For the More Information Than You Wanted To Know, But I'm Accepting The Meme File: Another Quiz. The last one. I promise.

1. Where did you have sex the first time ever? You really don't want to know.

2. Who was it with? My 26 year old physics tutor.

3. Did you like them a lot? Oh cripes, I thought he was the love of my life. I was easily led astray.

4. Do you now? Nah. Not even any lingering fondness. It was a tough breakup, which you'll remember if you were in my senior-year physics class--I think I spent the last three months of class sobbing my eyes out for the whole class period.

5. Do you like having sex with girls or boys more? Do I have to choose?

6. Which sex do you find the most attractive? Both--it's one of the perks of bisexuality.

7. What is your favorite position? From behind, with a reasonable amount of hair-pulling. Or the reverse cowgirl. That much should be obvious.

8. Do you talk dirty/like others to talk dirty to you? I swear like a sailor.

9. Weirdest place you have ever had sex? Funicular.

10. Weirdest person you have ever had sex with? Probably the cult member. Or the rabid republican, it's a tough call.

11. Anyone famous? Sorry, I signed a non-disclosure agreement. My attorney has advised me to keep my mouth shut on this one. (what's with all the contact with my stepdad today, anyway??)

12. Form of safe sex/contraception that makes you happiest? saran wrap and dishsoap.

That is SO a joke. Kids, don't try that at home. Except for the saran wrap.

13. Do you have fantasies about old men/women? Well...how old is OLD? I mean, I'm not talking geriatric or anything, but I've got a fondness for men in their late thirties and fourties (hey, I'm not even 22 yet. That's plenty old for me).

14. Is 'sex = love' true for you or not? no, sex = release. or, alternately, sex = power. or, sex = monkeys.

15. Do you like to role play? Ohhhh yes. It's all about the roleplaying.

16. What really turns you off? Puke-sex. necrophilia. Poop.

17. What really turns you on? I think we've covered this, but just in case: spanking, hairpulling, roleplaying, being called "sport".

18. Favorite place to have sex? I'm quite fond of vacation-sex, regardless of where said vacation is.

19. How many sexual partners have you had? 21 men, five women. I think. Pretty sure. Might have to write them down. Hellooooo, slutdom.

20. How many of them are/were good friends? Sex with friends is almost ALWAYS a bad idea. I'd say...two? And then Boy, who is my best friend, but we started having sex before the friend-y part.

21. Ever slept with your best friend's sexual partner? Um. Heh.

24. Ever had phone sex? Yeeees.

25. Ever met someone from the Internet with the express purpose of fucking them? *snicker*. You know who you are.

26. Did you actually end up doing it? Uh. hehehehe.

27. Do you own any sex toys? Of course.

28. Ever been to a strip club? Have I been to a strip club?? As often as possible, thanks. I've got a certain fondness for adult entertainers.

29. Or a massage parlour? Nah. Watching sexy girls is one thing--paying for sex is another.

30. Have you had sex while you were tied up? Ayup.

31. Have you had sex while someone else was tied up? Ayup
.
32. Done that 'sex with foods' thing? In more than one sense of the word.

Heh. Joke! Eww. But let me recommend: if you've got white sheets, avoid the chocolate sauce and maraschino cherries. Try honey. And always use REAL whipped cream, not redi-whip. Ugh.

33. Best song to have sex to? Mr. Roboto, Styx.

34. Favorite part of sex? The anticipatory stuff. I've a learned appreciation for patience.

35. Do you like flavored or plain condoms? Ugh@flavored anything.

36. Fish or chicken? Nice, bloody steak.

37. What's the best sort of sex? half-asleep-he-wakes-me-up-and-makes-me-come-before-my-eyes-sex. At three am. Or floating-in-the-hottub-sex. Or vacation sex, definitely.

38. How many pornographic movies have you seen in your entire life? Too many to count. Now, how many pornographic movies have I starred in...

39. Do you have a favorite? Cheerleader Nurses.

40. How about a favorite porn star? Nah.

41. Have you been into a sex shop before? Of course.

42. Did you buy anything? You bet.

43. Do they know you by name? At one particular store, there is one particular girl who *does* know my name--but that's because we had a class together in college.

44. Do they know you as "that weird one with the chicken leg fetish"? No, they know me as the one with the "spank me" tattoo.

45. Does the thought of your parents having sex repulse you? Of course it does. shudder.

46. Ever get depressed because your dog is getting laid more than you? Highly unlikely that a dog that I don't have would be getting laid more than I.

47. Do you fantasize about celebrities? Ohh, Angelina. She WILL be mine.

Nia's right--it DOES feel like there are questions missing.

(via out from inside and Blondie)

Ugh. There goes my lunch. Let me warn you, gentle readers--that Maruchan cup-o-noodles that looked so tasty in the store (that would be the "cheesy noodle" flavor) tastes like rehydrated chee-tos.

This is what is wrong with where I went to highschool. I went to school with that kid's brother.

You know how I keep talking about how things are sooo perfect, and life is sooo grand and aren't we the luckiest couple on earth--Yeah, it was bound to get screwed up.

Well, not screwed up. Just a wrench in the gears, a fly in my soup--The Bastard Roommate has decided that he "just can't afford" to live here, and gave some bullshit excuse about pending arbitration with his ex-wife blah blah blah but Boy and I suspect he wants to move in with the girlfriend but doesn't want to tell us.

Regardless of what his excuse is, we have some leverage for negotiation--and I plan on using it. He signed a six-month lease--and he's going to pay for it, if it's the last thing I do!

Okay, /end dramatics. Seriously--If he wants out, he'd better either find us someone to sublet, or find us $3000. Pretty easy solution, wouldn't you say? Heh--not like we're lacking in legal representation--I've talked to all three of "my lawyers" this morning. It's nice, having them at my beck and call.

Okay, that's a lie. I have never had, nor will ever have illustrious stepfather at my beck and call--more like the other way around. I like to use one of his Dee-troit trips as an example--Usually, the most-complicated bits of his trips happen when he's actually ON one of them, the planning comes together fairly easily once you get the hang of it. Book the flights, make the hotel reservations, and...rent the car...s? See, when he goes to Dee-troit, it means he's seeing the various auto manufacturers that he represents (F0rd, G3n3ral M0t0rs, and T0y0ta)...and that means that he has to drive their cars. Y'see what I'm getting at? He can't show up in a cab--he has to have three separate rental cars. And they have to be in a certain size and price range. And they have to have unlimited mileage, because he has a fondness for unscheduled sidetrips. So. Between the cars, the hotels ("I don't like the Westin, I want the Hilton") and the flights (Seattle-Detroit-drive to Ohio-fly to Lexington, KY-return to ohio-drive back to detroit-fly to chicago-then back to Seattle)...I'm exhausted by the time he gets there. But this trip, this one certain trip--he gets to Dee-troit, and it snows. A LOT. So now, instead of three separate luxury sedans, he needs three separate SUVs. And instead of the lighter overcoat he brought, he needs a heavy one, and FAST. Then he tells me that he forgot the particular marketing materials he was bringing to the CEO OF GENERAL MOTORS. AND HIS MEETING IS IN TWO HOURS.

Praise the heavens for 24 hour Kinko's in every city in america. And Nordstrom's.

Although I'd rather go through the Dee-troit ordeal than have the Albany problem, where he calls me at four am PST on a sunday and tells me it's snowed in Albany, and can I please find him a car and driver? AT FOUR AM? Grah.

Don't get me wrong, I love him to death--but that death would have already occured if I hadn't quit working for him.

This girl fucking rawwwks. Arrgh, matey!

Had a discussion with my boss today about company-mandated naptime. We're both in favor of the idea, but the problem is space. There will be no "curling up under my desk" for me. I think we should have murphy beds built into the walls. And put bunkbeds in the conference rooms.

Okay, one more little stupid pointed comment: You, at MSFT, using XP and IE6--stop hitting my weblog three times an hour. You're inflating my hit count. (if you're not sure if this is you--I can provide IP addresses and screen resolutions and geographic locations...

Thank you, eXTReme Tracking.

Interesting:

(though probably only to me, and in an abstract sort of way)

+Stepped outside for a brisk lunchtime walk and some fresh air--only to find that downtown smells like wet dog. So odd! No dogs in sight! Pervasive wet-dog-smell everywhere! Or maybe it's the inside of my nose. Probably not, because I am 99% sure that there have been no wet dogs in there.

+Remember all those months ago, maybe mayish or juneish (if i had a decent way to search my archives, i would do so and link to the post I'm about to mention, but now YOU go back and look, most of you haven't read the archives anyway. or so I assume.) when I posted about grocery shopping with my mother, and how she said I shopped like I was throwing a cocktail party?

Those days are over. I spent $120 at the store last night, on sensible things, dinner stuff, lunch stuff so I stop buying lunch at the Crappy Deli. Sensible. Fifteen months ago, that word wasn't even in my vocabulary!! Amazing.

+Don't you think that when you accept the meme from another blog that you read, the blog you took it from deserves credit? And by this I mean: When you copy something from someone else, it is acceptably polite conduct to add, in parentheses at the end of the post "from so-and-so", or "via this blog", with a link. Polite. I'll admit--sometimes I don't, but I do make an effort. To be preachy: So Should You.

Also, posting stupid little...stupid-things just to piss someone off (and by THIS I mean not directly antagonistic remarks, but just "offhand" remarks directed at "some people" or not even directed at all but you know they'll get under the skin of the person you were thinking of when you posted) is petty and childish and very ultimately pointless. I'm making a pledge to stop, because too much of my day is consumed by seething dislike of...oh, forget it. You get the picture.

+GODDAMN, that chocolate pudding was good.

If I hear another damned snippet of that wretched State of the Union Address, I'll strangle someone, I swear.

Maybe if he didn't sound like such a putz. Doesn't really matter what he's saying--he just sounds like such a putz. I think part of the problem is that I never have a mental image of The President...I have a mental image of Will Ferrell pretending to be the president. The whole SotU just sounded like an SNL sketch to me.

There is still no God. Still no snow at my house. Ten minutes to the north, there's half a foot of snow. No snow at my house.

Had a dream in three segments last night: First, Boy and I were going to go bowling, but I was very hungry so he bought me a hotdog and a pepsi--but there was mustard EVERYWHERE. When I woke up, I shuddered--I had almost eaten a bowling alley hotdog.

Second, I was in the caribbean again, with my parents and some old friends of theirs--they were talking about the most expensive dinners they'd ever consumed, and large, pointy-nosed fish were a theme. (Of the dream, not of the dinners. Although I have to say--eating swordfish in the Eiffel Tower [in March, no less!] was certainly not the least-expensive meal illustrious stepfather had ever ordered. I feared the mercury, so I stuck with squab. Not knowing [at the time] what squab was, other than some sort of little bird. PIGEON, my friends. Squab is PIGEON. Seriously, all of the meals the parental units were talking about were real--I'd been there for many of them, but I was not a focal part of this conversation.)

This dream somehow faded into an inner monologue (set in Vancouver, BC) about how to pick up second-semester lesbians on college campuses. Also, I was part of a pr0n-smuggling ring.

woke up very disoriented and waiting for the mounted police to come breaking down my door.

Kimmie says, "I had a dream last night. I was at work". I tell my dreams. She gives me the look (THAT LOOK) and asks how I remember all these things, where I am and what happens and how I'm feeling and who is present...And I Just Do.

...

At Nigel's implied request, I shall avoid the "What xxxxx Am I?" entries--apparently no one finds them as amusing as I.

And Zeke wants me to write shorter posts. Apparently five paragraphs are just too much. I'll probably disregard that suggestion, though. No offense.

And at my own request, I shall make my way through today in a hazy state of wanting to go back to bed. Blondie wrote me a note to give my boss last night, I'm thinking about printing it out:

to whom it may concern,
please excuse ferra from work today
she has a headache and wants to go home.
Sincerely,
Blonde Bombshell, MD

and then I replied:

To Whom it may concern,
please excuse ferra from work today and tomorrow and
forever, because she does not like working. she would much rather stay
home and eat bonbons and watch Buffy all day. and her head hurts.

Thank you,
Dr. Blonde Bombshell, MD

Welcome to my day.

You're slick, sleek, and you waste no time when there's a mission to be taken care of. You do what you're told, even if it sometimes means risking your life. You care for others to such an extent that you'd do anything for the ones you love. Not only that, but you're stylish, original, agile, and passionate.

(via Nia. heh. via nia. rhymes make me laugh.)

work...is making...my brain...go...mush. I cannot WAIT to go home.

All that I can remember about my dream from last night: Boy and I were older, with a late-teens-early-twenties daughter--and for some reason, I said "Look, I gave birth to you, isn't that enough? Can't you just make the right decisions for yourself?"

Better than my lamp being on fire, but weird.

Somewhat blogged out--posted about eighty times yesterday, and almost posted once more before drifting into post-coital sleep, but opted for snuggling instead. It was a brilliant evening, in the most basic of ways--the sky stayed clear until well after I drifted off, and with the blinds it looked like daylight. No, wait--it looked like daylight though a movie camera with a night-filter on it. You know what I mean, yes? Where the director wants a shot of the two lovers on the beach under the moonlight, but that's too dark in reality and there isn't a way to creatively light that with artificial stuff--so they shoot the scene in broad daylight with a filter that makes everything blueish...but you can still see the actors squinting, because really it's August on a So. Cal. beach.

And thus, my first digression of the day.

No, second. I started digressing when telling Sheens the following story: Coworker A (remember her? A is for Annoying? Yes.) interrupted a conversation I was having with someone else to ask, "Do you watch teevee?" to which I reply yes, because boy and i watch a decent amount, but only useful and interesting and well-written things like the Simpsons and Louis Theroux and Buffy. She starts talking about some show called "Fear Factor", where contestants do horrible things to win money--apparently last night involved helicopters and shooting ranges and eating PIG RECTUMS, which was enough to freak me out--and THEN Coworker A says the most unbelievable thing: "One of the contestants, he was gay and he looked like he was enjoying it just a little TOO much", she says with this nasty smile, at which point my jaw drops and I reply, Perhaps he didn't enjoy them because he was gay, but because he was a redneck FREAK, and she makes sniffing noises (SHE is a redneck freak, but that is already apparent) and I walk away glaring.

Grah! The intolerance! And I'm not even into "being gay" (or half-gay, as the case may be), but this sort of thing makes me wish I was, so I could make indignant remarks (or MORE indignant than I was)--but then I realize that I just wish this sort of thing didn't even exist.

Oh, and like I've got so much to complain about.

...

Freezing. Still. The house never really got warm last night, although the bedroom was passable-warm by 7 this morning...after I'd had the heater on all night. I don't know what we'd do without down comforters.

Woke up. No snow. Showered for ten minutes. Inch of snow. Got dressed. Left house. Inch and a half on the deck, NOTHING ON THE STREET. Curses.

...

Snowing now at work, but they are eeeensy meensy flakes meant to taunt me.

On my mind:

1) I'm finding that a good number of people from my youth are now readers of the blog--While it doesn't bother me...I'm curious. Is this where you thought I would be five years ago? Ten? Does anyone else feel somewhat awkward when we all interact now? We're adults, for the most part, especially those of us living as "grown-ups" (i.e. not in school?), but don't you remember being twelve years old at Northgate Theatre, watching Jurassic Park for the End-of-School Movie Adventure? The eighth-grade cruise? The Homecoming Dance freshman year where whatshisname had his hair died all blue and white as a show of school spirit? Sophomore year where...Hmm. I don't remember Sophomore year, except for the whole not-speaking-to-Jen-and-Liz and being in other countries. Wait! I remember the Valentine's Day Dance, where I took that guy who was the older brother of my former stepsister's best friend, and the whole thing was weird because I had a crush on my best friend's boyfriend. How about Junior year when...uh. My locker got broken into. I remember that much. Senior year? When homecoming was cancelled and so was the drama program, and I never went to class?

Isn't it weird now, reading about my grownup life? Most of you know about my greatest fuckups, is it difficult to reconcile what you knew with what you're reading? Hmm.

2) I think we have to stop putting those blu-tabs in the toilet. I get very disoriented first thing in the morning when it looks like I've peed green. Colored pee makes me nervous.

3) It is freaking COLD. Even having had the heat turned on before I got home (thanks, dad), it's barely warm in here. Heat on AND a fire in the fireplace. I think I'm going to go start one in the bedroom before we go to bed--although Boy might object to the incineration of his dresser. And bookshelf. And anything else that will provide a slow, hot burn. *shiver*

Take the What
animal best portrays your sexual appetite?? Quiz

Ha! Watch out.

Home now, two hours later than usual. Almost killed myself driving home--coming down the big hill, balancing Boy's dinner on my knee, the moon caught me full on and I was hooked. Brilliant and huge, making the few fluffy clouds along the dark horizon look like windy cotton--and the sky! The sky should be dark, it is dark towards the west, but for miles and miles around the moon the sky is this color, this indescribeable color somwhere between midnight and royal, it's making my teeth ache. Not cerulean, it's not green enough. Not azure, too dark. But it's beautiful, and I want it to stay like that. Sort of. I'd also like for the sky to cloud over, low and heavy, and make use of the 20F temperatures we're expecting for the evening.

Here I am, wanting my cake and eating it, too.

Actually, that was banana bread. Dad came down to plug the boat-heater in (frozen engine block = bad. frozen marine engine block = worse.), and left a nice warm loaf of banana bread, turned my heat on--awfully nice of him.

Boy should be home soon--we did the takeout-switch again, he picked up my dinner, I picked up his (efficiency, I'm telling you. I say it's a curse, but at the same time, I can't let go.). I've got a fire started already, and my fluffy pink slippers on...Life couldn't be much more grand.

Oh! And there's a new Boston Public on tonight, too--even better.

Heading home. Soon.

Takeout tonight, and laundry folding.

Very very exciting, no?

Updated the links section with the best damned weblog I've read all day: The Sagbottom School for Wayward Girls, which evokes all manner of nostalgia for my wayward girlhood, although it never came to the point where the parental units would send me away.

Wait, they did try to send me to an all-girl Catholic high school. Good christ. Can you imagine what trouble that would have been?

But man...all those plaid skirts...

Holy shit!! That last post was my 1000th post, and I was all set to save it for something deep and meaningful and how weblogging is the best thing since sliced bread and how much I love you all so very, very much--and instead i just cursed out Sitemeter!

*sigh*

Well, there it is. my 1000th post. And now number 1001. Here's to the next thousand, may they be as rambling and snotty as the last.

Also: Bastard Sitemeter has started charging for all kinds of things that they used to offer for free--search words, referring sites, all kinds of stuff. Bastards. With their ass faces! So, I'm switching to eXTReme Tracker soon, or maybe keeping both, I don't know.

Bleargh, it's Monday. Far cry from last week's Friday, where I was all boundless enthusiasm and youthful vigor. Pah. Pale shadows on the sidewalks, and under my eyes, which makes for a cranky me! I shouldn't be seeing shadows! I shouldn't be seeing anything, for that matter. I should be at home, snoogling Boy, while the world is blanketed in white.

But no. I have thusly proved there is No God, as I am still here at work this morning. (secret confession: last night, as I was falling asleep, little girlish part of my brain said a little girlish prayer--"Dear God, if you exist, please make it snow a foot, maybe a foot and a half tonight so that I may stay home from work tomorrow. Even six inches would be fine. Completely fine. six to eight inches. pleeeease?" No answer to my prayer. Curse you, God! Just for that, no more going to chur--Oh, wait. I already don't go to church. Some might say that that's my problem right there, but let's not turn this into some big theological debate, it's not my style.)

Don't get me wrong, it's been snowing all weekend--but wet and inconsequential snow, resulting in...nothing. Not even a frozen windshield, which is very very pitiful indeed.

...

So, last night. I'm not sure how many of you know this, but it is very, very odd to watch your boyfriend sit with another girl on the sofa in the house that the two of you share, especially when said girl is your ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend.

Confused? You don't know the half of it.

They stayed at the house, Boy and his date, and watched one of my favorite movies (It Happened One Night), and then had chinese food...but I wasn't there. Well, for the first few minutes of the movie, I was, but then I left. Headed over to pick Zeke up, then headed downtown to see Kyle's show at I-Spy...And man, what a shithole.

I had great intentions of staying and watching and supporting the band (I'm all for supporting the band, believe me)...but the longer I stood there, drinking my six dollar jack-and-coke in a plastic cup in a dingy bar...the more belligerent and put-upon I felt. What was I doing there, dressed in black mesh and velvet, looking moody and drinking whiskey?!? It was Sunday night! I had to be up at 630 for work the next morning! And I've got a freaking boyfriend, it's not like I'm trolling for trouble anymore, I'm settled and grown-up and not in the mood! My teeth felt like they didn't fit right in my mouth, and my hands felt too small for my cup, and so I left. $2 to a freezing homeless guy on my way to the car. Dropped Zeke off. Went home to my little cozy house, where a fire was still burning and candles lit, and I kissed my Boy. And decided that perhaps--just perhaps--polyamory is not for us.

And then I ate chinese food in bed. Followed by a piece of that marzipan I bought at the Confectionery on Saturday.

Whoever it was that said that eating chinese food and marzipan at midnight, directly before going to bed, was a big fat liar.

And what a weird thing to say. I must have just made it up.

Another weird thing: Boy told me that a few nights ago, I was talking in my sleep (this is fairly normal), and I said to him "Baby, you look like a plumber". O, what a freak am I.

...

Had a dream last night that I was George and Martha Washington's factotum, and the White House was on fire. I was helping the slaves move furniture out, and my bedroom lamp (the one in the spare room, with the stars and moons) was on fire. Traumatic.

...

Pretty boring day at work. It's getting harder and harder for me to get out of bed in the morning and feel motivated, but I have faith that this will change soon.

See what Care Bear you are.

Weird.

Sunday morning, on the new iBook--Boy is puttering elsewhere, and I should be doing laundry, but I'm not. I started to, even folded some of the huge pile of clean--but why? It's sunday, and I want to relax. Again. For another day. Yesterday was a whole lot of nothing going on, only a little growling.

Spent a lazy morning in bed, on-and-off fucking until we were too hungry to move--headed to a very late breakfast (In case you were wondering about the breakfast question: they were all correct, but only one was worth 10pts. Scrambled eggs, french toast, sausage and hashbrowns is my favorite breakfast. The rest are passable, but they were only worth 5 pts.) and then to Kinko's for Boy to play with some old Zip disks (I got bored and didn't hide it and he got pissy so we left.) and IT SNOWED ALL AFTERNOON AND INTO THE EVENING...but what have we to show for it? A few frozen patches on the deck, and ice on the windshield. No fun. However, I'm okay with the big dump of snow not happening until today--I'm hoping to call in snow to work tomorrow.

Came home, lazed around, then headed out to a party at some work-friends' of Boy's...Lots of drunk geeks, not so many people I knew. Or Boy knew, for that matter. Made for and early evening, no thanks to that smelly guy who kept trying to talk to us. Eww. I figured it was his breath, it appeared that his teeth were rotting out of his skull (and he wasn't even british or a mad scientist or anything! weird.), but Marty's Canadian friend (Marty kept referring to him as "My pet Canadian", which made me laugh.) said that he stunk all over. I think he was one of the walking dead, but he didn't look decompose-y enough. The four of us (Me, Boy, Marty, Canadian whose name I can't remember) had been standing in the living room shooting the shit when this guy came up and weaseled his way into the conversation...one by one, Marty left to "get a drink", the Canadian left to "find Marty", then I left to "get some water", only to run into the kitchen where Marty and the Canadian were hiding, admonish them for leaving us stranded, and tell Marty he needed to go rescue Boy. "Rescue him from who?" says drunk marty. "The nasty boring smelly guy!" says sober-but-mean me. I stay in the kitchen with the Canadian, searching for ice, only to find Boy and Marty a few minutes later shaking with shameful laughter--apparently drunken Marty hadn't seen the guy standing there when he ran up to Boy and said, "Your girlfriend said I have to rescue you from the smelly boring guy!!" which made me feel like one of the lower forms of life.

I just wanted Boy out of there. I didn't want the guy demoralized.

Later, we say our goodbyes, head towards home...crawl into bed, start watching Shadow of the Vampire--good christ, but that was boring! I started drifting off, Boy was his usual nocturnal self--apparently he stayed up and watched Cecil B. Demented (I'd been boycotting all along, good thing I was asleep!), which he says is utter filth. Lovely. At least he's done with it and we can return it to NetFlix. I'm bored with all of the movies we have right now.

And thus, our weekend. Lazy. Boy's got a date with you-know-who later today, taking her to a movie or something. He said something about maybe bringing her here, but I would be nervous and probably say something off-color and ruin his chances with her forever.

he's very irritable lately, I'm hoping it's work-related. I hate it when it's me-related.

/end tangent.

Although saying I'm going to end a tangent here is silly, isn't it. This whole damned thing is tangential, but I don't have a problem with that. Do you?

Of course you don't, or you wouldn't keep coming back.

...

I'm not sure what I'll do with my afternoon, while he's gone. Blondie was making noises about coming down, but I have my doubts that'll work. Laundry, i guess, and being right here. With you.

(It's very very pathetic, I agree--I have fewer friends now than I think I've ever had--and in part, I'm sure it's my fault. I could have been more diligent about keeping in touch, making connections, being superfriend--but I didn't, I'm not going to cry about it. [ha, says boy] But I have him, and i have this weblog, and I have my mother. Three things that I can count on. I didn't make friends in college (oh, don't ask, it's a long story), and until now, I've only worked with people much, much older than I am. Even now, work isn't the place--my coworkers are cliqueish and not really girls that I would want to see outside of work. Ah, well. This makes it sound like I have NO friends at all--which would be a lie--but I just don't seem to have as many close friends. I explained this to Boy the other night, how when he was feeling quiet and distant, I felt even more alone--it wasn't just my boyfriend being unreachable...suddenly I didn't even have my best friend to talk to, either. But enough.)

See? Tangents galore.

...

Also, if you would be so kind as to reveal yourselves, you Terry, Dick, Anonymous and tbm? Oh, and you who identified yourself as "Shemale"? just curious. You know me half-well, which is fairly impressive, for just gleaning information from the weblog. Or is there more?

Ha!! Spent my morning crafting "If You Really Loved Me, You'd Know These Answers: A How-well-do-you-know-this-person Quiz".

Winner gets a big wet smooch. Or a beer.

Had this dream that was essentially an episode of the simpsons, but it wasn't one I'd ever seen, and in my head, half asleep, it was incredibly important that I rememeber that I'd written this episode. All the characters were made of modeling clay.

Gotta get some real sleep.

Slightly surprising:

Find out what kind of driver you are!

I was pretty sure I'd get "Aggressive Driver". But whaddev.

...

WHY ISN'T BOY HERE RIGHT NOW SO THAT I MAY MAKE USE OF HIS BODY? Grah.

As creepy as this is, I still like the Sorting Hat.

It'll be no surprise to anyone that I ended up in Slytherin, I'm too backbreakingly vicious to go anywhere else.

...

Also amusing--Boy and I are going to go see MacHomer when he's in town on Feb. 28.

Why is it so damned difficult for me to be good? I wish it came easily, as easily as being selfish and bad does.

Good Morning! And what a Gorgeous morning, Indeed. It's blustery and cold, but it feels glorious to me--at least, from inside it does. I'll admit that I didn't volunteer to make the morning Starbucks run.

(this time, just so you know--the enthusiasm is genuine. however, work is busy. I just wanted to tell you hello. You know, because you hadn't heard from me yet this morning, I didn't want you to worry. As you do. About Me. The perfect stranger whose weblog you read.)

Well! I'd forgotten what two+ hours in the salon will do for your general well-being. Cut, color and brow-wax later, and I've been completely lifted from my nasty funk--the mini-shopping-spree was an added bonus.

Hair: Trimmed, and now a nice sable brown--the reddish tint was making me feel sallow and unloved.

Brows: Ohhh, thank heaven for hotwax.

Spree: velvet jeans, cute warm-upy pants and matching panties with racing stripes, g-string to match that red silk number, and silky babydoll-thing with matching panties for Valentine's day. And new body wash and lotion. And some Godiva--those dark-chocolate-covered-marzipan-hearts are killing me, I tell you. They're all I need in life, just marzipan hearts and diamonds. And new shoes, but those can wait for sunday, when I shop with Blondie.

Dinner: A cheerful affair with Boy, and now we're home. I'm headed for the X Box (nothing like new lingerie and video games), while he plays with....His New iBook (!) A sexier machine you'll rarely see (unless it's one of those titanium G4's, but this is more reasonble) (or if it's the G4 cube, which was a flop, but I want one, they look like lucite kleenex boxes--in fact, Steve Jobs could have only improved it by adding a kleenex dispenser) (or a blowjob machine.) (I have a sneaking suspicion that most people would have gone for the blowjob machine, but I'd be content with kleenex).

Very fulfilling day, once i'd left work.

...

I cannot get over how much better I feel. This morning (hell, this afternoon), I was still despondent and wallow-y and ready to drive my car off the Ship Canal Bridge--it must be the chemicals from the color process. That's the only answer. I am getting soft-headed. mush mush mush.

But if the chemicals wear off, at least I've got the weekend to look forward to! Tomorrow night we're seeing what's sure to be my new favorite movie (The Count Of Monte Cristo, which doesn't have pirates, but it's close), Saturday we've decided to take a drive down to Portland (Boy's never been, and I haven't spent more than half an hour driving through--getting lost--in AGES), Sunday Boy's got a date and I'll be shopping with Blondie and then that night my pal Kyle's band has a show at the I-Spy...Things are shaping up quite well.

Oh! And I might have a date on monday night, too--we'll see how things progress this weekend, heh.

Now. X Box.

sometimes I feel like my weblog reads like Larry King.

Which is a bad thing.

but at least my name isn't Janet Banana. (via reenhead)

listening to en-pee-arrgh streaming radio today--I would stop, but there is something infinitely soothing about Bob Edwards' voice. If only he was on all day long, instead of just Morning Edition.

...

Eating pears, too. And ripping reports for the marketing chick, because I've got fuck-all to do, and my coworkers are at the warehouse. Lonely day. Good thing I've got Bob.

...

I just had a dirty dirty thought involving Bob and Carl Kasell, and now I need to wash myself.

Love 'em, I really do--but if I ever again envision them naked, one on either side of me, I think I'll tear my eyes out. shudder.

...

Listening to Bob talk about anime is kind of funny, kind of creepy.

...

Where did Bob go?? Suddenly all I hear is Travis someone at a member station in LA, and he's interviewing mayors about homeland security, and i hate it! i want bob back.

...

*sigh*

...

Screw you, NPR-affiliate! It's Radio Free Virgin for me from now on--if I can't have Bob, I don't want anyone at all. Just voiceless trance-y stuff, no lyrics at all...but cripes--do you know what their slogan is, Radio Free Virgin? "From Chill to Nu-Jazz, with a dose of Trip-hop, sink into your surroundings and surrender your mind". Ah, those wily brits.

Another one for the It'll Be Humorous In Later Life But Man, Was That Humiliating Files: Walking out of my building yesterday, heading for my car. Wind had been gusting all day, very cold, and me in a skirt with no stockings...You can see what's coming, yes? Digging for keys in messenger bag while walking down the sidewalk, two construction workers behind me (this block is an absolute hive of construction)...and the most inopportune gust of wind blows the back of my swirly, just-at-the-knee skirt up and...over my lily-white ass with accompanying stars-and-moons-panties.

At least I wasn't wearing a g-string.

When recounting this to Boy, his response "I thought you didn't have any modesty?" provided another goodly dose of blushing, because while I generally have few scraps of modesty--this was in front of my office.

At least it was only construction workers behind me. Can you imagine the mortification if it had been someone I work with?

Nah, me neither.

Just what you come here for--abject humiliation in dainty anecdotal-size.

...

It occurs to me, reading this, that I should have told this story better than I did. But it's not even nine a.m., and my arm is still half-asleep (I've been sleeping with my right arm up over my head, which makes for awkward dressing in the morning, can't feel a damned thing), and I've a rumbly tummy from not eating dinner. Or much dinner. Popcr0n doesn't count.

...

deleted that post last night because it was inappropriate, hysterical, and close to flat-out nuts--and who needs that? Not me. Not you, either, and that's what I'm here for--to decide what's good for you.

[deletia]

Somehow, sitting here on my ass, I have managed to put a hole in my stockings. Because I am stupid and wore stocking-stockings, instead of fishnet-stockings, as intended. Now I am bare-legged and stupid-feeling, because my legs are white white white.

...

Have you noticed how I emphasize things by either repeating repeating repeating or by Capitalizing And Using. Too. Much. Punctuation. ?

Meetings meetings meetings. Six in...three days? something like that. Tired of them, but at least I can pretend to take notes--in reality, I play Bejeweled on my handspring! Ha! So subversive.

...

New Onion is so slow to load, but at least it's slightly funnier than it's been lately. Then again, I snicker at anything mentioning donuts or religious visions. And orphan jokes, those crack me up.

...

Special thanks to Cate for commiserating over "female problems" (sorry, that's a work-joke). And crappy weather. I still think she and Conor should move out here, though--excellent opportunity for hanging-out-seeing-indie-bands. And playing X Box.

We only played a little bit last night, I swear! We had a fairly cozy evening, I made meatloaf and mashed potatoes, played some DOA3, then watched Topless Bodyshop and had loud sex.

Ah, domestic life.

It's always such a shame--the days during which I have nothing to do seem to go soooooo sloooowww. [insert usual references to speed of cold molasses]

Enough with the paranoia.

Onward, to bigger and sillier things!

...

Getting a little better, day by day. Feeling less hopeless and drab, more spritely and vibrant. Which is good. Just to emphasize.

I think it's that I've been sooo damned happy for the last year--with the exception of the whole pregnancy-thing in May, it's been one long stretch of bliss...this depression business is change, it's different, it's miserable, but it's unfamiliar, and I'm finding some secret sick part of me enjoying it. maybe enjoy is too strong a word, but at the very least taking some sick masochistic pleasure in it.

Ha! I'm more of a freak than you thought!

The sooner this ends, the better. I'll scare away all of my precious readers--not the end of the world, but I'd be a great deal put-out.

It occurs to me that perhaps the physical symptoms of PMS just could oh, I don't know, maybe distinguish themselves from the physical symptoms of early pregnancy? Yeah, just maybe. For my sake. Please.

(note to self: shut the damnhell up--you aren't even CLOSE to being late, and you're on a nearly-toxic dose of birthcontrol. Ragwee couldn't grow in your uterus. So just relax, the bloating and boob-tenderness will pass. Says WebMD. Oh christ, you're trusting a website?)

Hello, Paranoia? It's Me!

Home now, with the world's sorest nipples. Ouch.

I've felt very uncomfortable all day, dammit, and i'm ready to go home. I tried blaming it on feeling bloated and wearing hiphuggers--but in truth, I just need to be naked. Which is something I can't do at work. We're relaxed, but not THAT relaxed.

and cheers to Sarah, who has send hordes of readers to my site today. And by "hordes", I mean three. And thanks to Jackie-O for sending me four readers. That's seven closer to a million people a day.

avoiding work by blogging. excellent.

...

not that i have anything to say. just letting you all know i'm thinking of you, except for one singular person about whom i am intentionally not-thinking.

...

on en-pee-arrgh this morning, I heard the phrase "donor nations" (talking about afghanland and the meetings being held in japan over how to rebuild it)...but I wasn't paying attention and all I heard was something about "donernations", like Carl Kasell had suddenly lost his mind.

But no. I was the mind-loser.

emphasis on loser, today.

First and most foremostest: Congratulations to Boy and his company and their five million dollar quarterly profit! Yay!

Second and most secondmost: Look at how damned cheerful I am! I'm all peppy and full of life-affirming energy! Boundless energy, even! I! Am! Punctuating! Every! Word!

...

(not to detract from the excitement of Boy's company's announcement, but almost all of that enthusiam was faked. It's my new plan to lift myself out of depression, to just FAKE IT until I start feeling better.)

Also, I'm a great deal tired, though I was "asleep" for a pretty good amount of time, almost 8.5 hours--unfortunately, it was the last hour that did me in, with a crazy dream of absurd proportions.

I was at my version of the New York Public Library, with Boy and the Ghostbusters, and Beb, and we were trying to herd people in, we had to be in the library to be safe, if you were outside you'd be killed. Also in our possession were Slimer and a giant puppy with soft, floppy ears. He was the size of two volkswagen beetles. We sent him out to rescue more people, but he came back soaked in their blood, they'd been killed. Hard to kill a giant puppy, though, if only by grace of their cuteness factor. So we were gathering as many people as we could into the library, and everyone was running around like fiends and we realized that this wasn't a hotel, it was a library fer chrissakes!, and people had nowhere to sleep but research tables and hard marble floors. So Boy and I set out with my brothers and kid sister and my cousin (not the barbie doll one) to a sporting goods store on the sea--there was this army guy with a jeep, he wanted the boys to get in the Jeep to look at his floor mats, said they were worth the look, and he offered them crappy beer and if they swallowed the beer they'd be dead so they all took big swigs but instead of swallowing, they spit it at the army guy and his head melted away. we ran inside the sporting goods store and started rounding up all the stuff we needed--sleeping bags, floor mats, golf clubs and baseball bats, and we went to pay even though the store was empty of employees and I was swinging swinging swinging baseball bats made of foam rubber and

I woke up.

I wish i could pay less attention in my dreams, or at least be less of a key player. All of this fighting and running and killing makes for a tired morning.

...

Starting to feel a little better, though. Except for my tummy, which is still being troublesome. I think I'm allergic to chili, that chili I made almost a week ago that NO I HAVE NOT BEEN EATING but I'm still recovering from the effects. Bloat city today.

Just what you wanted to hear. Dead-sexy, I am.

Also around the corner is a less important holiday that involves other people besides me: Valentine's Day, which is always a joy because that red-pink striped skirt that looks great with fishnets is even more appropriate.

And because 1) I am particularly resourceful and 2) I am the best girlfriend in the world and 3) I know how Boy has issues with the arranging of things-special-and-romantic (which is not to say that he is the only person on earth--this is a problem you boys have, I know this very well.):

+I've made reservations for Il Terrazzo, because I figured that the Tower Club would be better for our birthdays--we can get my parents to take us.

+Send me these.

+And while diamonds and trashy lingerie have always been my favorite V-Day presents, this would be delightfully sweet and sentimental. Nothing says "I Love You" like ceramic-coated cast iron.

...

Pretty good start, hmm? Hopefully that'll keep him busy while I try to figure out what to get HIM. Grah!

What makes me laugh: When a retailer returns their customer service survey with the words "Please Send Beer" written across the top of the page.

We know our core demographic.

I haven't really mentioned it yet, but: One Month Until My Birthday.

That 5-pc. Calphalon set would be nice.

C'mon, show me you love me. You keep coming back, 250 of you a day.

Coming up on noon, and I've avoided the internet all morning. I am rapidly approaching saturation, there is nothing on the entire OnlineInterWebNet to keep me entertained.

I think I'm just suffering from a severe case of ennui, which is pathetic. I'm not rich enough or jaded enough for this nonsense. Well, maybe jaded enough, but I've moved beyond the bitter-jaded-nothing-matters phase of life. Three years ago, it was easy enough to be bitter and not care.

...

Honestly? I think it's the weather, which has never so noticably affected my general outlook. It certainly didn't last year, but then last year Boy and I were in the throes of New Relationship Energy (*barf*. I fucking hate that phrase) and fucking four times a night, which does wonders. As much as we're still blissful, and as much as we still have a very healthy sex-life...it's not the same.

Not bad--just not the same.

...

We had an excellent weekend, though. Made our weekly pilgrimage to Ikea yesterday to exchange my bedside lamp, and spent the evening watching Futurama and the Simpsons with Dave and Quincy, which is always a joy. After they'd left and we started heading for bed, Boy reminded me that they've been together for ages now--a good six months, if I'm not mistaken. They're starting to get all settled in and relaxed like we are these days, and it's a nice feeling. Going out all the time was good--the bowling incident was particularly amusing, what with Boy belting out karaoke tunes in a bowling alley bar--but this relaxed business, where we all just sit around and shoot the shit (or shoot eachother--X Box Madness Abounds at all of our homes. No, wait, Quincy's just got a Dreamcast. Still.) is lovely.

...

Reiterating how good things are is helping. This depression has me pretty floored, and I'm most certainly ready for it to go away.

Okay, it's not completely weather-related--a good deal of it is stemming from work. I'm bored and not feeling particularly challenged...but I'm not about to think about leaving the company. It's a good place, even if I'm not using as much of my brain as I should.

Hopefully in the next while a position willsomewhere else in the company and I'll be able to escape.

...

Why don't I have today off? Hmmph.

...

Confidential to Zeke: I didn't know you were such a Trading Spaces freak. Also, are you going to the Laymans Terms show on the 2nd? I'm bringing a bunch of pals.

also.

Confidential to the visitor from www.emplive.com: Kyle? I can't think of anyone else I know there who would be reading this.

done.

...

Incredibly cold today, by the way, and when I say incredibly cold I mean 36F, which has probably sent you midwesterners and maybe east coast? I have no idea, i don't pay attention to the news anymore--readers griping to no end. But it's cold for us. Cold for me. I hear it's snowing about an hour south, and about an hour and a half north--but we lucky urbanites must make do with bitter and unrelenting dry-cold. Blech. Better than drenching rain, but WHO DO I HAVE TO KILL TO GET SOME GODDAMNED SNOW?

Deep breaths. And a salad. A salad will help.

Look! It's little anime me!

Regular cam updates soon to come.

jay: what was the horrible dream?
jay: or is that journal fodder?
jay: girls seem to always remember their dreams
ferra: part of it was: some woman stole my baby [ed-I don't have a baby. But we all know this.] and I was frantically trying to find her but I just found the slummy tent she was living in with this nasty mean old woman and two little black boys and the old woman was holding out on me and I was torturing her for the information (info being where's my damned baby)
ferra: and I kept spraying things in her mouth, like hairspray and WD-40, and then shoving the can in her mouth and threatening to light it on fire
jay: the moral of the story is, don't procreate
ferra: no joke.
jay: or, if you're a kidnapper, don't keep around water displacing silicone based oils
ferra: right before that I dreamed about sled dogs and waterslides
ferra: No, I brought the WD-40 with me.
jay: oh, good thinking.
ferra: I was married to Hank Hill, of King Of The Hill fame.
jay: he sells propane
ferra: and propane accessories.

sleepy day for me--I've been trying to just shut everything out, make my day most-womb-like. My more energetic self would have pressed for more activity than we produced--late-morning snoogling, frosted flakes and Trading Spaces, then a run to the Apple Store, followed by dinner and waitress-ogling with mislaid plans to see a movie...which just brought us back here to "wait for the next show time", because we are old farts at 21 and 24.

I seem to have vague recollections of this "going out" business, of "wearing leather pants" and "drinking until I puke"...but they are indeed just that, vague and formless hazy--and I'm not complaining! I reiterate my love for our little house, and being cozy and warm and avoiding the damp outdoors. However, that niggling fear that Boy will tire of me and my now-sentient ways--he fell in love with the hip-and-edgy version of me, what's to keep him from getting bored with the me that bakes brownies and plays X Box until 2 am on a friday night?

Also, this girl he's seeing--she does things and knows people, which is not to say that I do not do the same, but I just feel laaaazy.

So I'm starting a new project.

It's in all of our best interests.

...

Sleep now.

few more links added, more to come. out with the old, in with the new--two and a half weeks late.

now back to our regularly scheduled saturday morning snuggling and frosted flakes.

...

Oh, no--the bacon and eggs are for Sunday morning. today I only make frosted flakes.

Sorry about being grumpy, cranky, depressed and/or absent today. Very busy. Very depressed. Hard to be entertaining when depressed.

Also, I kind of needed a break. Back in tip-top shape tomorrow, or something.

X Box now.

Though I'm probably the last person on earth who should be saying this: Why is it so damned easy for some people, and so damned hard for me?

Who wants to hear me complain, though, right? I have it made, boy and house and job and I'm never wanting for anything. I'm not hungry, or cold, or all that poor...

but I am tired and rather depressed today, and for some reason, I've got this big ball of anxiety rotting in my gut, and I can't make it go away.

Very, very unnerving: Some guy on (don't click this if you're at work unless you've got a very lenient boss and no one can see your monitor screen) Nerve created an ad specifically for me. *shudder* All full of bad poetry, too. Special prize to the first reader who can find it.

Another fan, and he's fucking hilarious. His Olive Garden Game is almost made me wet myself when I read it. Right here at my desk. Almost.

Banner readership day.

I (heart) this girl. Definitely added to the links page.

Preface: I love blogging, I really do. I like keeping my friends (and strangers) amused, and having this outlet for myself--it's almost like having someone to talk to when I don't want to talk to real people. We all know my track record with real people--especially with women these days--so having someone(thing) that just listens and doesn't give me any shit.

But. (you knew it was coming)

There are times when I wish that no one knew about this, that no one ever read it so I could say Anything At All, without having to worry about offending someone or having someone take something entirely out of context and apply it towards themselves when it really has nothing to do with them.

Thus, the Weblogger's Quandry.

...

My lips are stained pinkish-red from eating jell-o. all hail utah's official state snack.

I'm predicting a day with a high-blog-to-work ratio today.

Can it be Friday now, please? I'll be very good, I promise.

Why I Sometimes Think This Town Is Full Of Freaks, Or: How I Am Different From Others. (second in a series):

Work. Pre-morning-rush.

Lovely young girl from CS: Got any interesting CDs? I'm bored with mine.

Me: I've got Etta James, Nina Simone, and Ryan Adams--

Passing CS...person, the one who irons her underwear?: Oh my GOODNESS!! I LOVE him!!

Me: *blank stare* Not Bryan Adams.

Passing CS chick: *crestfallen look* Oh. ... But isn't Bryan Adams just dreamy??

Me: *more blank stare. resisting urge to throw my stapler at her head.* No.

Cute CS Girl: *snicker*

/end scene.

...

Although I've got a secret confession: When Boy first mentioned something about Ryan Adams months and months ago (I hadn't realized who he was), I made the same mistake, heard Bryan Adams instead.

However!!

I have never in my life called him "dreamy". Ugh.

"Today’s highlight: finding halogen bulbs for the lights under the counter. There are 12 bulbs. Eight had burned out. They had been winking out one at a time over the last week like stars at the edge of the universe, although without the attendant gravitational vortex, of course. Good thing; you’d hate to see the spatula enter the event horizon of a recessed bulb and just hang there, unusable, for millions of years."

I die with laughter, every day.

He came home, by the way. You know, Boy? Although I had absolutely no reason to think he wouldn't, except for a highly unreasonable idea about him heading straight for the border with this girl.

I think there's something in the air in that spare bedroom/office/laundry/etc room that makes me crazy.

Why I Sometimes Think This Town Is Full Of Freaks, Or: How I Am Different From Others. (first in a series):

Morning Commute. Freeway off-ramp.

Car to my left: Saturn, pasty white-guy singing along to what I expect is some sort of wo-pop. Dreamcatcher hanging from rearview mirror.

Car to my right: honda civic or accord, they all look the same to me, older woman at the wheel. some sort of little golden buddha hanging from rearview. Silent. Does not make eye contact.

Me: hulking SUV. intently listening to en-pee-arrgh and making notes in my handspring. Occasionally yelling at fuckwit in car in front of me who has to be colorblind, because no one STOPS on a GREEN, you moronic twat. Mirrored disco ball hanging from rearview.

I think it was really the rearview-trinkets that make me laugh--native american spiritualism, buddhism, and...disco?

...

I'm a dancing queen, young and free.

Very studiously avoiding mentioning that he's been on this date for two hours now. Not a single secret-phone-call-from-the-men's-room.

drinking the world's largest cup of hot cocoa (bigger than my head) and talking to (count them) three ex-lovers on IM. Man, I'm a slut.

One of them managed to find this place, which gave me the willies a bit--but he's a clever one.

The other is becoming more and more dear every day--he's fallen in love with this improbable girl, and it sort of makes me smirk. Different circumstances and things would be...different, heh.

...

2 hours and seven minutes.

...

I suppose I should get some sleep. Or unload the dishwasher. Or fold laundry.

Something good and distracting.

I'm not nervous about it, either! I swear.

Okay, only a little nervous.

Not as nervous as he is, that much I know.

Also, did I mention? Boy has a date tonight. With someone other than me, which is the newsworthy part. And the girl-woman? My nutty ex's right-before-me ex-girlfriend.

The circle of fuck is just that much bigger now.

Oh, and for Blondie: You're the Sufferin' From Scurvy in my Sons Of The Sea!

Least. Restful. Sleep. Ever.

But hey, I got some, right?

And when I say that I "got some"...I mean that in every sense of the word, heh.

err...Okay, in two senses of the word. Whaddev.

very relaxed evening, for the most part--takeout, Simpsons (no Buffy because it was a fucking rerun of last year's season finale, stupid fucking week-before-sweeps), some time in the hottub at the Welshly Ahhhhrms, and making with the naughty, which happens to be my new favorite phrase.

Also, I think that we either have ghosts or people living in our walls. Was sitting in the office/spare room/laundry center/toolandwaterheater closet/etc last night right before falling asleep--and heard knocking in the walls.

You can only imagine the fright. I don't like the idea of people living in our walls, nor do i like the next idea I came up with--some murderer outside just fucking with me before crashing through that window that has such bad luck (hello, dynamite? it's me!) to bloodily murder me and Boy in our post-coital stupor.

I dashed into the bedroom and asked Boy to find my screwdriver--awdam, that takes more backstory:

When we were living in the Fremont apartment, remember how I got all obsessed with old X-Files episodes that I'd never seen because they were too scary and I didn't understand why they never solved anything? Yeah, so they were still scary, even with Boy there--and one night, watching them in bed, I got all freaked out and was convinced that we were the next to die--so I defended us with a screwdriver.

You know, one of those screwdrivers with the interchangeable bits?

Oh, c'mon! Give me points for being resourceful.

Soon enough, I gave in to exhaustion--but I don't sleep well with the closet light on, which it was, so I dreamed about british weddings (don't ask) all night long.

But.

I woke up on time. And got showered and ready on time. And traffic wasn't horrendous.

How's that for force of will, hmm? Of course, my eyes feel like they're on fire (Ralph Wiggum: "This tastes like burning!", which I cannot get out of my head), and--

*Gasp*

I just figured it out.

I've been waking up with scratches (not deep, not visible, but I can feel them when I touch mysel--shut UP! that is NOT what I meant, although I *do* do that, but that is not the point of the story!)--some on my thighs and one on my cheekbone yesterday...

I see dead people! More accurately, dead people scratch me in my sleep.

Grah!

...

Notes from last night's drive home (please do keep in mind I'm Graffiti-ing these notes in my Handspring during rush-hour traffic, which is dangerous and stupid, I should be paying attention to the road, so let's not tell Boy or my Dad, they'll get mad.):

"Bob Tumie"
"Marketplace--hackers music? Who is crazy now?"
"I (Heart) Bento"

...

Uh. Yeah.

I know, I've been all weird and moody today. Tomorrow will be better, I promise, and do you know why? Because I'm going for a run as soon as I go home--pick your jaw up off the floor, relax! Just a little run. Maybe only brisk walking, depending on the state of my frankenstein knee. So. Running when I get home, and then an early dinner with Boy and Buffy, and then--bed. If Boy is in the mood to make it with the naughty, he'd better get his request in early!

Or, even better: he can let me sleep until 3 am, then wake me up in that manner I'm so fond of. yay!

See? Kettle corn makes it all better.

must...resist...urge....to...floss...in public.

earth-shattering ground-shaking news. I'm watching for the four horsemen, because news like this can only preceed the apocolypse.

*slump*

bleargh. okay, definitely no more food--that sundae was eeeevil.

I feel like bart's barfing frog prince. *barrrrf*

(I'm about to make a comment that could be construed as dirty and sick, but it's not, I swear! so I'll give you the courtesy of just telling you to get your mind out of the gutter first:

I'm all porked out.

Seriously, no more pork. ever. again.

In fact, no more food. except for this ice cream sundae that Sheens brought me.

Noon now, and I'm exhausted. Baby, if you read this: We can't return that lamp directly after work tonight, because I am too. damned. tired.

This is shaping up to be a nasty week.

Did it again today, except this time, without the dreaming of work, so I had no excuse for not waking up.

Then my car runs out of gas on my way to work.

Then I get stuck in traffic on Montlake, which is a stupid route to take to work anyway.

Then I get to work and my coworkers are giving me the cold shoulder, asking where my tiara is.

And my $6 garage was full, so I had to pay the extra three bucks to park at Nordstroms.

A lesser woman would say that this was karmic revenge.

I am merely being tested.

Confidential to Blondie: You're the prom dress in my prop room, sweets!

Today has me terribly wiped out. Between breaking up with Bubbles last night, and--what, you didn't get it? Yeah, it's done. I've been distancing myself lately, feeling awkward and uncomfortable with almost the entire experience--and this weekend was the clincher. We were at her birthday party on Saturday night, and by Sunday morning...Yeah. It happened over messenger, too, which is tacky as all hell, but when the moment comes you can't ignore it.

So between the emotional stress over that and the continued shoulder ache--NOT from X Box as I'd originally presumed, but from sleeping in odd and untenable positions--especially last night! Last night I wore Boy's favorite slinky nightgown, which happens to be a very close-fitting black cut-velvet number--and it stuck to my sueded sheets like mad.

No no, it's MY slinky nightgown, HIS favorite to see me wear.

He does not, to my knowlege, at least, wear womens' undergarments or sleepwear.

Well. He tried them on once, my panties, but as a joke! I'm the one with cross-dressing tendencies--wore a pair of his boxer-briefs to work one day under my 501's. Made me feel all butch.

...

Anyway, all worn out. I think I should refrain from watching E!'s "Wild On Beaches" featuring the Victoria's Secret girls right before bed. Had another dream last night wherein my family had adopted Laetitia Casta, and she was showing me the little quarter-cup bikini tops she'd bought for our ocean voyage.

Ohhh, don't I wish.

Quite the dream. Makes me want to head to bed just thinking about it, heh. Until then, I must pay rent and make dinner.

Uh. Referral popped up on my sitemeter: THIS is not a website about skin care, I'll warn you now. Oh, and don't click this at work--uh oh. You already did, didn't you. Yikes. Start writing your letter of resignation now.

Mine just needs to be proofread.

About Me has some subtle changes. Hooray! Links are next, provided my workload lightens.

Usual Suspects updated. Let me know if you notice anyone missing. Or if you want your information changed. Or if you're bored and feel like making my day. Or if you're on fire and you need me to call 9-1-1. Or if you hate me. Or if you really really like me. Not if you want me to lick your ass, that's not my bag.

Seriously, someone sent Blondie a message saying he wanted to lick her ass! Ew.

alarm goes off at 630am, sleepy brain says "Sleep! Just a few more minutes, then up and at 'em." Body goes back to sleep as Boy turns off the alarm (instead of snooze, that is), instantly begins a very vividly normal dream wherein I am at work. Thus, there was nothing bodily or alarm-clock-related that would remind me to wake up--though finally Boy's clock goes off at 830. Almost an hour after I am normally at work.

I've felt behind the ball all day.

...

Closed another chapter last night, thought not in the manner that I would have liked.

Live and learn.

...

Note To Self: Mail Your Parking Ticket, Or You Will Die.

...

On a more positive note, guess who was voted Employee of the Month! That's right--yours truly. Not bad, not bad indeed. Gift certificate to the Pottery Barn, which will duly assist me in turning our living room into a Very Casbah Affair. I'll admit--the teevee (which is the size of a small camel, though not exactly camel-shaped--that would make for uncomfortable viewing, I'd think, with part of the screen way off in one corner, and a small bit dangling off the end...), and the admiration of supervisors and coworkers alike.

Excellent way to start the morning, btw--I highly recommend it.

Now, busy. verra verra busy.

Webcam almost ready. Yay! I love watching meee.

You will marry JAMES BOND (most recently played by Pierce Brosnan) from the James Bond movies, live in many expensive penthouses filled with many girls and many martinis (shaken, not stirred), and spend your days driving explosive foreign cars and spying on villains with big egos and small brains.

What's YOUR M * A * S * H future?

Ha! Brilliant. (via not.so.soft.)

I think the pain has migrated--my thumbs are not aching so much now, but I've got X Box shoulder. Who would have thought that sitting on your ass screaming at your boyfriend when he bumps your car and steals your passenger would be so ache-inducing?!

B4 d t+ k s+ u f++ i++ o+ x++ e++ l c

Blogger code kicks ass.

One more song, and That's It, I promise!

For Boy:
I have looked all over the place
But you have got my favorite face
Your eyelashes sparkle like gilded grass
Your lips are sweet and slippery like a cherub's bare wet ass
'Cause you're a human supernova
A solar superman
You're an angel with wings afire
A flying, giant friction blast
You walk in clouds of glitter and the sun reflects your eyes
And everytime the wind blows I can smell you in the sky
Your kisses are as wicked as an F-16
And you fuck like a volcano, and you're everything to me
'Cause you're a human supernova
A solar superman
You're an angel with wings afire
A flying, giant friction blast
A giant flying friction blast
'Cause you're a human supernova
A solar superman
You're an angel with wings afire
A flying giant friction blast...

*sniffle* I've been rejected by the Ultimate Journaller Challenge. Apparently my "monthly archives are far too difficult to follow", whatever that means. Grah. Pardon me for being prolific.

lazy, lazy day--woke up late, stayed in bed rolling around all naked-like, the headed to the inimitable Honeyhole for sammiches, then back home after rainbow-gazing. It's been a fucked-up weather day, I'll tell you that much. All crazy sunbursts and beige skies, then a single crack of thunder with accompanying lightning. Disorienting.

The living room feels bare and empty without a christmas tree. We're thinking about buying a bookshelf-entertainment center thing to go near the tee-vee--we need something to sit the x box in--does no good to have it on top of our 5 foot tall teevee, I get distracted by the cords dangling in front of the screen. Boy doesn't want it on the floor, either, and with good reason considering how often (ha!) we vacuum.

...

Just tell me what you've got to say to me,
I've been waiting for so long to hear the truth,
It comes as no surprise at all you see,
So cut the crap and tell me that we're through.

Well I guess what they say is true,
I could never spend my life with a man like you,
I could never be your woman.

Jeebus, I'm quoting White Town.

Shucks, for me there is no other
You're the only shoe that fits
I can't imagine I'll grow out of it.

My thumbs. are so. damned sore. I think I'm going to die just typing this! Seriously, I've got X Box thumbs (don't y'all just pity po' li'l me?)

Dinner last night was a blast--Blondie and I had planned on getting to the Capitol Club a little early to grab drinks in the bar (she was a little nervous, this being her first blind date--and to tell the truth, so was I *blush* Oh, you know--sexy restaurants, slick and charming gentlemen...kind of nervous-making.) but you know us--we showed up ten minutes late, but looking farking hawtt. I convinced her to wear the black dress from New Years' Eve, that sexy three-quarter-length thing I lent her? Good times. Then we came back here and played X Box and ate cheeseburgers at 2am and chucked my christmas tree into the lake like so many dead bodies and empty beer cans before.

That was a lie.

The beer cans were always full. We had beer-throwing contests the morning after parties, ask anyone. Zeke, you were there! Chucking the leftover beer cans as far as you humanly could while desparately hungover--then we did the right thing and took all the empty bottles and cans to the recycling station. Made ESTB's trunk smell like booze and vomit, though. Not that they didn't know what was going on.

Anyway.

...

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

Had this dream last night that I borrowed (stole?) a private plane, flew two other people to Vegas (I was a man, also), it belonged to some drug czar, we get to Vegas and I land the plane in the desert and we have to walk over to the Strip because we don't want the drug czar to know that we had his plane and...extra-tall motorcoach? No, I think I only saw that at the airport when we were getting ready to take off--we had to wait for two Fed-Ex planes to land, but then there was a third, littler one, shaped like a NASA space shuttle, kept waiting, took off, don't remember the flight, land in the desert, walk to the strip--ended up in this hotel that was designed to look like a (fake) english manor home, all exposed beams and stone flags underfoot, suits of armor all over the place. Talked about how I wanted to be a production assistant (I was a girl now, after landing the plane), designing things that looked real but were fake--suddenly my two passengers from the plane turned into four people: coworker, three strangers who were supposed to be friends of hers. Had to be in Vegas for a protest rally, something about animal cruelty, or misuse, or people who eat meat (I fucking hate militant vegetarians. You're welcome to eat whatever you want--just don't expect the same from me.) but the rally was supposed to be a secret--and every time we passed through another security checkpoint (they were everywhere) the guards would hisssss at us "We KNOW what you're DOING" and I got mad at this friend of the coworker, she was this corkscrew redhead with red glitter all over, and I told her I wouldn't be a part of this, I can't go to jail, and the other three got mad at me but I said to fuck off and then ran to the restroom, where two old ladies (we're talking granny-style) were getting it on in one of the stalls, and I was afraid of getting my shoes wet--and suddenly my illustrious stepfather showed up and said that my visa was expiring, I had to get home NOW or they'd deport me, and I ran some more to where the drug czar was executing his closest guards because they'd let someone steal his plane--he shot them in the back of the neck, all of them in a row like some nazi internment camp general, but then they all got up and just sort of stood around looking at him--"we're cokeheads--we're supposed to have holes in our necks" they said so I ran some MORE and found my parents discussing WWII attack strategy.

And then I woke up from this awful awful nightmare of tackyness and schmaltz.

...

Brannon Beer, Fruitz'n'Loopin. Good song. Sounds very familiar, but then again, all trance-y stuff sounds the same to me. Neophyte, I know.

I am a Death Chase Rider. I enjoy taking risks, and I get kicks from speed, danger, and death-defying stunts. I drink and drive, I bungee jump, I snowboard, with no regard for my own life, or the lives of those who stand in my way. Trees? I laugh at trees! What Video Game Character Are You?

Again--quelle surprise!

Been thinking this afternoon about this boy-man that i severely crushed on in school--i was young, 14-15, awkward and fresh from the hellish waters of junior high (wherein to be different is to have a deathwish), and he was this purple-haired leather-wearing freak three years my senior (this sort of reminiscing always seems to happen when i'm home sick, no?). He was so completely inexorably hawwtt, and unreachable to boot, friends with the brother a boy that i'd gone to school with for years and years and then one day his family moved in down the street from MY house, and we'd go to his after school and drink cheap tequila and play strip-chess before our parents would get home but that's all it would be, tequila with warm orange juice and games that I would lose on purpose until he found out and he'd lose them, too, but that was it, no more. I left, went to europe and the caribbean and learned just what to do with boys when no one was looking, and came back to find him fucking my best friend.

I would be bitter about it still had I not been told (by her and others) that he was a miserable miserable fuck.

These are SO going on my babies someday. Can't you just imagine the expression on illustrious stepfather's face? He's bound to be at least on the United States Supreme Court by then, if not just flat out ruler of the world. That'll fucking rawwwk. (via mizz reen when she wasn't looking.)

thumbs...red...aching. eyes...dry...burning. x box is killing me, killing me, I tell you!

Home sick again today. puking again today. Frosted Flakes is not a remedy.

Long long day, yesterday. Got to my car after finishing said interminable project to find a big pile of shit on my windshield. And by big pile of shit, I do mean a parking ticket.

xbox was terrific, though--Simpson's Road Rage is the best fucking game ever. I should be true to genre and say that like the Comic Book Guy, but no. so tired. feel like I've been in the spin cycle all day, and I just want another nap. And an escape from Henry Miller--Val got me thinking about it, i remember reading the Tropics and whatsit in clichy while I lived in paris--but I'd forgotten about the one that really got me started down this long long road to perverse behavior--Under the rooftops of Paris, which is a mightily fucked-up book, and sexy as hell at the same time.

boy has suggest I play some xbox to make me feel better. I shall take the sexy doctor's advice (ooh, there's a game we haven't played!) and do as such.

desparately bored again--not a good sign. Morning was busy, with work to do and crazy ladies haunting our elevators and street corners...What, I didn't tell you?

So I'm walking up the street to my building--corner of my eye, a woman who's not exactly dressed crazy-homeless or whatever--but she stops in the middle of the sidewalk, starts motioning and making whispering noises to ...the air? an imaginary friend to her right? Who knows. instantly, I know she's going to talk to me while I'm waiting for the light to change, crazy people always do! Remember the guy who needed spare change to buy gas for his space shuttle to Idaho? Cripes. So she bums a cigarette (which I don't have, I don't smoke!), and asks if this is Third Ave. Because I am an evil bitch with no patience for this, I ask her what the gee-dee sign says, she says Seventh Ave, I say you've got your answer then, and I dash across the street.

Get to my office, everyone is in a tizzy--

...

Okay, four hours later, I return to this post. Got a monstrous project dumped in my lap...A day's work to be done before I leave.

Post from home. If I can tear myself away from Boy/X Box/chinese food/Survivor Finale. Grah!

X-Box. We are staying home tonight and playing X-Box.

"The cruel thing to do, of course, is to walk past the guy and say “man, are you high,” which would just paralyze him. Or perhaps say “rooty-toot parakeet clock face McMango” in a dead expressionless voice. Or bark, once."

So. Fucking. Funny.

Here it is almost 11 and not a single post. For shame!

Lovely night--dinner went well, for the most part--my single cocktail had the (somewhat undesireable) effect of making me tipsy as all hell. Mostly undesirable because the slightest drop of boozy-things makes me flushed and bloodshot, which does not make for decent photos.

Excellent tapas, though--I'm glad the buzz has died down on the place. I'm finding that there's less and less that I'm willing to wait for, when it comes to this sort of thing. 2 hour wait at Krispy Kreme? Not on your life. Fundamental change in outlook--my time is now more important than that.

Met Boy at Dave's, where they'd been pizzaing with Quincy, awaiting my arrival--we attempted three-player Halo, but I was nonplussed. Perhaps because I'm completely useless with these first-person shooter games? My character did a lot of running into walls, interspersed with either getting blown to bits by Boy, or run over by Dave (bastards.) I finally gave up, but left my character in the game--they lost interest in brutally killing me, so my character just stood there in a field sighing and shaking my gun once in a while, as if it had stopped working.

Dragged Boy home, with some of Dave's games in hand, and do you know why? Our X-Box Has Arrived. Sans games, of course, but we get them for $10 at the MSFT company store--it pays to have the right friends. We'll have to drop the $$ for DOA3, though--and it'll be worth every penny. I do very well with the kicking-and-punching, not so much with the running and shooting.

Having the dirtiest conversation with the girls--all manner of confessions about drunken encounters with other girls and boys in sweater vests...This is a wonderful job, indeed.

"Her ability to orgasm was amazing. She really made a guy feel like he knew what he was doing."

This is what I imagine they all say when reminiscing.

...

See what I mean about mizz libido being in overdrive?

"My cruelest sexual moment was all of last year, when sex felt best when it felt wrong. I got such a kick out of screwing this one guy who wasn't my boyfriend — I liked it that he wasn't so good at sex but I was, and he proved it to me by whining in helpless ecstasy. I just sat back like a princess, soiled but still "untouched," and I fell asleep satisfied."

Jeebus, that sounds like me! More accurately, the me about fifteen months ago.

Dead. Officially Dead. Pronounced and Toe-Tagged.

This is work, today.

I've exhausted every busywork-source on the Entire Floor.

Isn't it Fun to randomly Capitalize Words? I feel like I am Writing a Letter in the Early Eighteenth Century.

...

True-red lipstick always has that crazy sticky-sweet taste that I associate with old ladies.

...

In the movie E.T., did the alien die at some point? Or was all the beeping I remember just Eliot pulling the wires off? Just wasted an almost-pleasant half hour arguing about it with coworkers who are old enough to remember. Here is where my youth is a disadvantage--pops took me to see the damned thing when I was entirely too young, scared the bejeebus outta me, and I haven't seen it since. I'm going on a twenty-year old memory of a movie that I was too young to understand.

...

Just bought the soundtrack for a movie I've never heard of--I Am Sam, which makes me start spontaneously spouting lines from Seuss stuff (also encourages alliteration)--it's full of Beatles' covers, but they're good, I promise. Rufus Wainwright (I cannot say his name.) and Ben Harper and Ben Folds and Michael Penn (my biggest folk-rockstar crush ever) and Stereophonics and Paul Westerberg and Nick Cave and don't i sound trendy? It's really fucking good, though, if you're into that bubblegum and hippieshit (thank you, Grant Mandarino). Fucking good.

...

Speaking of, my libido is out of control lately--more than usual, I mean.

Really out of control.

...

Ben Folds doing Golden Slumbers...heaven.

And I'm really not even all that much of a Beatles' fan, not in the obsessive way at least. I have a greater appreciation for them now that they're half-dead. Might as well be three-quarters dead, Ringo and Paul only count as one-fourth of the talent.

That was mean, wasn't it. I shall burn in hell. So long as I can have my Boy beside me, I don't mind.

We discussed it the other night, buring in hell but being together--then Boy pointed out that that would be our hell--being apart.

...

Holy fuckshit! Boy fixed the links, and last night! I am so very very unobservant. Isn't he gloriously sweet?

...

This cd is fucking great. It's the first cd since the Weezer green album that I've been able to listen to, head to toe. I'm glad that I'm getting my money's worth--I dropped $15 on the Office Space soundtrack...and there's a total of sixteen minutes of music on it that I like. Inefficient.

Best Store Name Ever: Kilgore Trout, located on Chagrin Boulevard.

sent me into shiverous ecstasy just thinking about it. But I'm a freak like that.

Come on. Comments are working, why won't you use them?

Something that someone is eating somewhere on this floor smells an awful lot like bodily odour. Yick!

Also yick: My vanilla bean yogurt is wonderful, very true vanilla flavor--but those little black specks make it look like someone dumped pepper in the cup. The mental block is hard to overcome.

Creepy: The guy who does our weekly pest-check made this crazy googly-eyed face at me when he walked by my desk. He's got a rolling file-box-looking-thing that he takes everywhere, and in a awkwardly juxtaposed moment of macabre and whimsy, I imagine him filing away the dead things he might have found: M is for mouse, C is for cockroach, R is for Rodents Of Unusual Size...They could be there--god only knows what comes over in those boxes from Hong Kong. R could also be for refugee.

Another calm and quiet morning on the lake--loonies making tiny contrails on gunmetal water. Dew resting silently on emerald lawn, and...neighbor's poodle simultaneously taking a crap and yapping at waterfowl? Welcome to the neighborhood.

Had an absolutely lovely evening--ravished Boy as soon as he walked in the door, then served him lasagne on a golden plate, followed by Buffy. The best of all worlds.

Except for the golden plate, every bit of that was true.

Dinner with Bubbles and her hubby and pal tonight--at Tango, the best tapas spot in town these days. Oh, did I mention Bubs has started her own weblog? Another inductee.

---

Boy's fixing the links tonight, come hell or high water. Not only for YOUR benefit, but mine as well--it's my own bookmark-list, now that Backflip is all crazy.

Lots of additions to make as well. I've discovered some amusing folks in the last couple weeks.

---

My bloodsugar is way way way too low. I've got to start eating breakfast.

Note To Self: Lunch For Sally. Tomorrow. Don't forget, or all of those nasty dreams will have come true.

Despite all of my non-work yesterday, today is still dragging and slow. We've finished almost all of this week's orders...and it's only Tuesday.

like we're swimming in molasses.

...

Have you noticed how things have changed lately?

...

I don't want your history, I don't want that stuff.
I want you to shut your mouth--that would be enough
I don't care if you've been here before, you don't understand
Tonight I feel above the law, I'm coming in to land

I want your love.

...

Busy week ahead--Dinner with Bubbles and Nick and their pal on Wednesday for Bubbles' 29th, then the accompanying party on saturday night. Boy's finally got a date with his new toy, provided she doesn't flake again. Silly child. We've got to cram dinner with Dave and Quincy in there somewhere, too, and I'm supposed to chaperone a date with Blondie and Chocolate Love--although they're both grownups, they should be fine by themselves.

MY birthday is rapidly approaching as well--Mom talked to my old daycare coordinator yesterday--she's in her 80's now, and almost had a coronary when Mom told her I was turning 22 and Buddy was turning 18. Her dentures dropped when she heard Buddy was 6'2 now--she used to call him her little Cabbage Patch baby, and I was Chairman of the Bored because nothing could keep me entertained for long.

Not much has changed, hmm?

I feel old and tired today. I should start going to bed at a reasonable hour. I think I fell asleep mid-sentence last night, which brings to mind another early childhood memory--Mom used to load me in the car for my nap, drive me around the neighborhood a bit, I'd be yapping away--and then suddenly, I'd be conked out.

I hope that works with my children.

Twice a day, that's how obsessive. Is this bad? I hope I'm not ruining my gums. I've had a lot of dreams lately about my teeth crumbling out of my mouth--stupid holiday season with its accursed fudge and cookies!

i have a secret.

an addiction, actually.

I didn't want to admit it...but I've become an obsessive flosser.

Amandine from Le Panier for breakfast--I need to start going back to the Market on a regular basis, ex-lovers be damned.

Had a glimpse startling dream last night involving pins and needles--I think I must have fallen asleep with my arm in the air or something, because it was numb-ish and tingly when I woke up. Other than that very vague instance, luscious, quiet, dreamless sleep. I'd forgotten how it felt.

...

Waiting. Watching. Wanting. For you. to justify. my love. my love. my loooove.

This weather is crap. Soggy, wet, drench-to-the-bone crap.

That last post was crap, too--one minute, I'm decided on Thai takeout, and the next I'm flitting down to the Market for fish.

And potatos and haricots verts and a yam (shut up, they're good!) and grapes and apples and spinach and...You see where this is going.

---

Also caught up with Mark, of chowder fame. He's exactly the same, and every time I see him it's the same weird jolt that I had the first time--slowdancing in the Market, while tourists and fishmongers coo and snicker (respectively). Still rakishly charming, but I find his casual, "So, married yet?" a little flat. Almost like he's waiting for me to be really REALLY unavailable before pursuing. Fool had his chance years and years ago (goodness, coming up on three years? I feel old.), but now I'm almost embarassed at the memory. Why won't he just grow up and go away?? 35 year old retirees shouldn't be slinging chowder where I buy my produce, profitable investments or no.

Thought about popping in to see Tony--but got nervous at the (unlikely) prospect of running into his teevee star girlfriend and looking drab (no makeup day, as is the case when I sleep through the alarm). Never good to run into the new arm-candy looking like crap.

Crap crap crap.

...

I'd really like my links to go back where they belong--I'm starting to almost wish that I'd kept the blogspot site up until everything here was perfect. Are they ever perfect? Is there always something to be fixed, tweaked, turned a little bit to the left? Most likely. Even with less fluid mediums, I'm a tweaker.

...

fuck, I left this sitting for hours.

Boy came home, I seared his snapper and broiled my salmon, and now he and the roommate are bonding over Tom Green Show reruns and dreams of our X-Box (arrival is imminent--if he didn't get me Dead Or Alive 3, I'll cry.).

sleep, please. my head is aching.

Accomplishing close to absolutely nothing at work today--between an incredibly captivating conversation earlier and a flirty girlfriend, nothing is getting done. Nothing.

Boss has left for the afternoon, and with my plans for the evening for the evening cancelled, I'm merely looking forward to picking up thai takeout on the way home to some fireside snuggling with my boy. And the Simpsons, which has taken a delightful turn for the better--just non-sequitery enough to keep me interested without feeling stupidly obscure.

...

Plenty to do, but no motivation to do it. Haven't eaten today--bad to slip into old, destructive behavior. Not really wanting to, either--if I'm going to ralph again, why give my stomach anything to work with? Had a slip of chocolate in the shape of a ladybug, made me jittery.

I feel like those girls who feel full on a grape and two sips of diet soda. And a carrot.

...

Heading down to the Market after work--snapper for boy, salmon for me--and then home to start a fire.

In the fireplace.

And maybe the bedroom, but after dinner. I'm going to be HUNGRY by then. And I never perform well on an empty stomach.

...

work.

Also, just so we're all on the same page: There is little more disgusting than clipping your fingernails at work, at your desk, especially when the desk is right behind mine, with nothing but bamboo separating us.

Maybe clipping your toenails. But not much else.

dried keratin flying through the air. towards my desk.

Had a big post typed out to explain the ninja-puking story--and then I realized I'd spent half an hour talking about vomit, and it made me sick to my stomach. Eurgh.

Suffice to say--I'm a very silent chunk-blower. illustrious stepfather gave me the nickname one summer on the boat, while making a very very roughcrossing.

...

No more posts about puke.

I had figured that the cold subsided--and then I wake up at four a.m. puking my guts out. Finished my ninja-puke (oh, ask me later, I'm in a hurry), staggered back to bed on shaking legs, fell into a coma until ten minutes after my bus left the stop. Grah. I've really been trying to get up earlier, but the holidays (and the illness that I can't stop fucking talking about, it's all-consuming) have left me groggy.

Meeting now.

gave up a chunk of independance last night, but it doesn't bother me as much as I thought it might. Bothers other people plenty, or would if I told them. For now, we'll just keep it to ourselves.

...

he woke me around three am, with an insistent finger prodding at my nether-bits...slow, liquid sex until I couldn't feel my toes (must remember to keep the heat on in the bedroom at night), then back to sleep. Almost thought it was a dream.

...

scatterbrained. Spinner's "90's Alternative" station is playing every gee-dee song from my youth. amusing.

In addition to the About Me page, I'll do a stupid web survey--and then never again. You'll have to draw your own conclusions.

GENERAL

Name: Ferra will do for now.
Birthdate: February 21, 1980. (haven't you read the bio page, already?)
Location: Seattle, WA
Religion: Erm. Dedicated Hedonism.
Occupation: Temptation Incarnate has been my long-standing answer.

APPEARANCE
Hair: Auburn-y brown. My obsession with it has waned a bit since I've begun living mostly within means.
Eyes: Still slow like honey. Why does this feel like a Nerve ad?
Height: 5'6.5 in fluffy-slippered feet. 5'10 in most of my shoes.
Weight: Oh, let's not. It's post-holidays.
Figure: Decidedly hourglassish.

STYLE
Clothing: Form-fitting cocksucker-red sweaters, boots, anything stolen from Boy's side of the closet, leather pants, PVC, panties with ruffles.
Music: Lounge music. U2. Robbie Fulks, I swear to gawd i'm going to kiss that man. Crooners. Delta blues. François Couperin, Antonin Dvoràk (I know I got the accent wrong.), and some Mozart for good measure.
Makeup: Tends towards the glittery, accompanied by (god, I'm wearing out the phrase already) cocksucker-red lipstick.
Bodyart: One tattoo that came in two pieces: A compass rose on the small of my back, all swirly and blue. One word on either side: the infamous "Planxi Mihi", which is latin for spank me.

RIGHT NOW
Wearing: black cut-velvet nightgown, as a happy 1-year-to-the-day-since-the-first-time-we-fucked present for boy. Something of an anniversary. Nightgowns aren't usually my thing. And moisturizer that smells like fresh-cut grass. Pink fuzzy slippers (my sole wal-mart purchase, made in Florida).
Listening to: François Couperin's "La Sultane", from The Sultan And The Phoenix.
Thinking of: sleep, sex, cold toes.
Feeling: tired, wiggly, freezing. Goes with the "thinking" bit, I presume.

LAST THING YOU
Bought: breakfast this morning, for Boy and myself. Almost bought new rope at the hardware store, but decided to wait for a trip to the Marine supply store, their selection is so much better.
Did: Dinner with the Boy, came home, put nightgown on, now waiting for him to finish playing with the iBook so that I can play with him.
Ate and drank: Roasted Red Pepper Soup, Chicken Parmegiano with rigatoni, split a tiramisu with Boy, and had a glass of Merlot. Perfect.
Read: Douglas Coupland's All Families Are Psychotic. If I can't kiss Robbie Fulks, I want to kiss Coupland. Every goddamned one of his books, they make me laugh and cry and mourn--and he gets more brilliant with every one.

FAVORITE
Food: Toasted slivered almonds. Champignon brie. Tangerine popsicles. Spinach salads with warm raspberry-vinaigrette, caramelized pecans and crumbled gorgonzola. Rare roast beef sandwiches with mild cheddar, dijon mustard, and red onions on sweet dark wheat bread. Thick chocolate cake, four layers tall, with a foaming glass of milk.

Man, I love food.

Drink: Orange soda. Water. Sidecars. Bourbon. Single-malt scotch, preferrably of the MaCallan variety.
Color: Enough, already. Why persist in asking the world's most Boring Question?
Shoes: Come, now--should be fairly obvious. Other than that, I'm fond of my faux-bowling shoes and my Dansko clogs.
Dance: Who on earth writes these things? Yeesh. But I like to mambo, with an occasional cha-cha or rhumba for good measure.
Vegetable: tomatoes. peppers. potatoes. onions, garlic, spinach (fresh, only), carrots, haricots verts, peas, cucumbers!, zucchini, squash, romaine lettuce...the list goes on.
Fruit: Apples, bananas, grapes, pears, gawd I love pears, citrus of almost any variety...but apples hold the closest spot in my heart..
Berry: erm...don't those count as fruit? This is a stupid survey. But I like blackberries for pie, huckleberries for trail-fruit, and fresh, plump raspberries for breakfast in bed on a sunny August sunday, when the lake is cheeky and clouds are nowhere to be seen as we while away the day in bed.

But the stains are a bitch to get out of my white white sheets.

...

So, there you have it. More personal information than anyone could want to know. Now, to bed with me.

About Me is finished. Photos and links to come, I promise.

Also, this is my 900th post. I feel prolific.

Lovely night, thanks--I've stopped with the interminable dripping of snot, and have now begun the Chest-ache of Death. Never fails--when I've got a cold, it's going to end up making a cozy home in my lungs.

Enough with my sickness.

...

Had a nice recovering-from-sickness (shit, I just promised myself that I would not talk about it!) evening last night: Boy installed WinXP Pro, I read my book and watched that horrible Mummy movie. I remember it being much better than it was on TNT ("We Know Dram--oh wait...well, we know Crap!") last night. Now I feel bad for dragging Boy to the sequel and telling him the first one was better, I swear! There's two hours of his life he'll never get back.

We had sex in the guest room last night, for a nice change of pace--my old squeaky brass bed with my beautiful linens--and (very odd) it made me feel kind of homesick. Odd, of course, because we live in my house. That I grew up in. Three blocks away from my Dad's new house. Odd.

...

I should wake him up--I've been up for hours now, and he gets peeved if I let him sleep late.

Just call me the Human Alarm Clock.

I can do it you gently
I can do it with an animal's grace
I can do it with precision
I can do it with gormet taste
I can do it in a church
I can do it any time or place
I can do it like an angel
To quiet down your rage
I can do it in the water
I can do on dry land
I can do it with instruments
I can do it with my own bare hands

But either way
Either way, you know where it stands
I wanna kill you
I wanna blow you...
Away

...

Fuck it. It's been over two years now, all this back-and-forth with the ex (well, he wasn't an ex for the whole time, of course)...and between this last blow-up with Boy over him and the current blow-up with the Ex himself...Fuck it.

I've taken the afternoon off from work, after my stellar review this morning--in the process of finishing as much of this site that I can without Boy's help. Making all sorts of lists. I could use some help, though: What do you want to know about me? This bio page is proving daunting.

That went surprisingly well--no raise until April, but that's only a couple months away.

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I've legally changed my name to Snot E. Factory (E is for Erin--didn't you know that's my middle name?), which will be complete and utter embarassment for my future and as-yet-unborn children. Can't you just see them bringing their boy/girlfriends home to meet the family? "Sweetie, this is my dad, and here's my mom, Snot"

Oh, the things that amuse me.

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Today is one of those days where I am walking very carefully, taking my gloves off like an old lady one finger at a time, smoothing things and watching.

Six month review in two minutes. Wish me luck!

so very, very ill. the snot-faucet (also fondly known as my ever-perfect nose) has stopped running, but i am feverish and dizzy so i think i'll go lay down. and sniffle quietly into a pillow. until Boy comes home. with applesauce. boo hoo.

I'm all hating on this title shizzit.

There really is a limit to how much snot one tissue can absord.

Gross.

I don't know if I like this title-business.

...but I guess that'll just have to go on the To Do list.

...

Another message from an admirer:

"we met a long while ago (coffee at the cow diner on Phinney). We were going to get together for a kissing date, and it never happened, and you moved, and.....well, the missed connection thing. Fact is, I haven't gotten you out of my mind. The one brief kiss in the parking lot....I have the occasional dream about you (yep, there's a cowboy hat involved), I sometimes fantasize about you in solo sensual moments."

The message devolves after that point, hinting for an invitation to join the harem--why is it that as soon as people learn that we're poly they instantly assume that I'm accepting all applications? Some people might work their poly-ness that way, but we certainly do not.

...

I tried eating one of my hugely whole wheat bagels for breakfast, along with a peach yogurt--you can guess what happened. I'm extra-mucous-y, and my throat is murderously sore. Also, I've been attempting to eat raisins, but they just feel like squishy little bugs in my mouth, since I can't taste a damned thing.

Mmm...buuugs.

This Is The Thursday Of My Discontent

It's this fucking headcold, that's what it is. I am a veritable fountain of snot (ooh, sexy!) and the lotion-soaked kleenex (or whatever it is they put in these things in an attempt to leave a fragment of your nose on your face) isn't working. Ah, well.

So, what do you think? It's purty, ain't it? Boy worked so very hard, and now there are only little tweakings left. I've got to get all my links listed in the links section, slap some photos up in the photo section and write a blurb for bio section.

Okay, so it's a daunting list, at least to me. But what fun! Comments work again, and you've got pictures (or a picture, at least for now), and if I'm blogging from home you'll get the FerraCam (that's Boy there in that last camshot, isn't he adorable?)...I'm expecting applause at the very least, or perhaps gifts from my wishlist as thanks for providing you with so damned much entertainment.

...

Now, work.

My Ass Is Twitching

I'd like to have a more auspicious beginning, but it's all I've been thinking all afternoon (aside from the crushing sinus headache and impending cold)--this muscle in my ass won't. stop. twitching!

And thus begins our spanking journey, with much fanfare and naked pictures of me in my cowboy hat....what, you didn't know what it meant, the planxi-mihi bit? It's latin for "spank me", and it is indeed what I've got tattooed on my ass!

Okay, not ON my ass, just above it, 'round the compass rose? Anyway.

So, here it is. Long-awaited (mostly by me, of course), made with loving hands, here for your enjoyment and mine, too!

This is, indeed, the very

This is, indeed, the very last day wherein I'll be posting with Blogger, so let's savor this.

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Long night, as indicated by my 1am post--a good deal later than any of my posts have been for ages now. The bloody holidays have my sleep schedule all fuckered, and I couldn't get my poor, tired body to conk out until close to 2am. Exhausted, yes. Sleepy? Of course not! Boy had left, even, so I was aaaall alone (oh, relax--he was taking the New Yorkers back to their hotel near the airport, and I figured I'd stay home and "get some rest". pah.), left to flirt with strangers on instant messenger. Lovely.

...

Work is busy, but not busy enough to keep my brain from wandering. Boy stayed home (lucky sod), and like any sensible person--I'd rather be there with him, than here. bleargh.

Fairly full day, hopefully a

Fairly full day, hopefully a promise of things to come: Slept late, smooched in the shower, headed to Dave's for an afternoon of X-Box madness with him and Quincy--we'd hardly gotten more than two private words in with them at Marty and Loree's on New Years Eve (between me and Blondie running around in our party dresses flirting like drunken loons and the hubbub created by the appearance of Dave in a Regis suit and Quincy in a dress--with makeup, even!--it was a busy night. And New Years kisses! Those took up a good deal of time as well, making up for last year and all.), then picking up Kid Sis, transporting her (and some dinner) to grandma's house (the 'rents are stuck in Victoria, as the weather has turned nasty and cancelled their boat home), then home for a few scant moments of relaxation before Boy's New York friends called on their way here from Whistler, and it was off to the airport to pick them up for a late dinner and whirlwind backseat-tour of a dark and rainy city.

Exhausted, and no way to start the new year. Resolutions? Sure.

-Write. Every gee-dee day.
-Relax. Ditto. Not so much stressing about the little things that make me go bazongas.
-Say Thank You.
-Sleep soundly, and wake with a smile. This last one will maybe be the most difficult to control.

and with that, it's time to finish an IM conversation and head to bed. Getting up for work tomorrow will not come easily.

I suppose I should hurry

I suppose I should hurry up and do a First Post Of 2002--but I'm busy relaxing. And flashing the neighbors.

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You're a veryand adventurous person, you've been around the block and back several times. Yet, as all people do, you realize that this life style cannot go on forever and need to settle down. Hopefully as more time progresses you'll stick to one gender and not be so greedy! Take The "Which Kevin Smith Female Are You?" Quiz!!

Gee, there's a surprise.