?)
+site design (should all the work be heaped on Boy? his real job is taking up enough time lately. But who would I farm this out to?)
+content (re: photos--Boy and I can shoot anytime, practically, so that's not a big deal--but I have to schedule time with David [our first guest photographer--he's a local amateur, but he's got an eye like you wouldn't believe] than in the next month and a half. To say nothing of the written content, )
+studio space (we checked out an ActivSpace location this weekend, but we're not sure how that'll work--is it even legal to use their premises for this sort of activity? They seem pretty relaxed [there are three activities specifically prohibited on their website: arc-welding, auto repair and raising fighting roosters. No joke. Check out their FAQ's.], but it's not like we can just come out and say, "Hey, do you mind if we shoot pr0n on your premises?" I'll have to remember to leave my fighting cocks at home.

Heh. Fighting cocks.

+Oh, and I have to lose the close-to-30 pounds I've gained working in this office. I've got my new workout schedule down, now I just need to stick to it. And stop going to the Cheesecake Factory. And ordering bacon-cheddar mashed potatoes at the 5 Spot. And eating chocolate cake for breakfast on a few occasions. (Oh shut up! We all know I have little-to-no willpower and I've been leading a sedentary life. I don't want to hear it.)

Oh, and you all suck for not wishing me a Happy 1st Blogiversary.

Remember my earlier quandry, where I just didn't know what on earth to do with my weekend? Yeah, problem solved. Pretty much solved itself, too--I wallowed in indecision for a few hours Saturday morning before opportunities presented themselves, and then I let them take control. We sexed (once), we sandwiched (twice! we're addicts), we comparison-shopped until the cows came home. (or until the time when the cows would have come home, provided we had cows. Which we don't. Where would we put cows? We have a 750 sq. foot lawn!)

We've been looking for futons (a phrase I never imagined uttering, because I have for so long hated futons with a passion unrivaled), because our spare bedroom is small. Not that it's gotten smaller since we moved in (or since Dad remodeled it when I was 16, or since Dad remodeled it when I was seven, or since it was a garage in 1940--you get the picture. Same dimensions as ever.), but I'm admitting now that the room is too. damned. small for a full-sized bed (even a beautiful, antique wrought-iron-and-brass bed, with much sentimental and actual value), what with the room doing triple duty--spare bedroom, office, laundry. So, the futon. I hate them. I hate them a lot, and it's taken a bit to get over that. We saw some ugly-as-sin futons, some disgustingly expensive futons (um, $700? No. Never.), and we saw two that we liked. Now, the great debate: Do we get the slightly more expensive futon that has the exact finish we like, or do we get the futon with the wrong finish but added features that we adore (it's sofa-height, which allows for linen drawers underneath, which is good because there will be no other furniture in the room besides the built-in desk and bookshelf. Also, it has these great fold-out table-extensions on the arms. Terribly convenient! But the wrong color, this light oak nastiness. no chance of changing that.)? So much to consider.

(Steve is right--my journal is so damned conservative now. What happened to the raunchy tales of sex-romps and threesomes and spanking galore?!? They're being saved to the budding members-site for now, that's what. More on that later.)

Also shopped-for: Quincy and I went notion-shopping (and fabric- and pillow-form- and shear-shopping. Lots of stuff to buy.) on Saturday night, which allowed me to utilize some of my newly-learned sewing knowlege (thank you, Complete Idiot's Guide To Sewing). Q convinced me that Gingher shears are superior, so I test-clipped (isn't that what you'd do with shears? You wouldn't test-drive shears. Well, I wouldn't.) a bunch of different styles and sizes, and decided on a pair of glass-filled nylon shears. They're extra hot, all black and stealthy and light-weight. Pins and needles and thread and three pillow forms (that's the stuffing inside decorative pillows, aren't you impressed I know this?) and the BEST fabric for the pillows (I figured I'd start with pillows, they're square and easy-looking and don't need buttons or zippers yet)-- a rosy-mauvey-peachy color in textured sateen; a muted turquoise with a W pattern, also in a cotton sateen; and a twilly-cotton with a weave that almost makes it look like bamboo matting--I hated this on first site, because it reminded me a bit of work, but I love it now.

Which means I'll have to redo the bedroom, as our cool-blue-and-sage scheme isn't going to work with the rosy color. Or the turquoise. We need the DIY network.

...

Saturday night was lovely--after shopping, Q and I met Dave and Boy back at the house, with plans of heading to dinner at the 5 Spot...but we ended up playing X Box for an hour before we could leave (we like the Late Nite menu, which requires ordering after 10pm. Again, we're addicts, creatures of habit, and I wouldn't have it any other way). It was an excellent evening, after having br-lunch with them at the Honeyhole that morning, then shopping with Q in the afternoon. Big Exciting News was unveiled, but I don't think I'm at liberty to disclose just yet.

Sunday involved a lot of laying in bed--a whole day of being out and about and talking did my throat no good. I completely forgot about the Daylight Savings Time business. I got up to shower and saw 2 p.m. on the microwave (this makes it sound like I shower in the kitchen, or in the microwave itself, but I don't. Usually.), and halfway through my shower I realized that it was really THREE...my guilt was compounded. That was a whole day! Spent in bed! After Thursday and Friday! Both spent in bed! ...Of course, Sunday's "in bed" was of a different sort, heh. You know. Naaaked.

Also on Sunday: More Honeyhole, laundry, more comparison-shopping for futons, some petting of fabric bought on Saturday, car wash for Boy, and much much speculation.

In fact, the whole weekend was about speculation for me--now that we've decided to go ahead with the members-site, it's all I can think about! The how's and the when's and the how-much-can-we-make's...it's all spinning like mad in my head. Oh, and also the how-will-I-explain-to-my-parents-why-I-quit-a-job-that-I-seemed-to-love? And health insurance! And hosting! And site design! So. Much. Work.

...

Lots more on that topic, but it's meeting time.

After two days off to recuperate, I'm a little unsure of what to do with my weekend. I managed to finally eat a solid meal last night (if you consider a sloppy cheese enchilada solid, that is. I did. Only applesauce and orange sherbet for three days. Suck.), with a minimum of grimacing (let me explain this sore throatness: it's not so much that my throat is sore anymore, but the glands in my neck are so swollen that talking and swallowing are undesirable tasks. Not that I've been skimping on either one. I've taken a tough-love stance with this, thinking that if I just keep working at it, just keep swallowing and talking the strained feeling will go away. I think I'm taking the wrong stance.), and boy did it feel good, leaving the restaurant with a full tummy.

But now--I've had two days where it felt like weekend, and I'm still really not well enough to be up and running around doing my usual weekend things (sexin' and sandwichin' and...laundry. definitely not up for laundry, although it desparately needs doing)...so what to do? I'm going stir-crazy in the house, but I get exhausted walking up a flight of stairs (no joke--I went next door to let the dog out and bring the newspaper in and make it look like we'd actually stayed there a night or two [we haven't. their house is uncomfortable and preturnaturally quiet.], and felt all shaky and clammy-sweaty after walking up to the third floor). I guess I'll stay in bed another day.

...

Here's my Seattle Story; read it and comment--I could use the feedback.

I've just posted my first Seattle Story...can you find it? .

Um. I almost forgot.

Happy 1st Blogiversary To Me!

Since you missed my birthday, here are some things you can send me. You know, in thanks. What do you mean, thanks for what?? Thanks for all the entertainment! Thanks for the laughs and the sorrows, the highs and the lows, the loves the losses the lays and the lust--thanks for sharing, for the honesty andess that you're likely to find when you meet me, not just here in the relative anonymity of the web (shush, I know that's my name on the wishlist. You'll still never find me. No, that's not a challenge), because I pull few punches. Thanks for a year of pouring my heart out, thanks for the encouragement and new friendships and rekindling of old...and most of all--

Thanks for listening.

A strong recommendation for those of you who may fall deathly ill as I have done: When it's been three days since your last normal meal (you know, involving food that hasn't been pureed or otherwise prepared so as to increase the ease of sucking through my as-yet-unmentioned bendy straw) do not spend an afternoon listening to the Food Network (hey, i'm sick. sitting up is undesirable).

Every single show I've seen (listened to) has involved microplaned ginger. Even Emeril, who was cooking all these freaky vegetables, like fiddleheads and morels and leeks with bacon.

Mmm. Bacon.

Here's what I would like for Boy to bring home, in list form (again. i've been repetitive lately, for which I sort-of apologize. I'm big into routine, what can I say.)--Boy will read this, and chuckle, because he knows that I can barely squeak out "I love you" before he leaves for work in the morning, much less chew and swallow.

-cheese (mild cheddar and brie. fresh mozzarella. roquefort or gorgonzola, or both.)
-cheeseburgers. with extra cheese.
-meat. please. i need meat.
-pizza? sure.
-pizza with meat. and cheese.
-sugar snap peas.

...

Things are brewing. Figuratively.

ill. still.

for the second time today, i offer my grandest apologies (not to you--the first time was to Steve). i promise that when i'm better (or more awake), i'll write a big long update. promise.

I saw Dr. Beaubien today, and I was rather uneasy during the visit. Do you know what "beau bien" is? French for "pretty good".

C'mon, laugh. Or snicker uneasily, that's what I did. It half-reminds me of Jim's Journal: "I went to the doctor today, and she was pretty good."

...

Things That Do Not Help A Sore Throat--A List:
-whiskey
-sucking cock
-talking
-crackers
-being at work. which i am not! excellent.

Things That Work Wonders On A Sore Throat--Another List:
-half-flat ginger ale.
-chicken soup (they aren't kidding about that stuff!)
-watching the delectable Kristi Swanson shake her delectable ass in the original Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

...

Why must I be ill on the most beautiful day of the year to date? It's sunny, 65, not a cloud in the sky. Light breeze, crisp clean air--and the mountains! The mountains are gorgeous.

this all feels very surreal in my poor stuffy head.

...

And to you lovelies who have made a point of guessing what my raise was--you're not even close. Here's another hint: Mine is 1/20th of Boy's raise.

hot bath time.

still ill. again. i fucking hate cold and flu season.

half-day at work today, then to the dr's office, i swear. no more thinking i have superimmune-strength, i'm just going to suck it up and go.

can't. type. for. shit.

and i can't talk without it looking like i'm crying, so painful is my throat. coworkers thought i was having an emotional breakdown, but no! that's just my vocal cords cracking and splintering and slivering down my esophagus.

how's that for first-thing-in-the-morning?

i've been felled by another viral beastie--i could feel it creeping up my throat all day yesterday but convinced myself that if I pretended it wasn't there, it would go away! No such luck.

I'm at work though--so very very swamped. i'll leave early, go home, nap with dog, and write a proper entry. Amuse yourself with links until then.

So much for lunchtime plans of heading to the Market--we're suddenly swamped, and if I were to leave I'd get nasty looks from unappreciative coworkers.

Speaking of unappreciative--anyone want to take a guess at what my raise is for this year? It's embarassing; I almost don't want to mention it.

disclaimer: I am, of course, eternally grateful that I have a job, and one that pays me enough so that once rent and bills are dealt with, I still have a tiny bit leftover to play with--and I count myself among the lucky souls who have anand relaxed work environment where no one will mind when I play the Weezer Green Album over and over for a week straight.

But--My God, People. If you can correctly guess the amount of my raise, I'll give it to you. The raise. Seriously, every penny of it for an entire month.

How's that for readership drive? "Read my weblog, take a guess, and I'll give you money".

...

My potty-mouth has reached new lows--I saw the world's biggest fucking spider this morning while I was getting dressed, and instead of calmly smashing it to bits with something heavy (hey, the only things in reach were a dildo and my ancient-and-slowly-rotting copy of the Princess Bride [signed by Bill Goldman himself!], and I wasn't about to use either of those.), I squealed like a muthafuckin' candyass, "Holyjesusfuckshit!". I said a belated prayer that the slightly religious roommate had left.

On a related note, "shitass" has made a permanent home in my vocabulary.

...

Another movie I forgot to mention! (Two, actually.) I'm a little late on the ball with these, but in case you needed more impetus to rent either a) Wet Hot American Summer, or b) Ghost World--here it is. Go forth and watch, because they're both too wonderful for words.

And that Thora Birch has a rack.

...

I should really get back to work--I have to leave at 330 on the dot today so I can get down to the courthouse before they close. If fear just leapt into your heart upon hearing that, allay it--it's not for me. Boy promised the bastard-exroommate's-ex-landlord that he'd pick up the forms she needs to sue the bastard-exroommate in small claims court. She's in California, you see, and cannot be here to pick them up herself. And she's an AOL user, so she can't figure out the internet.

which is more explanation than was necessary.

Well, that was the least restful night of sleep I've had in ages--we've been dog/housesitting for our neighbors, and in a fit of insanity I said, "Let it sleep here!" (the dog, not the house. that stayed next door, where it belonged). So we did. It's a small dog, and while I've had no love for small dogs, this particular one has earned the right to live.

Sort of. I think I almost killed it in my sleep last night--it was sleeping between me and Boy (please do not take this to mean that I would let just any animal sleep on my bed--I am patently against animals in bedrooms at all, much less on beds--but this particular dog weighs six pounds, doesn't shed [blessed be the poodles], and never gets dirty. thus, my permissive nature.), and I woke up and couldn't find her! in the dark! she was rolled up like a little burrito in our hugely fluffy duvet, blissfully asleep--but for three heart-stopping seconds, I thought she was dead.

See? No kids for me yet--I'm still almost-killing dogs.

...But she kept waking up! And making noise! Boy growled "shut. up." at about five a.m., so I dragged the pup over to my side of the bed and kept one hand on her back because it puts her to sleep. Finally, when my bladder could wait no longer, we got up...which started the roommate's dogs barking.

Ugh. I can't wait for this pr0nstar thing to pay off, because I'm sick and fucking tired of having roommates. Even when they're as nice and considerate and quiet as this one.

...

I just found out my company's not giving percentage raises this year. I could scream.

...

From the Do You Live In A Cave? File: I just overheard a guy in CS say, "What do you mean, spam? They can send meat in an email?"

...

It was weird having someone/thing in our bed last night--I don't think we've ever had anything between us when we sleep. Normally, we cling together all night long, turning in unison and keeping our bodies fitted close--we haven't spent a night apart since January 2001 (I don't count that night where the Astronaut was in town, so he and Boy said they were "going bowling" and where it says "going bowling", please do insert "going to Rick's and dropping a load on strippers" and didn't come home until 4am, and when they did get home, Boy already knew what I'd be mad about: They didn't take me with them. anyway, that doesn't count, because he eventually came to bed.), and having this tiny body between us doesn't really count either, I guess--but it still felt weird.

And don't start with the "what about when you have wild and crazy threesomes with call girls?" business--those girls don't spend the night without seeing some serious cash.

I'm sure that more than a few of you already knew this.

...

It's already gorgeous outside--sun streaming through streaky windows, lasering between tall downtown-buildings--and I've dressed for the occasion with flouncy skirt and fishnets (my legs are too too white to go uncovered. and nylons/stockings/etc. are too stuffy for this office. Isn't that a nice feeling? Nylons are too stuffy for work.), matching bra and panties underneath (a nice feeling as well. I always feel so much more...put together.) (I know, I'm a freak. shaddup.).

I think I'll walk down to the Market today for lunch--or if not at lunch, then on my way home. It's been a while since I've been down, at least a couple of months. I had a fleeting notion of buying a few filets to toss on the grill tonight (snapper for boy, salmon for me)...but then I realized that if I don't get the hell out of the house tonight, I'll go insane. It's not warm enough to hang out outside in the evenings, and I'm getting a slight case of spring fever being inside when it's still light out (but cold. frost-on-my-windows-the-next-morning-cold.)

Only a little while longer, and it'll be barbeque weather every day. We'll eat on the deck and watch the sky turn pink, lavender, twilight, black. I'll only put a sweater on when it gets too cold to sit around in skimpy dresses and short-shorts, and I'll make sun tea every afternoon. Weekends will be spent on a towel on the dock, slathered in sunblock and reading my book.

Excellent.

Amusing: this kid, this punk-as-fuck brash young kid, he gets on the bus this morning, sneers at the driver, slumps into the seat across from me and...starts reading Les Misèrables. Made my morning.

...

Dinner last night was disgustingly predictable--there was indeed overcooked ham, accompanied by a gloppy, greasy potato dish and boiled asparagus, followed by soggy bundt cake for dessert. How on earth can she take a normal, decent meal and turn it in to such a nightmare?

Don't tell me I should volunteer to cook.

...

Practical Jokes In Grade School: Cruel, but often humorous.

Practical Jokes In Real Life: Invitation for official reprimand. I'm glad that I stuck to my guns and declined to join the crowd. I figured Mondays are shitty enough without having all your employees pretend to call in sick and hide in a conference room for an hour while you freak out. That's just flat-out mean. I felt like such a goody-two-shoes, sitting primly at my desk labeling file folders, watching the entire saga unfold. The others kept calling me from the hiding place, pressuring me to come join them, and I felt like I was in junior high. But I stood (sat?) tall on high moral ground for once.

Being good is so damned hard.

...

Also very hard: the edge of my desk, where I whacked my skull not once but twice in the span of three minutes. Don't ask.

...

I don't feel particularly verbose today (I know, shocking. But I'm feeling a little worn out today--that dinner took it out of me.), so I'll cut this short. Later, perhaps? Good.