I think that if I ever own a restaurant, I'm going to name all the dishes after friends. Everyone's got a favorite dish that I make, right? Drinks, too. My gorgonzola-chicken-pasta dish would be called "Panda"...Cosmopolitans would be named after my Barbie cousin...A glass of chocolate milk would be Boy, hehe. Isn't he so cute??
I just realized that the Lenny Kravitz song 'Black Velveteen' is about a sexbot. That's so pathetic. Why would Lenny write about a sexbot? He could have any woman on earth.
"Black velveteen
Simple and clean
Oh what a bad machine
Black velveteen
Supple and lean
The 21st century dream
Ready to please
Free from disease
She's waiting on her knees
It's not a sin
Titanium skin
Just take her for a spin
Black velveteen
Simple and clean
Oh what a bad machine
Black velveteen
Supple and lean
The 21st century dream
Nice piece of kit
Electronic clit
Just sit down for a fit
Ready to trip
A guarantee hit
She's all you ever wished
Black velveteen don't give a damn she'll do dishes
Black velveteen knows all the night spots in France
Black velveteen's cunt smells like strawberry kittens
Black velveteen always is ready to dance"
Gross! Robot sex. And Lenny. *shudder* What the hell is a "strawberry kitten?"
Oh cripes! Now I'm going to get all these weirdos referred to my weblog looking for "robot sex". Great.
guuuuhhhh....mid-afternoon slump. I was hoping I would be able to avoid it, and took a quick walk. I went to his ATM to deposit rent moolah in Boy's account, and then realized that I couldn't deposit it at the ATM without his ATM card. Whoops. Thank heavens for interbank deposit privileges!
What, you don't play Gary and Celeste? You did see Out Of Sight, didn't you? Oh cripes. Do I have to explain everything today??
Out Of Sight: J.Lo is a federal marshall. G.Cloo (heh, I made that up myself.) is an escaped bank robber on the run. Of course, they're also rilly rilly attracted to eachother, despite obvious hindrances. There's this scene in a hotel bar in Detroit, snow falling softly...She's been looking for him all day, and just wants to have a drink--but she keeps getting pestered by sleazy ad execs, when suddenly...G.Cloo is there! He's in the bar, in a suit, looking Rico Suave-smooth. They drink bourbon and call time-out--assume new identities as "Gary", the traveling salesman, and Celeste, "businesswoman". Then they go make sweet hot monkey love.
Long story slightly longer: Boy and I play "Gary and Celeste", where we go out to a bar, enter separately, and pick eachother up.
I know. We're freaky-weird-perverts.
It's so much fun, though! It's like our first date all over again.
I'm having a chemical low today, and even gelato isn't helping. I didn't think that today would be a down-day--it started off so well! Boy snoogled me awake, and it was sunny, with a light wind...and then I got up and got organized--made a salad to take for lunch, got all my things together...
And then I got to work and my first phone call was from Ex, telling me how tremendously happy he is with his new girlfriend. Now, don't get me wrong--I'm happy for him, too. I want him to see what it's like to be so incredibly in love with someone that nothing else matters. I like seeing him change his act and get his priorities straight (his list of priorities used to go 1) work 2) motorcycles/racing 3) cars, trucks, convertibles, anything with an engine 4) buddies/beer .........25) girlfriend.), and I like knowing that he's making a real effort to make things work with this new girl, because he sure as hell didn't try with me. However, the more he talks about how great it is to be so happy, the more I think about what a jerk he was to me, and that pisses me off. Not that he's happy--just that he wasn't happy with *me*.
If this is giving you the impression that I'm wanting things to have worked out with Ex--you're wrong. How many times must I reiterate: I wouldn't trade Boy for all the Exes and Keanu's in the world! If you're getting the idea that I'm jealous of Ex's new-shiny-relationship-happiness...well, you might be right. But that's just because I like new shiny things in general. I think Boy and I just need to play a quick round of Gary and Celeste, heh.
Our head designer is leaving the company to be a stay-at-home mom, and she just brought her baby down here. Within seconds, every other woman in this department was glommed onto the stroller making high-pitched squealy-noises. Our manager was on her hands and knees poking at him.
See, Stefan was a safe bet--he was married ("We're separated, mostly, except we still live together. And share a bed. And we haven't told anyone we're getting divorced"), so there wasn't much chance of me having to deal with messy relationship stuff--at least not on my end. This was post-Ex, you see, and we all know what that means. At least with Stefan, I wouldn't be expected to invest anything emotional, and I liked that. Todd seemed to want a...heh, Girlfriend Experience (double-heh), and I wasn't in the mood.
I'm just making it sound worse, right? I thought about deleting the post, and the earlier one about Todd, but then I remembered that ultimately, this is my journal. Just because I let you read it does not make you the content editor.
I did wrong, didn't I. The Todd thing? I was seeing this married guy, Stefaaaaan, and kept insisting that Todd and I were "just friends"...but I'm pretty sure he felt...differently. You know what I mean. And then I sort of made the mistake of telling Todd that I'd been sleeping with Stefan, which I figured was okay, because we weren't dating, right? Sheesh. I handled that badly. (heh, not as badly as he handled me telling him about Stefan!)
In any event--Todd, if you read this, I'm sorry I was a cold, heartless bitch. And I'm sorry I was a bad golfer on purpose.
I need to listen to music that doesn't make me think of anything. I've been listening to all this nostalgia-inducing music, and it's driving me batty.
I tried putting Ben Harper in, but then I remembered, alternately, the times I had sex to the Burn To Shine album--and how poor Todd used to say that 'Steal My Kisses' was "our song" because I wouldn't go to bed with him, no matter how hard he tried.
See?!? I need music with no personal reference points.
This confusion I mentioned is less about "actually being confused", and more about "being dumb and nostalgic". I've had a LOT of dreams with Kate in them lately--I think because I know she's in town and is living five minutes away--Part of me wants to get in touch with her...not necessarily to patch things up and become the best-of-friends again, because things can never be the same, right? Not after the last (almost) three years. I just want to...you know. Talk. Or something.
That other part of me wants to completely jettison every shared memory we had. For good.
+Made a lovely lovely dinner for Boy (and me, duh), which we ate, at the table, with the television off. It was wunnerful.
+bought 2 used cd's from my youth. Subsequently, I'm a big bucket of emotional confusion today.
+figured out my health insurance thing.
Have you ever come across someone that you just know would be perfect for someone else, and thought about playing matchmaker? Me too, sort of--except that the person I came across is Nanette, and the person I think she's perfect for is Boy, so I'm not exactly going to play matchmaker. Despite polyamorous leanings, I don't think I'm about to arrange dates (with strangers, who live far away) for Boy.
Very Silly Thing: Our very sexy (and assuredly oversexed, though not as badly as the guys in HR) owner is wearing pants practically up to his armpits. Highly amusing to see young-ish men (40's?) dressing like my grandmother's husband.
Well, not exactly like my grandmother's husband--he does indeed wear his pants riding rather high...but he also wears them with suspenders (sometimes rainbow-colored) over a wifebeater tank. Yikes.
Vague and one-sided timeline of my relationship with Boy, as seen from a musical standpoint, with specific mentioning of songs and/or track numbers--A work in progress:
1) White Ladder, David Gray. In particular, 'Babylon'. Themes of temptation.
2) O Brother, Where Art Thou?, Soundtrack. In particular, 'Man of Constant Sorrow'. Savior and sirens, I need say no more.
3) The Ego Has Landed, Robbie Williams. One song alone--'She's The One'. Well, duh.
This is just the first three weeks. I've got seven more months to go.
I'm feeling a slight bit of anxiety right now over the total lack of internet connection at home. Well, not total, because Boy's phone has web-browsing capability...but I can't blog from his phone!
It's rather amusing, really--sometimes I can barely dredge up the energy to blog, and sometimes I just don't feel funny, which is a tragic thing, yes? I like making y'all laugh (or at least Boy and Nia and Blondie. That's enough, usually.), or pulling your damned heartstrings and such...
And now all I want is to blog. But I can't. From home. And the posts I write from work aren't always of the entertaining variety--they tend to come from the Stream-of-Consciousness-While-Bored-At-Work camp. Oh well. I shall do what I can.
Many kudos to all you blog-a-thon folks--I'll be joining you next year, I promise! I've been sneaking peeks at all my favorite blogs today, and sooooo many of you participated! That's just wunnerful. There but for the haste of moving would I have been. Next year I'm there.
It's very daunting to look at my Daily Routine and see exactly how many blogs/journals I have to catch up on after (almost) four days of no computer. I've got to lighten the load. It'll be difficult, but I can do it. I'll let you know if I've cut you from the team. You'll find a pink slip in your locker after practice.
I have to say--worst worst worst thing on earth is spending The. Most. Beautiful. Day. Ever. in an office where one of your coworkers is playing Celine Dion. Over and over and over again, ad nauseum. Good christ. As if being inside on a beautiful day wasn't punishment enough, right?
Honestly, all I can do is wearily shake my head and say, "Good christ". It's a sad and pathetic thing.
So, the move. Oh, pardon me, that's The Move. It actually went better than expected, with only a few minor setbacks. As previously mentioned, we hired my 17 year old brother and his pal to do our moving for us, which they did with much jocularity and vim, and only one broken glass. And a scratched dresser-top. And a nicked corner on one of my big antique mirrors. Ah, well. At least we only paid them half of what a pro-mover would get!
I don't know if it's because he's started taking Creatine or what, but Buddy (my bro, and no, that's not his real name. Sheesh. We're not rednecks, for chrissakes.) has suddenly become incredibly muscular and...stuff. He's always been the more physical between the two of us (me brains, less brawn--him brains, much much more brawn. We could be a force to be reckoned with, if he'd stop spending so much time flexing and staring at his biceps.), and that physicality has become even more apparent these days. I'm concerned about the creatine intake, because (despite his protests to the contrary), I've been told that it's nothing more than designer steroids. Buddy insists that it's "just like drinking a protein shake" and he only takes it when he's lifting...but I'm still nervous.
Moving right along (pun most certainly intended)...
Aaaaaand...we're done. No more moving for at least a year, possibly longer, depending on how the winds blow. I'm very very glad for that small grace, and also for this year (possibly the last) I'll spend in the house--I've had so so so very much trouble dealing with the idea of altering Life At The Lake, as little has drastically changed (especially for the worse, or for the unknown) in the last twenty years. This change is good. When the time comes, if Daddy and Evil-Stepmother-To-Be want to tear down the entire house and build another monstrosity...so be it. I'll have had my time there, with the most wonderful man on earth, and that's a good place to end it.
Christ, it's like I've got a secondary relationship with my house. I hope Boy doesn't get jealous, heh.
And now, the unpacking. Jaysus, we've got a lot of stuff between the two of us. I figured that with the big, long, drawn-out moving process, I'd be pretty on top of things--First, deal with my stuff that we moved a month ago, then deal with all the boxes we started bringing from the apartment two weeks ago, and have everything ready and organized for the Big Move on Saturday.
Yeah, riiiiiiiiight.
Well, most of the kitchen was done. And the bathroom. And we had a chance to deal with more boxes and stuff during the day on Saturday, because we couldn't pick up our stupid U-Haul until FIVE-THIRTY. Yeesh. That's what we get for trying to move on the last weekend of a month. Unfortunately, we couldn't exactly put anything (clothes, books, indulgences) away, exactly, because all the furniture was still at the apartment. It's a vicious, vicious cycle of hate.
Luckily, the three most important things are in place, and put-together, and functioning: Bed. Television. TiVo. We need little else.
Oh, and the computer etc. Not that it makes a difference, putting the computer together--we can't do anything interesting until we get a cable modem. Curse you, Qwest, for being too far away! (as in, they're too far from our house to give us DSL. Not that the house is in the sticks or anything--Qwest is just stupid. Hmmph. So off to Cable Modemland we go!)
Other than that, we're pretty easily satisfied. Of course, it'd be nice if our clothing was dealt with--I'm tired of digging through luggage and garbage bags and boxes to find underwear.
So we ended up moving all the big things (couch, bed, gimungous television, etc.) into the house and planting them among the boxes and bags that hadn't been dealt with. Slowly but surely, things are being put into place. We've dealt with books, and the DVD collection, and...um, well, the kitchen! And the bathroom!...it's just every other item/room in the house now...
*sigh* I hate being disorganized. Wish me luck with unpacking!
Yet another incredibly slow day at work. This is what we get, I guess, when we're on top of stuff all week long. Nothing to catch up on, which means I have nothing to do. Currently, I'm making files for one of the Customer Service chicks, but that will only keep me occupied for so long--and then, an adventure.
I am going to take the bus...to the new house! I'm theorizing that it'll take at least an hour and a half to do so, what with transferring to different routes and such. But hey, what else have I got to do with my afternoon? I might as well do it on a day when I don't have work to do, instead of waiting for that day that I know will come--the day when Boy can't pick me up from work on time and I want to go home! It's a dreadful thing, that, but I must be prepared. I will be prepared!
On that note, files to finish, then to the new house. Besides, my car is there! If I went home to the apartment, I'd be stuck.
So, not a word, positive or otherwise, about Zone's Seattle Weblogger/Journaler Picnick. Let me reiterate--I would be perfectly happy to plan the entire damned thing, and even spring for some food and booze (though everyone else would bring stuff too, else we'd be rationing cheap beer and saltines methinks.), hell, I'll have it at my house on the lake if need be! But I need some feedback.
ACHTUNG: If you are a Seattle-area weblogger/journaler, and you think a Picnick in the Park with others of your kind would be entertaining, please do let me know already. Hell, you don't even have to email me--I've got ReBlogger!
I just made a 12-drink run to Starbucks. THAT, my friends, shows just how little I have to do today. Did I mention we took an hour to do it? Part of the problem is that we went across the street to Pacific Place to one of the THREE Starbucks located there...and I ended up in Williams Sonoma, solving my Jell-O Pudding Pop Problem--I got one of their popsicle-mold things--I'm going to make my own pudding pops! See how clever I am? I'm terribly excited. And I got extra sticks, too!
Ha! Broke 50 last night. Actually, the official count was 56! Isn't that just wunnerful? I feel so popular! You love me! You really, really love me *sob*
Oh, and in case y'all were wondering (I'm thinking you weren't, but I'll keep talking anyway.), I'm feeling much better. The drugs! Gawd, I'm dumb sometimes. I should have just called my pharmacist cousin ages ago.
Traumatic happening of the day: One of the girls I work for had her purse stolen this morning while she was at the grocery store--how eucchy. She's all crazy-stressed, and I don't blame her. I don't think I'd know what to do. Lately, I've not been handling crises well these days--I just sort of fall apart for a bit and let everyone else deal with it. It's actually kind of a nice feeling--I'm tired of taking care of everything.
Wonderful happening of the day: Ex has a new girlfriend. Now he'll leave me alone, woohoo!
Muchos gracias to Heather, who is making my sitemeter dreams come true--I'm almost positive I'll break 50 a day in the next week. It'd prolly help if I was one of those people who posted to everything everywhere and commented all over the place--but I feel like doing that on any of the A-List blogs (Xeney, Squishy, Sperare, etc.) is just...tacky. Dunno, whaddev.
Off to the new house. It's irritating, not having web access there.
So, no hospital...but it was damned close. I finally took my head out of my arse and allowed myself to become convinced that a doctor's visit was necessary--but when I called el doctore, there was trubble. Apparently, a bill that they'd been disputing (almost a year ago) with my (old) insurance carrier never got taken care of--the insurance company just told them to fuck themselves, and that I would have to pay it. Of course, I was never even notified that I had a bill to pay--and subsequently never paid it. (I may be a know-it-all, but I'm not psychic, heh.) So I call to make an appointment with my doc (who also happens to be a close friend of the family), and they tell me I've got a $300 bill that was sent to collections--and I can't see the doc until I take care of that.
GAAAAHHHHHH!!
I can't even express how frustrated I was. So instead of the hospital, a doctor's visit, or even having Doc call in a prescription, I called my cousin the pharmacist.
Guess who got free drugs!!
I'm terribly excited. I didn't think she'd go for it. A little hand-holding was required, but things worked out, and I got free drugs. Which is good, because despite Cate's suggestion of generic bactrin, Cuz thought I should go for the strong stuff, given my history of kidney infections and such.
Anyway, I'm feeling better already! It's prolly just placebos or whatnot, but cripes, this is nice. There's no better feeling in the world than being relieved of pain and suffering.
I think it's time to go to the hospital. I can't stand up straight anymore. Even worse news? I won't be covered by insurance until the first of August.
Ohhhhhsogrumpy. I feel bad that Boy has to come home to this--in turn, he becomes grumpy, and then I feel worse, and then he feels worse and then...you get the idea. Vicious cycle. It's tough being emotional sponges.
I started packing the kitchen, but I think it was making the grumpiness worse--all hot and stuffy and dark in there. Boy thinks I should just rest, but I think I'll feel better if I just get all the clothes dealt with, so we can go over to the new house. Our goal is to spend the night there tonight, which means (to me) bringing everything we possibly can. I want the entire bathroom, all of our clothes--clean and dirty, and the kitchen. We can leave the appliances and most of the food, since we don't eat at home, but everything else is coming with us to-night. Which means getting me arse in gear. Soon.
This UTI is really taking it out of me. I know that I need antibiotics, but I'm waiting until my health insurance kicks in tomorrow. Or rather, I hope my health insurance kicks in tomorrow. It's usually 30 days, right? If it's not 30 days, and it's 90 instead, I'm screwed. Well, not screwed--just means I have to pay full price *shudder* for the antibiotics. I'd really rather not do that--but at this point, I won't know until tomorrow what the deal is with insurance, because I forgot to talk to HR today. Grr.
See, normally it's not a big deal, these piddly (heh) little UTI's. The first one was horrid, because I'd never had one before and the pain/peeing was driving me crazy, but I'm used to it. I take the stuff that numbs your bladder but makes you pee bright orange, pop some cranberry supplements, down a bunch of cran-juice, and deal with it. However, the second or so time I got a UTI, I ignored it, because I was waiting for school to start because it was only a few more days until my health insurance kicked in....
And I got a kidney infection. Into the hospital I went, took my scolding, went home with strict instructions to never do that again...Sheesh, I'm an idiot. Antibiotics tomorrow, regardless. My flanks are starting to hurt.
I'm amazed that I haven't been able to shake this grumpiness. I've tried coffee, Jr. Mints, peppy music, taking my shoes off, going outside and watching construction workers across the street...Nothing has worked! I hope getting out of the office will help--otherwise Boy is in for a loooooong night.
I got all of my kitchen stuff (most notably my gimungous cocktail shaker and some wine glasses...oh, and cocktail stirrers, too. And shot glasses. And my pie pans. Heh. I'm set if anyone needs a martini or some pie. Otherwise, we'll starve.) unpacked, and the bed made in the back bedroom. Yes, that's all I did. Hey, if you made beds like Kristen and I make beds, you'd understand.
Oh! Got the bathroom cleaned and somewhat arranged as well--instead of the awful white chenille shower curtain that Evil Stepmother-to-be insisted on, we have my bright and shiny bubblecurtain, woohoo!
I'm terribly excited about the move. Well, the post-move-living-in-the-house part, really. I'm not at all looking forward to the actual moving. I shouldn't complain, it's not like I'll even have to lift any of the heavy stuff--we're hiring my brother and his best friend to do all of that. I won't even have to clean the apartment afterwards, because we're hiring my cousin to clean it for us.
You think I'm spoiled? You should see my eight year old sister.
Thank heavens for weblogs, or I'd be murdering my coworkers right about now.
Not that they're really doing anything specific to piss me off--I think I'm just having a chemical low, actually. But jesus fucking christ on a crutch, I want to kill them all right now.
I wasn't kidding when I told you that the number one cause of workplace violence is intercom muzak. It goes allllll day here, until about quarter after five, when I'm one of three people left in the office and I just can't bloody take it any longer and I shut the damned thing off. Reggae, calypso, Phil Collins, Gloria Estefan, bad covers of Frampton and the Police...Yes, that's murderous rage you see in my eyes. Even headphones crammed into my ears doesn't help, unless I want to deafen myself.
I love mornings like this one: gently woken by sunshine, and with eight personal messages in my inbox.
And when I say "gently woken by sunshine", I mean that damned alarm went off about thirty times before I dragged my ass into the shower.
But the 8 personal messages were nice! Especially the suggestion from Zone--How do y'all feel about a Seattle Weblogger/Journaler Picnick? I like the idea, but then I realized that a) most of the weblogs that I read are written in cities (and sometimes countries) far away from my own; and b) the Seattle webloggers that I do know are mostly of the kinky/BDSM variety, and we hang out often enough, so it would be like hanging out in the park with a bunch of people I already know.
Which isn't a bad thing! It's just not as exciting, I think. New people are always exciting.
So, if you're a Seattle (or near enough) based weblogger/journaler, and you're interested in Picnicking with some other webloggers/journalers and making new friends and drinking strawberry lemonade (or regular lemonade), let me know.
Okay, if foiservices isn't you, Cate, who the hell is it? Make yourself known, foiservices! After all, you're checking my blog at least once an hour...c'mon, who are you??
Aimee, is that you looking at me? I'm still in the process of figuring out which ISP belongs to whom, or whatever the correct grammar is. I've got Boy, Keith, Nia, and Peter figured out...Cate, are you foiservices? Methinks you are.
Well, at least I'm not insane--other people are smelling poop in the office, too. Coworker A and I are speculating as to which new mommy the poopsmell belongs to.
To the freak who did the Google search on Luke Perry's Penis--Um, just stop. Right now. Stop looking for that sort of thing and go away, and most certainly stop reading my weblog!
I would give one of my close-to-useless kidneys to a needful charity if I could be immune to UTI's. I hate them. I can withstand whatever slings and arrows may come my way, but please please please make me never get another bladder infection.
Girls, you know what I'm talking about. There's nothing worse that being stuck at work with a bladder infection. Oh wait, hang on--there's nothing worse than being stuck ANYWHERE with a freakin' bladder infection. Miserable am I.
For posterity's sake, a little clarification: I like being settled. I like spending every non-work, waking moment (and all those sleeping moments, too) with my Boy. I looooooove it, even. However, I feel that I'm not exactly playing the part that's expected of me. I'm 21 years old and should be wearing skimpy dresses and going out drinking with pals and flirting like crazy with everyone I meet.
And if you remind me that I wore a skimpy dress yesterday, that I go drinking as often as I need to, and I *do* flirt like crazy...well, I'll give you a stern look. I may even shake my finger at you and say, "hush!".
Have I mentioned my new (and incredibly irritating) psychological disorder? Everywhere I go, I smell poop. At first, it was just the parking strip outside the apartment building, and it wasn't a disorder then, I was actually smelling poop, because people are arseholes and don't pick up after their pups. Lotsa poop out there, practically a minefield.
Then I started smelling it in my car. Again, perhaps not quite a psychological disorder yet, because my Merrill snow clogs were in the backseat, and it's entirely possible that they were the culprit (ask Boy about how stinky they are. Bane of his existence).
However, now I'm smelling it here in the office, but it's a different kind of poop. Up until five minutes ago, I only smelled dog-like poop, and was convinced someone was tracking it in or something...but now I smell baby-poop! Again, it could actually exist around here--I work with so many new moms, they could have accidentally smeared it on themselves...But no one else smells it! so I'm convinced I'm just going nuts. Slowly. Smelling poop.
There's been a lot of hullabaloo over this new Jay and Silent Bob movie, and it's time I put in my two cents.
I saw Clerks. Didn't care for it. Saw Mallrats. Don't remember much of it. Saw Chasing Amy. Slightly amused. Saw Dogma. Extremely traumatic movie-going experience. Want to know why?
I saw Dogma with this guy named Josh, second or third date. I wasn't very fond of Josh, but it was right after a rather monumental breakup, and I needed someone, anyone to keep me from feeling sorry for myself. So, second or third date, we go to theng night of Dogma. As we're getting seated in the theatre, he leans over and says, "Um, if you don't mind, will you call me Kevin for the rest of the night?".
You see, he looked somewhat like Mr. Smith--the beard, the facial features, the...tummy...And as the movie progressed, each time Kevin Smith appeared onscreen, he'd whisper excitedly, "There I am!".
The movie ends, the house lights come up, we begin to gather our things and leave. In a voice that was positively dripping with sarcasm I say, "Are you ready, Kevin?", creating much speculation as to our identities by the two goons sitting behind us.
I was minorly freaked by the entire episode. (Even more freaked by what happened when he invited me over two days later, he had this...cat, and you could smell it three feet from his front door...oh man, it was disgusting.) So you see, perhaps, why I'm not so enthused by the idea of a Jay and Silent Bob movie? *shudder*
Speaking of weight-loss tactics, I read the most disturbing article in Salon this morning. The idea of a widespread pro-anorexia movement frightens me.
If you're ever in a not-so-hungry mood, and you feel like dropping three pounds in a day, eat nothing but celery, grapefruit, and Kix, drink at least two Nalgene bottles full of water, and pee like a mofo. You'd be surprised.
Cate likes my new design! She told me so in a very sweet email. Thank you, Cate!
That said...(oh wait, Nia likes it too!)...Those things said, here's my Weekend Update, with a little less sarcasm, and a whole lot less Dennis Miller, Norm McDonald, Kevin Nealon, and Colin Quinn.
Friday night, we've already heard about. Dinner at Mitchelli's. American Pimp. Narcolepsy.
Saturday is an entirely different story, with an all-american, star-studded cast! It's a Weekend Extravaganza, full of wine, women and song!....
...so long as "wine, women and song" means shopping and lunch with Nia and a movie with Boy. Heh.
Nia and I hit Bell Square Saturday morning, made out with quite a haul--I got a new dress and a pair of jeans that make me feel like a greaser and a necklace that falls off, and she got...one of everything. With blood sugar levels running low, we made a pit stop at Zoopa, where I pretended to be healthy and had a salad...followed by ice cream, woohoo!
We then battled traffic back to the correct side of town (screw this Eastside crap--They closed the 520 bridge again, so we had to go all the way down to 90, and traffic was horrid. On a Saturday. At 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Sheesh.) and made our way up to Broadway for a quick stop at Rockin' Betty's...Apparently they've been in the B-way Market for almost two years--we just heard about them last week. Lots of cutesy stuff, Hello Kitty crap, but they also have some trashy-flashy stuff, and for cheap! I got the *cutest* fuzzy leopard print skirt--Boy spent a goodly bit of time rubbing his face on my ass while I wore it for him...
Um. Heh. That came out wrong.
After my mini-fashion-show for Boy, we kind of crashed for a while...he'd been up for soooooo long. And when I say "soooooo long", please do interpret that as "two hours". I was zonked, though--shopping is hard work. While we were crashed on the sofa watching...something, I don't remember what, we saw a trailer for American Pie 2, which Boy will inevitably drag me to--so I told him he had to butter me up by taking me to America's Sweethearts this weekend.
Now, I'm not a big Julia Roberts fan. I don't much like Billy Crystal. But godDAMN, does Hank Azaria make me laugh...his accents just kill me! The movie was kind of cute, and kind of disturbed--what can you expect?? Christopher Walken is in it, and he's the other money part in this movie--nothing like crazy, fucked-up whackos to keep me entertained. Oh! Stanley Tucci, too.
Went home, thought about heading to the Wet Spot but nixed it, had a late dinner, fell asleep at 11:30 watching X-Files.
Good heavens, we're getting old and settled.
Quick! Get me drunk and dancing on a table! Where are my leather pants?!? Flirt flirt flirt wink wink coquettish wink flash cleavage drink drink drink party party leather pants stilettos cleavage flirt fli....zzzzzzz
Okay, that's a bit better.
You can see I'm having some issues with this old and settled business.
Moving right along...Sunday = slept late, got naked, ate late, arranged furniture at the new house, drank slurpees, went to the Fremont Sunday Crap Market, got sweaty, ate dinner, watched The Birdcage (we're on a Hank Azaria kick now), ate a fudgesicle, watched X-Files, went to sleep.
*sigh*...here we go again.
Nah, I'm cool I'm just grumpy and tired this morning. For some unknown reason, I woke up at 4am, and couldn't sleep again until...6. grr. Those are prime sleeping hours! Ah, well.
I have NOTHING to do today at work. Nothing at all. And my boss is on vacation. And our timeclock software isn't working, so no one knows what time you got to work.
How on earth did I get this lucky? Heh.
Anyone want a lunchdate? I'm free! Woohoo!
Now, time to pretend I'm doing something productive.
So I fell asleep last night in the middle of that post. How sad is that?? We were watching that silly movie, and Boy and EDS were talking and I was chuckling and typing, and all of a sudden, I fell asleep.
Heh. Looks like I'm developing narcolepsy.
This will make some of you happy: Boy is going to help me deal with this nasty archives situation this week...AND add "images". He likes the idea of images = naked pictures of me, but that sounds like trubble, heh. We'll see. Besides, the idea is to get this page to load faster--it takes a freakin' lifetime to load right now, even for me and the trusty DSL...I can only imagine what you poor dial-up folk have to suffer.
On that note, what the hell is anyone doing using dial-up anymore?
Also last night--I'm not sure if it was a dream or it really happened: Boy crawled into bed at five a.m. and I could have sworn he told me he'd been out that whole time. I'm hoping it was a dream, because that's fairly out of character for my honey. *shrug*.
Time to be dressed--Nia's on her way to pick me up for brunch and shopping, woohoo!
Boy and I just had dinner with EDS, and now we're sprawled in the living room watching none other than American Pimp. This movie is freaking me out.
Right now, we're watching footage of the "Pimp of the Year" contest. Jaysus. This one pimp had a huge gold and diamond-crusted pendant in the shape of a man standing with a woman kneeling in front of him--and her face was in the guy's crotch.
Apparently, in some alternate universe, that's supposed to be jewelry.
Ah, to be a pimp.
So, today. Work went quickly until our daily pointless meeting, but I made up for it by leaving early...came home, watched Trading Spaces in my underwear while eating Kix. I'm having a serious Kix fix these days--they're so good! All light and fluffy and sort of pointless.
I originally had plans to head up to B-ham and par-tay with Blondie, but when it came time to leave, my lovely Lexi wouldn't start. That's bad. I think I need gas. I have this bad habit of not believing my car when it tells me the gas tank is empty. So, no Bellingham.
Other things I've been meaning to talk about:
Monday night, Cheesecake Factory. Momentous for two reasons--One, it was my Cheesecake Factory cherry. GodDAMN, I love that place already.
Second--two very important parts of my life came together for the first time. Blondie and Nia met, and I think they like eachother. I think. I hope! It's weird having your long-term best friend meet your girlfriend...and your boyfriend. More poly issues.
First, I had a dream that I was at my highschool graduation, and my friend Dylan whom I've known forever was doing this crazy slam-poetry speech. After that, we adjourned to the gym (graduation had been in the lunchroom [!]) where there was a huge recognition assembly--and the ONE person being recognized was Kate. (I've blogged about Kate before, just do a search on the page.) She had flourescent yellow shaggy hair with nasty dark roots (normally, her hair is dark brown and curly--or at least it used to be, before she started shaving her head), and she was up on stage accepting every single award there was to give, and I was getting more and more pissed off, because it's one thing to give awards to people who deserve them--and another thing to give them to people who don't, right? Hmmph. Anyway, after the awards were over, we ended up in a bedroom, me and Kate, and she kept trying to have sex with me, despite my attempts to tell her that I had both a boyfriend AND a girlfriend...meh.
Second part: I was at the gas station, washing my car and putting gas in it--but in my dream, instead of my lovely Blazer, I drove an '83 Toyota Corolla that was covered in peel-and-stick vinyl composite floor tiles (thank you, Trading Spaces.). Up walks Jaime, this girl I went to elementary school and jr. high and high school with--and she was wearing Barbie clothes. Apparently she was living with two other girls we went to school with, next door to some guys from highschool...and then we all turned into cartoon characters.
Oh! Here is where you will find the article for which I was a source! Look! There's my crazy John Curley story (referred to as the "Blond Man")! It's ever so much funnier in print.
I had some very negative moments yesterday that prevented me from blogging--I feel like I'm doing all this work and no one even noticed. (Except to make disparaging remarks *ahem*) Hey, I'm learning, okay? Gimme a break.
However!
I'm in a terrific mood today, so be prepared for all manner of hilarious posts. Promise.
Okay, now how do you like it? I'm quite fond of it, actually. Very streamlined. Boy thinks there should be "more pictures", but I haven't any idea how to do that. Improvements to come.
Minor freakout for today (aside from my drug-induced craziness): I went to check my sitemeter and found that only FOUR people had looked at my weblog today...and I couldn't figure out where y'all had gone! I went from an average of 35 visits a day to FOUR? So I thought, No one likes the new design! I'm going to have to go home and spend all night fixing it, and I'll lose sleep over it, and life as we know it will END--and then I realized I hadn't pasted the sitemeter html into my new template.
heh.
Whoops! See, that's the suck-ass thing about redesigning--everything you've already done disappears. I'm sure there's some witty corellary to be made, but I'm too spacey to figure it out.
Okay, crazy drugged-like symptoms gone. Cramps return in full force. Afternoon slump unavoidable. Two hours and twenty-one minutes of work left to do. Then shopping with my brother.
Hasn't this been the most thrilling day of blogging? Guh.
Hey, so what do we think of this new design template? Yes? No? Comment, dammit. I don't want to do too much work on it if y'all hate it. It's like those damned pants that I bought and didn't like, and Boy didn't like them either, but then Nia said she loved them, so I decided not to take them back and I wore them twice and now they're my new favorite pair of pants. I just need someone else's approval!
So, my cramps have diminished, but I'm so freaking jittery I can hardly type.
More updates on the effects of Pain Smasher to come. If any of y'all are into this kind of thing (i.e. you're a crackhead), lemme know and I can get you some of this sweet sweet shit for below market price. Awwyeeeeah.
I had a wonderful topic to discuss today, but the cramps have taken over, and my brain is not functioning--therefore, I cannot remember what I had planned on blogging about.
So I went to our kitchen (yes, the one of cockroach-fame) and I rummaged through the gimungous first aid kit we have there--I'm serious, you could perform minor surgery with the stuff that's in this box--and found something called "Pain Smasher", but it didn't seem to have any ingredients listed on the package. With further examination, I find the ingredients--written in spanish--and the main item appears to be caffiene. After that comes sugar; followed quickly by 45mg of aspirin and 50mg of acetominophen.
Pain Smasher: formulated to keep you awake and aware of your pain.
Whoo. In my search for the perfect guestbook server (no, it's not done. The one I slapped up there is temporary, don't get too attached to it! I'll take it from your warm, comforting embrace and abandon it in the woods for the wolves to feed upon.), my brain has reached the point where it will no longer recognize the word "guest". That just looks wrong to me! "Guest" now looks like it should be pronounced "goo-est".
Curse this piddly brain, and the meager 13% of it that's being put to use!
The last week and a half has been filled with sales meeting after line showing after sales meeting, with all of our New York and Minneapolis and Florida people here in town--lots of drinking and schmoozing and catty remarks after someone has left the conversation...And after this week and a half, I want nothing more than to go home, sit on the sofa in my pyjamas and no makeup, and be nice.
Especially since I've got some making-up to do. Apparently, I've been wreaking karmic havoc because not only am I stricken with a hangover, I'm coming down with cramps of the menstrual sort. Grrowl. Watch out, I'm on a grumpy-bender, and the only thing that's going to stop me is chocolate, and lots of it. Or maybe biscuits. Jaysus, I've been on a biscuit-kick lately...they're so good! Last night, in my most surprisingly drunk manner, I begged the waiter for a biscuit to go with my dinner. Much hilarity ensued. And it was the best freaking biscuit I've ever had! It was half-sweet, almost shortbready, but crispy-crumbly on the outside, like a bizkit.
Completely unrelated tangent: I need to spirit myself away to Vicky's*, for the purpose of buying new underwear. More accurately, new brassieres. (Isn't it so much funnier to say brassieres? Say it out loud. Well, don't say it out loud if people can hear you--it's always extremely unnerving to hear someone mutter "brassieres" under their breath while staring fixedly at their monitor, I swear. Okay, no one's listening--say it! See? It's funny!) (also, it's funny because I'm this crazy young vixenish girl, and the word brassiere always makes me think of my grandmother's bras from the 30's. Or it makes me think of that beginning part in Cold Comfort Farm. See? Funny on so many levels. Anyway. On with the show.) My underwear collection is vast, but my brassiers are slowly disappearing. And disintigrating. You know how it is? You wake up, shower, go to put your bra on and it has all these nasty elastic strings hanging off it, and the material is all grubby looking and the underwires are sorta half-bent out of place...
Whoops. Too much info, I'm sure. But seriously, bras take a lot of abuse! And it's time for some new ones. I love new underwear.
Actually, if you'll remember back to a few days ago, I love new anything. But again, as is common, I digress.
* - Duh. Victoria's Secret. What rock have you been living under? Heh.
FUCK. I came into the bathroom after she did, and she still KNEW it was me! And then she talked to me through the stall doors. Gross.
This woman has to be stopped.
Another thing that must be stopped: The pain from the blisters on the back of my heel. I should have just strayed from the pack this morning when everyone said they were walking to the sales meeting, and taken a taxi instead. Ow ow ow.
Today is a day of hurt and sorrow, of hangovers and blisters. Woe is me!
In case you're wondering...Yes, I'm hungover. For the second time in as many weeks--this is becoming an unsettling habit.
Cheesecake Factory: Go there. They've got these seriously wonderful strawberry martinis that I might have kept drinking like water if we hadn't had...well, water. And for a martini-hater like me, that's a pretty good recommendation, don't you think? It tasted like strawberries. Yum.
With regards to music, today is Nostalgia Day. We started the morning with Best of Blondie, which was wonderful. We then moved to my Millenium Funk Party collection, and later to the Millenium Hip-Hop Party disc, both of which were stellar choices. Now, I'm having a mid-teens moment with my Presidents of the United States of America cd. Ahh, Stranger.
Speaking of, please do keep an eye out for mention of me in this week's Stranger. Thank you, Adrian Ryan, for making John Curley your whipping boy! And, of course, for making me your source on his recent roadway madness, heh.
Ha! I was just doing my daily obsessive-sitemeter-checking and found a couple of crazy referrals...from this entry. I stumbled upon that woman's journal months and months ago, and couldn't help reading it--it's so maudlin and poorly-written...and then I held it up as an example of the type of woman I didn't want to be. I understand that not everyone lives the exciting and fulfilling life that I do (*snort*), but there was something that just smacked of pathetic codependancy, and it made me want to gag.
I assume she checked her sitemeter, and saw she was getting referrals from me...and I got a mini-flame, down there at the bottom of that entry. To quote: "Oh, hate me if you want. Be nauseated by my words... I care not one bit, because I'm not here to entertain you." That "you" being ME, of course.
Lady, I don't hate you. Yeah, you're pretty nauseating. However, despite your claims against doing so--you kept me entertained.
Nothing like someone else's pain and misery and heartache to make me feel so damned warm-and-fuzzy!
Bad, bad me. I know, I should have updated this weekend. You've been worried, haven't you.
Haven't you?
Bastards.
It's okay. I'll work through my reader-issues and update anyway. Not that you deserve it!
So, the weekend. The painting is finished--in the bedroom, at least. I'm supersuperglad that we decided to hold off on our ambitions towards the living room. Attempting to do both would have been suicide. We're still thinking about trying the living/dining room next weekend--but I don't know if I want to spend another Monday this achey and uncomfortable. You use all sorts of weird muscles when painting that you otherwise never use...and you pay for it for the next few days. Wanna see what it looks like? Well, until we get everything moved in and arranged, you'll have to manage with this. It's not a very good picture, but you get the point. The bedroom is "Silver Sage", and we're pretty much settled on "Butter" for the living/dining room...though I'm also rather fond of the "Creamware" color.
Lordy. Again, can't wait until I'm actually a homeowner. You'll never hear the end of it!
After an entire day (or at least it seemed like a day--in actuality, it was only about six hours, but time flies when you're sniping at eachother over miniscule details. Made for home improvement projects, we are not. Boy was grumpy, I was grumpy...and it didn't help when I had my minor freak-out session...the first few brush strokes looked so wrong. It looked like CEMENT, not "Silver Sage". I have since recovered and fallen in love with that color again. No worries.)
Where was I? Oh yeah.
After an entire six hours of painting (and sniping, and being sniped at, and dealing with my obstinate and unreasonable father/landlord), we headed home, where I promptly fell asleep. At 8:30 p.m. And slept. For almost fourteen hours. Yeesh. Prolly had something to do with my waking up at 6:30 on saturday morning, which sucked in and of itself. I'm sure other things happened on Friday night, but all I can report is sleeping, heh.
I awoke to a glorious Sunday morning filled with cloudy skies and rain--always a joy in July. Also, I played dutiful and loving girlfriend and made my Boy his favorite breakfast (scrambled eggs and bacon and toast and smooches), and brought it to him in bed. I think it's his turn next weekend, don't you? *hint hint* Unfortunately, our morning in bed was cut short by the imminient arrival of strangers into our bedroom--the Gay Canadian Roommate was bringing prospective renters in to see the apartment--and unfortunately, he's planning on renting out OUR bedroom--which meant we had to be out of it. Or at least dressed and out of bed, right? (aside: Please do note that I have no categorical problems with Canadians, gay or otherwise, as I'm half-canadian myself. Come to think of it, I'm half gay, too! heh.) So we made things a bit more presentable, and pretended to be polite, and hopefully he'll find a roommate.
Even more hopefully, WE need a roommate. So, if any of you darrrrling readers whom I love so dearly are planning on moving and looking for fabulous waterfront housing (don't forget the hottub, too!), please do let me know. I'm getting VERY nervous. *crosses fingers*
We spent the rest of Sunday puttering about, taking tape off the walls and ceilings and doing some touch-up work...and it looks pretty good, I think! (The ceiling was tough, but we couldn't exactly help the fact that the whole house is outta whack since the explosion. And that earthquake a few months ago. Oh, and the earthquake a few years ago. Oh, and maybe every single earth-moving thing that's happened in the last eighty years? It's an old house.)
Also, we watched the craziest movie ever with Blondie last night...Nutty. Rose McGowan has a rack to die for, but she's such a snarky actress, I almost couldn't stand it. And the whole movie was so Heathers--sadly lacking that edgy quality, though.
Another moment from our evening: Blondie wanted Taco Time for dinner, so we headed to the space-age one up on 45th. We were sitting there in the drive-thru line, and I was sticking her money out the window and getting it all damp and crumply, but it didn't quite have that stored-in-my-buttock-cheeks feel--you know, that warmth? So I stuck it in my bra. We pulled up to the window, he told us the amount, and I pulled Blondies warm, crumply money out of my bra.
I think we made that kid's night. Blondie was laughing so hard I was afraid she was going to wet herself. She's got a history of incontinence, you know. The kid said, "You keep your money in the very best place,", and Blondie laughed harder. Ah, what a night.
Tonight, big plans. New hair color, and dinner and the Cheesecake Factory. Much excitement will ensue.
The color-matcher-thing at Home Depot was broken! ....so they sent us to the Home Depot in almost-Lynnwood...And they were already closed! Grr! But Boy will get the paint today whilst I am worketh, and all will be well. We've decided to just deal with the bedroom this weekend, and if it doesn't kill us (and if I don't fuck up), then we'll do the living/dining rooms in the next little while.
Gee, can't wait until I'm actually a homeowner, and not just renting my dad's house, heh.
The alumni-thing. Good lord. No wonder Boy was rather dismayed when I told him that I'd agreed to go when pressured by Evil Dave. It was awkward and stilted and not a little bit uncomfortable. So so very glad I didn't go Ivy League.
Someone please email me and entertain me. I'm looking to get some back, dammit.
Afternoon slump over. I should really remember to stop posting as soon as I feel...slumpy.
Now, we must off to dinner with Boy's alumni-pals, then to Home Depot for the millionth time--but we're coming home with paint, dammit! Apparently, our 24-hour Home Depot mixes paint until midnight. Sounds like a club or something, mixing until midnight. But with less smoke. And fewer stupid drunk people. I like that idea a lot.
I'll post an actual entry when we're home from that, and send mail to those of you who have been waiting for my responses. I promise!
Right after I kill the Loud-Music Neighbor who is playing bagpipe music.
Mostly just tired. A wee bit hungover, because I'm the cheapest date I've ever met. Sort of depressed, too--more baby issues that no one wants to hear about. But really, I'm mostly just tired.
That's why.
No, I don't want to leave work any earlier than I already do. Yeah, I'll try to take a nap when I get home, but we've got to go to Home Depot to finally buy the paint for the house, and I need a shower, and then we have Boy's alumni dinner-thing to go to. And I have mounds of email to catch up on. And journals to read. And laundry. And I should really start getting back into running if I'm not going to the pool.
I didn't tell you? Yeah, the chlorine has been irritating my skin, and really, there's nothing less attractive than a rash.
Anyway, nice chatting with you, I've got to get back to work. Can we try again later? Great, let's do that. I should be able to manage an update later tonight.
Guh. I'm suffering from some serious mid-afternoon slump. I start getting all spacy and dyslexic and I've yet to find a cure. Well, other than leaving work. That does me no good, being an hourly employee.
...
And it appears that leaving will indeed by my cure--Boy is going to pick me up from work and we'll go play in the sunshine for a bit. Or go look at paint. And then I'm going to Pool Night!
Another cockroach has been found, this time alive and crawling in a box of files. The others, the ones we found yesterday, were dead, and in the kitchen, where roaches seem not unlikely.
This madness has to stop! I can't even bear tomy file cabinets right now, even though I'm as far from the other occurances as possible. I'm also very glad to be wearing platform-y shoes--means that I'm just that much farther away from the roaches.
Tomorrow I'm wearing Spice Girls shoes.
Speaking of Spice Girls--Go read Meg's entry about her Madonna experience. The Spice Girls reference will be made clear.
We've been finding cockroaches in our office. Apparently, they've been coming in the boxes we get from the manufacturer in Hong Kong.
Welcome to the garment industry.
I have a serious and irrationally violent reaction to cockroaches. I was telling Boy about it and felt sick even talking about them. Thinking about them. Ugh. I told him this morning that I would rather sit in a vat of poo than be covered in cockroaches.
Of course, if I sat in poo, I'd never feel clean again, but that would STILL be better than touching cockroaches.
What a fucked-up example. In which parallel universe would I be required to either sit in poo or be covered in cockroaches? *shudder*
Oh, and for the record--I was not the person throwing the pudding cup yesterday. I was getting my pudding out of the fridge in the office kitchen, and two of the girls I work with grabbed it from me and started tossing it back and forth so I couldn't get it back. This office gets more and more like high school every day, except in high school, I was about eighty-thousand times more sarcastic. If you can imagine.
You see, I've been nervous--living together is a big deal, and I've never done it before. I don't know the rules, I don't know how things work, and in this case I do not want to mess up. I've always done really well with the first six weeks of a relationship, when everything is bright and shiny and new, and all of my nutty (and most assuredly annoying) antics haven't had a chance to piss anyone off and the sex is still crazy and you're doing it four times a day...
And now we're moving in together, which means another YEAR that we'll be together. Don't get me wrong--that's a good thing. I've made it pretty clear just how desparately in love Boy and I are, yes? But living together is putting out in theyour intention to be together through thick and thin for the next year. For a short-term girl like me, that can be more than a little nerve-wracking.
Things have never, ever gone this well. That thought in turn made a little part of me convinced that something was going to happen, that moving in together would destroy it all, make everything off balance and it would end badly like 72% of every relationship experience. But something about that slug-trail of drool made me change my mind and now everything will be okay. Better than okay--everything will be sublime.
If you do not go out and rent Best In Show, you are a fool, a fool I tell you. No, don't rent it--BUY it. Watch it over and over and laugh until it hurts.
THEN!
Watch Kennel Club shows on USA or whatever channel they're on now, and see how closely art imitates life.
Anletter to the man who stood in front of me in line at the deli, during lunch:
Dear Sir, and when I say "Sir", please read that as "Disgusting Slob":
As a kindness to myself and others within a three-block-radius, might you consider bathing more than once a month? Also, allow me to point you in the direction of the nearest laundromat. I can even be persuaded to give you change for a dollar, if necessary. Just please, please PLEASE make note of your hygeine deficiancy--and do something about it.
Cheers,
That girl who surreptitiously held her nose while you emitted all sorts of noises and smells. Ugh.
Seriously, the guy was nasty--and not in a homeless way. More along the lines of "hadn't showered since his drunken binge on Saturday"...You know how hangovers smell, right? Barfy and slightly sweet...well, add to that three days of body odor, greasy hair, and unbrushed teeth...
God, I'm practically gagging again, just thinking about it.
Oh, and did I mention the drifts of dandruff on the back of his neck?
It's very difficult to suppress incredible feelings of love for the world when you're listening to Everything But the Girl.
*stops, listens to lyrics*
Um...yeah. So maybe it's just Walking To You that makes me feel so optimistic...
I met your boyfriend on St. Martin's Lane
He said, "Fancy running into you again,"
We talked a minute or so,
and then he turned to go,
And I walked into the crowd again.
And the morning was a different place
In every passerby I saw your face
Love leaves a lonely ghost
with one thought uppermost:
Is this the case in every case?
Am I walking to you?
Am I walking to you?
In everything that I do,
I'm just walking to you.
It was seven years ago to the day
You rang my house, and we met halfway
We walked round Leicester Square
and sat through Being There
And every moment of it I replay
And I was desparate for love to be pure
What that meant, I never was sure
You spent your time on me, I took it willingly
and I made you trust in literature
It seems like such an amicable breakup! Perhaps I'm wrong. But the idea of amicable breakups seems rather nice, never having done it very well myself.
Hot tip of the day: Do NOT under any circumstances fool yourself into thinking that pudding cups can be safely used as projectiles. They are the hidden cause of many workplace injuries.
On a related note: 72% of all workplace violence is inspired by intercom muzak. It's been documented.
Heya Mike--how's Japan? Boy told me you're reading, which kind of made me nervous...but at least you can keep tabs on me now ;-) Drop me a line if you get a chance--and we can't wait until you come home to visit!
First: Read this. I know, I know, you hate clicking through on seemingly meaningless links, but do it, and read the article.
Now, a related story:
Yesterday, as with every other day, Boy was driving me to work--but THIS time, was different. As we were heading south on Dexter Way, we were quite rudely cut off by a lunatic in a dingy brown porsche. Who was that porsche-driving lunatic, you ask? None other than local nutball John Curley, subject of the above-linked Stranger article. And now--it gets weirder. He pulled up to the light ahead of us, and looked at the car next to him. The driver was a young woman of the somewhat-plain-looking variety. Mr. Curley proceeded to dig through the trash in his car and wave stuff at the woman. He started with a plastic-wrapped cigar (always the mark of a fine stogie, ugh.), then a half-empty bottle of wine, next a textbook-looking thing, and finally, a big huge camera, with which he mimed taking pictures of her. *shakes head* What exactly was he suggesting?
The light turned green, he peeled out, put his right-hang blinker on and went left, then squealed into the King 5 parking garage, and we continued on our way. I was laughing so hard I almost wet myself.
Lordy. There's really no telling what a reviled local celebrity will do. Oh, and I sent a quick note to the Stranger's Last Days columnist, as well--I want to share my tale of lunacy with the world!
Ahh, weekends. I'm the most weekend-appreciative person I know, and for this reason alone: When you're unemployed, every single day is a weekend. You have nothing pressing to do, nowhere to be, it's days of wine and roses stretching as far as the eye can see...And then you go back to work. Nine hours a day are spent inside, tied to a desk, with only flashes of sunlight breaking through the buildings and blinds. Those 48 hours of freedom are anticipated and subsequently cherished, and they feel like the most wonderful treat in the world.
Unless, of course, you spend your weekend moving 3 metric tons of...stuff, much like we did weekend before last. THEN the weekend is more like getting a flaming bag of poo for your birthday when you were expecting Cartier.
However, this past weekend was positively sublime, dahhlings. Lots of good food, good friends, a great deal of familial interaction, and sunshine. I could hardly ask for more! (Well, perhaps I could--one of every item on my wishlist...) I managed to keep most of my body un-sunburned as well--everything but a fist-sized patch on my back right under my brastrap. What a crappy place to get burned. Every time I move, my bra scratches against it and makes me want to scream like a little schooooolgeeeehl.
Of course, I'm better off than my lobster of a boyfriend--he went without sunblock for a wee bit too long, and is quite toasted. Praise Allah for aloe with lidocaine.
Oh, and the Pan Party at the Wet Spot was lovely, thank you--lots of people, lots of admiring glances (and outright compliments, thank you, Georgette). We tried playing in the sling for a while, but the noise level was too high for either of us to be able to concentrate very well. There was this woman in the other room getting beat to hell by her dom, and she was screaming her head off in the most cliche'd manner. Way way distracting. However, we DID get to see Jane and friend in a suspension-bondage scene--*drool*--and it only reinforced the gimungous crush I have on her! She's just too cute for words.
We hit the Hurricane afterwards for grub, and Boy was pleasantly surprised, I think--for a dive joint, it's at least got ambience. And by ambience, I mean clouds of smoke you can cut with a knife, watery drinks, and an overly loud jukebox. Oh, and the worst waitstaff on the planet. Ah, nostalgia.
Yesterday was spent with my cousin, sunning and reading and enjoying our new (and mostly empty but not completely blown-up) house...Here's an excerpt from our afternoon:
Barbie, holding up a John Grisham book: Hey, have you ever read any of his stuff?
Rhoda, sneering: Um, yes. I find it formulaic and unimaginative.
Barbie: I like them because, you know, I don't read.
Rhoda: Right.
end scene
She's a nice girl, but not the sharpest tack in the box. And she really does look like Barbie. At one point, she looked over at what I was reading, sort of smirked, and turned back to her novel. I was reading From Dawn to Decadence: 500 Years of Western Cultural Life.
Pretty uneventful day--lots of laundry (we've GOT to stop doing it once a month--it almost overwhelmed me this morning, but I managed to wrest my car keys away from the leader and subdue the mob before it got too out of hand), a barbeque with my family for my aunt's birthday, and...Yeah, that's it. We're on our way out to the Wet Spot now, where I'm sure many interesting things will occur, and I'll elaborate upon them to entertain you. Yes, just you. No one else. Certainly not my mother.
Mom, if you're reading this, stop it. Anything you want to know, you can ask, and I'll give you an abridged version of these events.
Recent snippet of conversation--
Boy: Do you suspect your mother actually reads this?
Rhoda: No--but the idea is kind of funny, don't you think?
Boy: If by "funny", you mean "mortifying", then yes!
Heh.
Also, you'll notice that the archives have been fucked with today. Fucking Blogger. Fucking me. I'm too much of a go-tard to figure them out on my own, so Boy was playing with them today, but with little result. *sigh*.
Hey, someone from NASA read my weblog. I *knew* they were keeping tabs on me--but I swear that I didn't know that the guy would use that spaceship to go to Idaho.
Holy crap, I'm tired. It was a very long (and mostly productive) day at work, which was followed by shopping and dinner with my darling Boy, which was followed by ice cream and hottub, and now we're back at the apartment, sitting at computers, chatting. From separate rooms. So so very sad.
I'm noticing something that's a bit worrisome: When I shop now, I'm not looking for sexy lingerie or to-die-for shoes or more capris to add to the collection...I'm looking at slipcovers and paint chips and spending a lot of time wandering hardware stores. Now, I've been known to wander hardware stores before--but this was back in the land of Singleness, and I was trolling for manly men, not comparing fixtures.
What's happening to me?? Am I really growing up? *sigh* If that's what's wrong with me--why couldn't it wait until I actually buy a home? Sheesh.
(Tomorrow, when I can keep my eyes I'll post with a bunch of links--we're trying to figure out this paint-thing, and could use some opinions on colors, heh. Earlier, I was dead-set on Silver Sage from Restoration Hardware, but when I had the chip in the actual bedroom, it seemed a bit dark, and on Trading Spaces, they always say that the color is going to dry even darker on the wall...
Oh gawd. Stop me, now. I'm using Trading Spaces as an educational tool. I have problems, very serious problems.)
Ack! She did it again, that woman. However, I think she'll not try it again, after this time.
Here it is, in short form, for your enjoyment. I'm thinking of turning it into a dramatic stage montage, for two players. Perhaps I could get a grant? Who knows!
Location: 5th floor womens' restroom Time: Same goddamned time as the last Players: Rhoda and unnamed (unknown) blonde woman who also works on 5th floor.
Act One
Rhoda enters bathroom with intent to accomplish certain personal acts.
Blonde woman (with much unnecessary enthusiasm): Hey! How's it going? This weather is great, huh? Hey, are you going to the sales' dinner next weekend?
Rhoda: *blank stare* Um...Perhaps.
Blonde Woman: Can you believe this weather we're having?! Wow, I talked to Salesman X today, and he said that Salesman Y is coming in early from New York! I hope he's at the same line show I'm at! He's such an inspiration!
Rhoda: *blanker stare, jaw slack* If you say so.
Blonde Woman: Oh my goodness! I'm keeping you from your (tee hee) "business"! I'm so sorry!
Rhoda: No, my business is at my desk, where it should be. You're keeping me from going pee.
Oh *groan*. Next time someone says, "Who's up for McFlurries?", remind me to run away and hide. Or at least, let me avoid offering to treat everyone. At best--remind me not to order one for myself.
Is it time to go home yet? *whine* We finally had to close all the blinds on the windows--no one could stand being stuck inside at work with the sunshine pouring in.
Mission: Improbable for this afternoon--we sent Kim to McDonald's for a McFlurry run. I'm hoping she makes it back alive. We make stabbing jokes every time anyone has to leave the building, because we are insensitive pricks. Of course, we're not as awful as we could be--it would be much worse of us to make these jokes if the stabbing victim had been someone we worked with. That would be sad. Unless it was that asshole in IS, no one likes him.
Gah! I'm such a bad person.
Horrible Happening of the Day: I've been nominated to be on a Procedures Task Force from our Cross-Functional Team Meeting for Data Integrity Verification. How much does THAT suck? Plenty. I hate the phrase "Task Force", especially when applying to...um...me. I don't want anything to do with this silly task force, but if I don't do it, it'll never get done the way I want it to. Heh.
Okay, I'm finally in a better-blogging mood. I've been all cranky because of the events of the past few days, namely, someone trying to blow up my house. I take those things rather personally. Enough, already! No more talking about that.
Instead, I'd like to some issues I'm having with my new job. Namely, why does my office remind me so much of high school?!? All the jockeying for attention and scantily dressed young people, cliques and passive-aggressive behavior...It's not exactly like the ghetto that was my school, more like a hollywood-ized version of it. Very very cliche'd. If there was one thing I could change about my job, that would be it--I'd make it less like high school. Oh, and I'd make that fewer-hours-more-money thing work, too. That would rawk.
It's amazing what a stick of dynamite can do. Let's just be glad that no one was home, yes? There was less damage than we expected, but the fact that there was ANY is what's disturbing me.
Ah, Friday. On second thought, it's kind of nice, having those mid-week holidays--Yesterday might have felt like Monday again (and a monday from hell, it was), but today is most certainly Friday. If I could have a month of weeks composed solely of Mondays and Fridays--and, of course, weekends--life would be grand.
So apparently last night around midnight, someone threw professional-grade explosives through the window of our house. (not the apartment we're in right now, I'm talking about the house we're moving into.) Intentionally. We'd been there a few hours earlier. There were lights on, a car parked out front to make it look like someone was living there. And explosives were thrown through the window, destroying our back bedroom/laundry room/office. Do you know who did it? Tell me, right now. Don't wait. Just tell me.
I think that all holidays that give you a day off should be observed on Mondays or Fridays. Those days are distracting enough; I hate coming in to work on Thursday and having it feel like Monday all over again, but doubly busy. Hmmph.
To make matters more hmmph-worthy, we slept through the alarm this morning. I hate feeling rushed, especially when there's no reason for it--we woke up about half an hour after we normally leave for work, and neither of us have very strict work schedules, but still! I always feel like I'm forgetting something.
Again, I'm having a very un-funny morning. All of my excess energy is going towards linear logical thought processes this morning, no room for funnies. It doesn't help that I can hardly keep my eyes
Bitch bitch moan moan. I shouldn't be complaining--I just had a day off in the middle of the week, and it was beautiful, and I got to spend it outside with the most wonderful Boy in the world. We slept in a little, had some naked time, went to breakfast at our usual diner, and then headed over to OUR NEW HOUSE for an afternoon in the sun.
Can you believe that? Only three more weeks and it will officially be Our New House. I started thinking about it at work this morning and had a mini-freakout. THREE WEEKS! That means that we've got to pack the entire apartment and move it--AND we need a roommate still. I'm especially nervous about that last bit--the two friends we approached about it haven't given us the responses we wanted. You know, a "yes"? It's a lot of money, and it's sort of an out-of-the-way neighborhood so I can understand their reticence...but we'd rather live with people we know. They'll likely be more receptive to our...lifestyle. (Ugh. I hate the word "lifestyle". Makes me think of that horrible movie with the aging swingers. *shudder*.) I guess this means we'll have to start looking in earnest--I certainly don't want to be stuck with a $2500 rent bill on August 1st.
Oh! Go read about Zone's wunnerful idea--I plan on participating as soon as the love comes around to me ;-) He's famous now!
Ha! It occurs to me now that I haven't played the Sims in forever, and I'm kind of okay with that. At least...until I get the House Party Expansion Pack and some strategy guides, heh.
Noisy Neighbor Update: The music has finally stopped--but only after they played parts of Jimi Hendrix's version of the Star Spangled Banner over and over for an hour. Sheesh.
I'm noticing the number of crazy Google searches that I pop up on slowing down, unfortunately. Crazy Google searches afforded me a great deal of amusement. I'm only going to post one crazy Google search a day now, I think.
"toilet+slave+of+cruel+stepmother"
They've gone back to Annie Lennox. And the weirder thing is, they're not even finishing songs, they just play about a minute and a half of one song, then stop for a second....then they start a different song! Gah!
Time to drag Boy out of bed--I'm starting to feel guilty that we're still inside.
Oh my good sweet lord in heaven. Someone next door is blasting (alternately) Annie Lennox and the Neville Brothers.
LOUD.
I can't even imagine what it must be like IN their apartment. Wait, no, I think they're playing Anne Murray now. Or perhaps Sarah MacLachlan, I can't tell, there's a plane flying over us. Thank you, plane. Thank you for obscuring that horrible horrible noise.
I know, I know. Funny. Witty. Amusing. Diverting. These are the things that you come here for. Oh, and sex details, but I don't often give those out, just mildly hint at them. However, this is not a blog by the people, of the people. For the people, yes, but it's by me. And for me, for that matter. I get my ego boost, y'all get your entertainment--everything works out well.
This is about to be another entry that you prolly don't want to read if you come here just for the funny. Check back tomorrow, I'll have delightful stories about homeless spaceship captains and my eyebrow obsession, but for now, I have some other stuff to think about. Oh, and it might get more descriptive than you like, and cover topics that you find morally offensive, so please send your hate mail here.
So, it's now been a month and a half. Go on, read back 6 weeks or so to the third week of May, between the lines, and if you can't figure it out, then you're an idiot, stop reading my journal. It's been six weeks since I had an abortion, and while I'm not really one for talking about it--with anyone, strangers or not--I think that if I don't at least write this down, I'm going to lose my mind.
This is the second time I'd been pregnant. The first time, I was 18, and I didn't even know I'd conceived, and then miscarried very very early on--and didn't know I was miscarrying. I found out later that that was what happened, but it was really too late to do anything about it, yes? That was difficult to deal with, because there were so many dumb variables, but it was simple enough to bounce back from--I'm fairly proficient at setting things aside to be...well, ignored, actually. So there was Number One.
This time was entirely different, obviously. This time, I'd conceived (accidentally, I assure you), and found out relatively soon--I was six weeks and six days pregnant the day of the procedure, and it was pretty clear already by those last couple weeks. I was just feeling nauseous and tired at first, then throwing up, sometimes three times a day. Good thing I was unemployed, huh? After I confirmed it, I spent a lot of time crying. I'm not talking hours, I'm talking days. Every Little Thing I Did required crying. Telling Boy. Telling my mother. Watching TLC. Picking up the drycleaning. All I did was cry and puke. No wonder I was exhausted...but this is being light with a serious subject again, I've got to watch that.
There really wasn't any question of what to do. Three options, right? Keep it, adoption, or abortion. I'm 21 years old. Boy is 24. A baby certainly isn't in our game plan any time soon, and personally--I'm not about to go through the hell of pregnancy just to give someone else my baby. So an appointment was made, and I cried some more. I feel bad about all the crying, even though there really wasn't anything I could do about it--I just couldn't stop. I still feel bad, for Boy's sake--what could he do? No one could do anything but sit there and hand me tissues or buckets. (You know, tissues for the tears and snot, buckets for the...other stuff. I told you this might get gross.)
So we went. The clinic wasn't very busy when we got there, but it was packed by the time we left. It takes longer than you think it will, almost four hours. Remember that post I made on May 16th? *watches everyone scroll down to read entry again* Yeah, I was pretty convinced I was going to die. I was absolutely sure that I would become septic and die of a botched abortion and shame my family and be buried in unconsecrated ground in an unmarked grave. (Hey, we all know I have a penchant for the melodramatic) But by the time we were sitting in the waiting room of the clinic, it was more numbness than anything. Lots of uncertainty, which is easily my LEAST favorite feeling in the world. I had this crazy idea that I was going to make Boy sit out in the waiting room the whole time, that I needed to do it alone, because I didn't want him to see me like that, see me in pain or bleeding or drugged or anything...and then my name was called for the ultrasound.
It seemed weird to me, the idea of an ultrasound, because it seemed to me that ultrasounds are what women who are keeping their babies do, to ensure the baby's health--but apparently they have to verify one last time you're pregnant. (they also use that to estimate how long you've been pregnant--size of zygote = x number of weeks.) And then we get one more surprise. Not only am I pregnant, but I've got twins.
Two little kidney-bean-shaped things growing inside of me...I had a quick and irrational flash of my body as a prop in a stage production of Jack and the Beanstalk...and then I knew going through it alone was not an option. So Boy came back, and held my hand and brushed my hair back and wiped my tears and avoided the snot, and did the wonderful things he does.
And the procedure was quicker than I thought, and ten times as painful as I'd imagined, and when it was over, I felt like a horrible empty shell, though again, I'm probably indulging in more melodrama.
They give you cookies and heating pads when it's over. In a back-lit pink room, with big pink chairs, and I made dirty jokes even then, ten minutes after an abortion.
The bleeding lasts much longer than you think it does, too. A month. I think my kidneys are fair well gone now, what with all the Advil I took. Not too many other lingering physical side effects--though any hint of nausea (usually because I haven't eaten breakfast and waited until 1pm to have lunch, which is bad for me) makes me instantly panic.
It's more the emotional side-effects that I'm having trouble, which is why I'm writing this entry that I'll most likely delete in the morning. I dream about them, our twins that we'll never have. Usually only about these two, not the first, though once or twice I've dreamed about all three together, then I wake up and want to never sleep again. And more than dreaming--everywhere I go, I see twins. And pregnant women--hell, I *work* with two of them. It's incredibly painful, and I hadn't really figured it would be this bad. Not that I'm some horrible wreck, I think I'm doing pretty well, actually. But about once or twice a week, I have to just stop everything and cry my eyes out and make Boy sick with worry because I don't want to tell him that that's what I'm crying about again. I feel like a broken record. I talk about it in my sleep, for chrissakes.
It's not that I regret the choice, it was truly the only option right now. I do, however, regret the timing. That wistful part of me wishes that this was five, eight years from now, and we were ready for babies, twins even, and we would be the cutest most loving family on earth...but again, that's just that wistful, wishful part of me, which is closely related to the irrational, needs-to-think-again-about-this part of me.
It's made me very thankful, this experience. I'm thankful for the incredibly supportive network of friends--Nia, Blondie, Zone--and family (yes, they know. At least my mother and stepfather, and they both handled it a thousand times better than I expected. Mom already knew by the time I told her--which was the night before the procedure--and took it pretty well, I'd say. My stepdad, who almost became a Baptist minister instead of a lawyer thirty years ago--I know, the irony is too great for words--took it amazingly well, also, and was only concerned for my health and wellbeing, instead of being concerned about public image. I was so grateful for that.) and Boy--he was wonderful, still IS wonderful about it. I'm thankful that I live in a country where my choice was an option without legal consequences (for now, hmmph. I'll save the diatribe for another insomniacal night). There are more thankyou's, but you get the idea.
So...there. Now I think I can sleep better, at least for tonight.
We now return to our regularly scheduled Comedy of Errors.
Speaking of High Saccharine Content...I think it's time for me to part ways with the gelato, at least for a little while. Man, that stuff is sweet. My whole face feels sticky.
...
No, I didn't stick my face in a bucket of it. I just feel...sticky.
Warning: High Saccharine Content Ahead. Read At Your Own Risk.
...
I have the sweetest, most wonderful boyfriend on earth. His personal site now says, "I Love Rhoda" in big huge letters. Right across the top. Just for me. Isn't he just wunnerful? *swoon*
So, work. Remember the days when you were a mindless drone, flying below the radar-notice of the higher-ups? Yeah, me too. I've now been sucked into the vicious cycle of meetings. And it only took them a month! sheesh. Why can't I be on the slow-growth track of mediocrity, and avoid this sort of interruption of my day?
I shouldn't complain. I should relish my ability to work hard and well and get recognition for it, because there will come a time when I will no longer be a bright and shiny new addition to the company--I'll be as dull and tarnished and overlooked as the rest.
Whoo. Dowwwwner. I was whining to Boy about it last night, as well, poor guy. You know, as much as y'all have to read my bitching and moaning--Boy listens to it day and night. Often at night, now that I think about it--I talk in my sleep.
So, have I mentioned that Boy and I are officially living together? (Well, Boy doesn't think it's official because half my stuff is at the new house, and all of HIS stuff is at the old apartment, or something like that, but really, it's living together.) Aren't you all very excited about this?? I am. Well, excited and kind of nervous--I'm that little girl dressed like a grown-up, just waiting to be exposed. I'm living with someone. We're going to share closet space (and a freaking huge closet it is, thank god.) and possibly buy home furnishings together and have very grown up parties wherein no one pukes off the edge of the upstairs deck into the hottub (I hope), and soon enough, everyone will figure out that I don't know what I'm doing. Gah! So very very nervous am I. But excited! Don't forget the excited. I get to play house, woohoo!
My eyebrows look SO good today.
*does the Yippee Dance* Only three more days till Nia gets back! I haven't said much about it, but damn I've missed her. Work has helped fill the void, but only in the sense that it gives me something to do between waking up and going to sleep and such. You know, because we spent so much time together during the day when Boy would be at work and I wouldn't have a job to go to and such. Oh, and work does sort of fill the female companionship void as well, but only in the sense that 95% of the people I work with are women. Um. This isn't coming out the way I planned--Lemme try again: Gawd, I've missed her! I can't wait until she's back! *siiigh*
I work with some hottiehots, and it's distracting on days like this, because they shed clothing with great abandon. Or wear lots of see-through stuff. I swear to gawd I could see that girl's thong through her skirt. And two guys in Customer Service just took their shirts off and had a pectoral-flexing contest. Sheesh. The air is thick with sex-vibes. That's one thing about working here--everyone is very very attractive. Ugly people are patently obvious and difficult to overlook--they just stand out all the more.
From the Completely Disturbing File--a guy got stabbed in the hands right across the street from my building yesterday. Like, right across from where I had the encounter with the crazy homeless spaceship driver. I didn't find out about the stabbing until just right now, and now *I* am about to freak out.
Fear is a great motivator for staying inside on a beeyootiful sunny July day.
Oooohhh...my brain is slowing down. I've got another thirteen minutes until I leave here, then 45 minutes to kill until my eyebrow appointment, then Boy will pick me up and we shall go home and play naked games until we're sweaty and exhausted. The exhausted part won't be hard to come by, I'm already sleepy-ish. Also, the sweaty part won't be hard, it's extremely warm out today. I'm regretting my choice of pants. I got them yesterday, though, and I love loveloveLOVE wearing new clothes. In fact, if my job didn't make me wrinkly (yeah, we do a lot of sitting and slouching 'round here), I'd buy clothes, wear them once or twice, and maybe take them back, unless they were terribly comfortable and cute at the same time. Lucky for me, I've found a few things that are both, so I'll keep them. The black-and-white plaid capris, and the black shirt I got to go with, and also these jeans I got yesterday that feel like a freaking dream. Jeans are always pretty good, right? But these have a little teensy eensy bit of stretchy stuff in them, so they're *soft*. I put them on and instantly had to have them. I luff them so very very much.
Oh. My. God. Enough about that. I don't even want to think about what kind of searches I'll pop up on now. Gah! I'm becoming obsessed, not just with the constant sitemeter checking, but with the idea of search referrals...I want to know!
Och-- Issues. In a recent Google search by an unnamed (okay, unknown) reader, I came up FOURTH on the search results page for these three little words:
spoiled+rich+narcissist
Now, if only all of that were true. I may be a narcissist, and I may be spoiled...but I have to wait another three and a half years for that last bit.
Can you believe someone actually did a search on that? Sheesh. Worse, can you believe that *I* showed up on that search?
Exciting news: Gelato was only a dollar today! Two scoops, even. That's a fourth of what two scoops of ice cream costs at Baskin Robbins...and the woman *swore* that gelato has less fat than regular ice cream. We weren't about to question THAT logic.
I have a pretty severe case of menu anxiety. Unless I'm going somewhere I've been a million times (*cough*5Spot*cough) and know exactly what I want before I get there (*cough*brisket and mashers*cough*), I can't decide on a meal to save my life. Today for lunch, I stood in the middle of the rather extensive food court across the street and was actively indecisive for twenty minutes before deciding on thai food...and THAT was chosen simply because I couldn't remember the last time I'd had it. That's like cheating, choosing something by default.
I'm a lover, I'm a cheater, I'm an indecisive eater. Some call me the Gangster of Love.
We have reverse-busyness here at work. Monday mornings are soooooo slow, then stuff picks up around wednesday and thursday, then slows down again on friday and everyone leaves early. I'd rather have Mondays be so busy I can't think straight, and have everything slow down from there.
I bought new headphones this weekend. The ones that I borrowed from Boy were making my ear muscles cramp up. They flattened my ears to my head so that when I finally took them off, my ears would instantly cramp from trying to go back to their normal position. (Ack! That makes it sound like I have big sticking-out ears, which I don't! My ears are petite and pert and nicely shaped and positioned.) (Okay, now I just sound obsessive about my ears. Guh.).
I also bought Empire Records on DVD...and kind of wishing I hadn't. It was easily one of our favorite movies in high school, so chock full of hipness and cute boys (and girls)...but Boy and I watched it last night and I found myself getting...bored. Ah, well. I'm growing up, I guess--when I was a child, I spake as a child, but now that I am a man I must put away childish things, or whatever.
Not that I'm a MAN now. You know what I mean.
Dear gawd, I feel unfunny right now. It's because I'm so freaking bored right now. All of us brand-retail girls are, and with good reason. Unfortunately, our job is dependant on some people in merchandising, and--Ehh. Y'all don't want to hear about this. It's borrrrrring.
Oh!! Yeesh, I can't believe I almost forgot about this: I walked over to our other building with one of the other girls in brand-retail to drop some stuff off, and the most amusing thing happened on the way back--we were stopped at the corner outside the building, talking to my cousin who works in merchandising, when this total homeless (thank you, Buffy) came up to us and said, "Can you ladies spare any change?" and I said, "What's it for?" and he said, "I need some gas for my spaceship" and the girls were laughing and I said, "Where are you going?" and he said, "I'm on my way to Idaho," which afforded me a great deal of entertainment, so I gave him a quarter.
Actually, the more I think about it, I should have given him more money. That story is worth at least a dollar.
I have suddenly developed allergies this year, or I've had the most long-winded cold e-v-a-h. Either way, I'm becoming closely acquainted with early-morning-stretching-to-late-afternoon-post-nasal-drip.
I know that I should have been expecting it from the beginning, but most of me was pretty convinced that no one I know would find this weblog unless I gave them the URL. And really, I wouldn't have known without the silly sitemeter--so maybe I've been found before and just didn't know it! Ah, well. I'm not so worried about friends finding this--I gave most of them the link if they seemed interested...and even some who *weren't* interested, heh. In all honesty, I'm more worried about my parents finding it, which I sincerely doubt they ever will. All four of them are total internet go-tards, and wouldn't know where to look for me in the first place. *knock on wood* So, to those of you just joining us because you got that particular email from that particular band's listserv, Welcome!
And now, back to our regularly scheduled bitching and moaning.
So, moving. Goddamn, I have a lot of stuff. I mean, for having contained it fairly well in a small portion of a medium-sized house for a while, damn. I tried getting all minimalistic and giving stuff away (mostly to my unsuspecting housemates, poor girls), some to my unsuspecting mother (poor mom), and I've got a big bag of stuff for consignment and used book stores. And I know that there is more to be done, it's just a matter of finding time in which to do it.
(to those of you who are saying, "What about those three months where you were willfully unemployed and your main daily activity was shopping, the act of accumulating more stuff?", I say this: .....Um. Shut up!! Shh! I'm talking about stuff to get rid of like shoeboxes full of old journals that are painful to look at, notes passed in junior high...and highschool...and college, heh. THAT kind of stuff. And my slinky collection. Time to get rid of that. So, hush, you.)
But we did pretty well getting everything done yesterday--I was awarded the privilege of driving my stepdad's wunnerful Suburban, Boy had his sexy little stationwagon (man, does that car have some cargo space! Sheesh, it's got more than my Blazer, that's for sure.). Before I forget--I *rilly* like driving that Suburban. See, I learned to drive in one, and continued to drive it to school and such for ages, and then all the boys in my Chem class started calling me "Backseat" (Not that I ever did it in the backseat of that car...in highschool *wicked grin* Ask me about the couple years after, and I'll tell you another story! hehe), so I got to drive the Audi instead, until I demolished that. Long story short, it's a very empowering car. Empowered with much ass-kicking capability, that is!
Aaaaaaanyway, we got almost everything into the Suburban and the Lesbaru, in one trip, over to the new house. Oh, and we had a load in the Blazer and another load in the Lesbaru the night before. And then one more load on Saturday into Nicky, the Little Gay Truck, but that was just mattress and boxspring. And headboard. And the giveaway bag. And another backpack full of stuff. and my big mirrors. *sigh* I've *got* to get rid of some stuff. So when we're having our garage sale, I'll let you know.
I'm really glad that my part of moving is pretty much over. Dad and Evil Stepmother To Be STILL have quite a bit of stuff to move, and they've been at it for weeks now! (Of course, Dad hasn't moved his ass in twenty years, but...) Things are looking good. Now there's just Boy's apartment to contend with...*cue scary music* He's got some heavy fucking furniture, and I hope we get pro-movers. I am a W-I-M-P these days.
But enough about moving. It's making me all sneezy (dust) and achey (lifting heavy shit all day) and tired (more lifting and carrying stuff) just talking about it.
So, I had two most awful dreams last night. In the first dream, Boy and Blondie were having an affair or something, anyway they were sleeping together, and I knew about it and it was making me so so so very sad and when I confronted them, they were very lighthearted about the whole thing, they figured I should be happy about it because they were in love, too. *ahem* Ah, poly angst manifesting itself in dreams.
There has been a lot of concern over my recent bout of poly angst, and perhaps it's justified...but I think that I have to keep in mind a few things: We never signed a contract for a certain duration of polyness. I don't have to feel bad because it's not working for me right now. We can always try it again, perhaps when my relationship with Boy isn't so new still. I mean, we'd been dating for, what...two months? Maybe not even that, before he said it was okay for me to start looking for a girlfriend.
I don't know. Maybe duration has nothing to do with it. That's just the thing! I don't know what I'm doing with polyamory, and I don't know right now if I want to take the time to learn all these things.
Now, the second dream. Kate and I (I mentioned her a while ago, go read again.) were trying to eat dinner before we had to catch a train, and we were downtown, under the Viaduct...but the restaurant we wanted to go to was full, so we had to go somewhere else (already, this sounds like the most boring dream ever.). We decided to go to some restaurant I've had dreams about before--it doesn't exist, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want it to. We had to walk through a trainyard-type section of town, in the dark, in the rain, with some unsavory creatures following us (mostly of the homeless persuasion), and while wearing high heels. It was scary. We got to the restaurant, and asked the hostess to call the police because we were being followed by this homeless man who wanted his money back (I don't remember taking his money, do you?), and he was violent. She was a snooty bitch, that hostess. The homeless man followed us into the restaurant, and Kate hid behind me, and I threatened him with my finger, yelling. I don't remember what I yelled. Guh. What a dream. Trust me, it was very very vivid in my head.
