Due to circumstances beyond my control (Ahem, Megan, when you say you'll return the sewing machine on Sunday, and we get it back on Wedndesday night at 10:30, that's kinda considered bad form.) spent last night in panicked attempt to make a halloween costume. Am NO seamstress!
Less of Go-GO dress than a Go-Go sack with wickedly funny seams, it's bothering me less than one would think.
Because it's all about the boots anyway, baby.
Have spent the last thirteen hours dismantling and then re-building the archives for this site, after discovering that the UMF happened upon it sometime last night.
Actually, happening upon isn't quite the right term, but snooping sounds so dirty.
Had a mini crisis last night (thank you for wise words, comfort and humor), followed by an absolutely astounding string of email conversations with my mother. And now, from what I can tell, she's just done talking to me.
Perhaps what she failed to understand is:
There are things you say about people -- to vent. And there are things you say to people -- to relate. We do the venting so that it is out of our systems when it does come time to relate.
There is a difference between my mother and the UMF. The UMF is a character. A representation of my mother-related frustrations. My mother, though, to be honest, has not been around in over a year. I don't know much about her anymore. She's been replaced by this bizarre character, to whom I cannot relate. It seems my siblings all feel the same way.
My feelings of dread were mixed with feelings of apathy -- apathy in the sense that she's so distant to me these days that I can almost completely remain unaffected by her anger. I hurt her. I know this. And I know it's cruel of me to say, but... she'll get over it. And if she doesn't, she doesn't. What can I do?
If I exposed her faults and foibles and made her a mockery, how much more so did I do the same of myself?
Perhaps I have been brave.
Or, perhaps I have just been wrong.
So it's not Monday, and I'm not really even feeling down, but it is raining and mornings like this make a body want to get back under the covers and put Karen Carpenter on repeat.
BUT as this body is expected to be a productive member of society, contributing to the GNP regardless of nasty weather, am instead under piles of paperwork and listening to shop talk. Almost the same, right?
Let's not waste anymore time getting to the good stuff, though. I have a sorta exciting announcement. The Fish Blog is going to be quoted in a real life, published-by-a-big-publishing-house book! Got the news a few days ago, but have made the agreement not to pimp out the book until the Author comes through on his promise to send me a fee copy. But boy howdy, as soon as spring rolls around and that baby is out on shelves, you bet I'll be out pimping! The quote comes complete with the Fish's real name. If that's not a selling point, I don't what is. You must all simply promise not to sell, lend or mention the existence of this book to my mother.
Champagne anyone? Oh, it's too early? Fine, herbal tea?
Back to work this morning, feeling a bit wobbly, but otherwise on the mend. Am feeling pretty leery of food products in general, so spent yesterday eating only known entities like pasta and thoroughly scorched chicken breast. After Sunday's brush with gastroenteritis (a.k.a. the Big Bad Food Poisoning), who can take chances?
Am starting to believe that am something of a Clara -- Heidi's little friend with the delicate immune system that eventually must be sent to the mountains to run free and develop billygoat-like ruddiness -- and am simply in need of a lengthy retreat at Grandfather's cabin. And some lederhosen. That Heidi had some enviable lederhosen. So did the Von Trapp kids, but they also had to run 'round singing all the time and that just might get annoying.
On another note, realized this morning that have been missing B quite acutely. B packed up and moved to Florida over a month ago to try his hand at his brother’s trade. Now, instead of spending his days amusing me with email pleas to make out with him or join in miscellaneous and tawdry activities with him and his girlfriend, he is mending boats. And I am here with no one to play our silly innuendo games. Sure do miss B. Am convinced that a gal needs a healthy (if not daily) dose of innuendo just to keep things interesting.
Oh, and some lederhosen.
Spent last night in the emergency room, hooked up to IVs, having every kind of test imaginable done. After five hours of stabbing and poking and answering the same questions regarding my sudden and violent illness, all of which produced inconclusive results, told them I'd prefer to be violently ill at home.
Roommate, who had stayed the entire night, played countng games with me until the last IV had dripped its last drip, and then escorted me home to my bed. In case it was ever any question, he wins, hands down, the award for Best Roommate Ever.
I need structure. I am lost without it.
Which is why my closet is organized by color (ROYGBIV), and why the kitchen must be clean before I leave for work. It is why it's absolutely necessary for me to put my keys in the exact same spot every single day. (Recently, that spot has been hanging from the lock in the door where my roommate finds them when he comes home, but that is another matter entirely.) It is why there are color-coded sponges in the kitchen and bathroom, why I make lists of everything I must accomplish in a day and everything I must buy -- prioritized by importance and cost. It's like Monica Gellar on crack.
It is also why I feel lost, confused and unfocused when it comes to the idea of writing something more substantial than a web log.
Yesterday, as if joined by some unholy psychic connection, both Musical Stranger and Smart Ass Sibling began lobbying for production of a larger work. A book of short stories, a novel. The first conversation was not as surprising as the latter, as it followed the topic of conversation at the time. But the message from Smart Assed Sibling was so out of the blue, I was taken aback.
SAS: Me and Stina want you to write a book so we can design the cover.
H: You want to design a book cover?
SAS: No. YOUR book cover.
H: I can't write a book!
SAS: LIAR!!!
Mentioned conversation with Musical Stranger.
SAS: It's a sign!
Be it a sign or not, simply have no idea how to go about it. Sit down and write, am told. Just write. But! But! But! I need a schedule! I need a list! I need to know just what's expected of me all the time or the ADD will take over and I just might lose my mind and THEN where would we be? The Yellow Wallpaper has already been written! Do we need another memoir of a woman slowly going completely crazy? I'm defeated before I ever begin!
Perhaps it's time to learn to live outside of those lists. To discipline myself for something bigger and more meaningful. Just don't know if I can. If I do somehow come up with a story, the tenacity to see it through and the words to tell it, promise you'll buy my book? Promise??
Must interrupt my morning get-ready routine to annouce that,
it's snowing.
In October.
My body feels heavy and slow this morning. Completely graceless.
Am fighting the temptation to throw on cargo pants and comfy kicks. Oh, that were still in college and could just and call some sucker of a boy to take notes for me and spend the day gracelessly putzing around. Is really too bad that don't have anyone to take notes at at monkey job. Bah.
Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Last night, in an effort to bring to an end several weeks of sleeplessness, took two Tylenol PM, sat down to a steam facial and waited. Made certain to take Happy Sleep Medicine nice and early so that would not be dragging sorry self from bed ten minutes before am supposed to be at work.
At nine-thirty, was out cold. Eight hours and fifteen minutes later, was up, up, UP and ready to take on the world. Only trouble is, the world is not awake at 5:45 AM. (Except the yogis on my favorite yoga show. And am pretty sure that is pre-recorded.)
Made bacon and egg breakfast for self and Roommate while he made a pot of coffee in his new coffee maker. Was like a kid at Christmas, that one. Bought Roommate the new caffeine dream on Saturday, knowing full well that he'd never buy one for himself. Oh, the giddy-ness of it all. Climbing out of the shower, could smell Kona coffee goodness making the air feel warm and sweet. I, myself, do not drink coffee. Find it to be quite icky. But the smell of coffee brewing is my grandmother and mornings in distant hotels, and ex-boyfriends and international flights and after-party hours at IHOP. Part of me thinks that buying the cofeee maker was so that Roommate could brew up some good memories. It sure worked.
A deep sleep, big breakfast and some warm memories.
Good morning.
Indeed.
If you lived in this house, you'd have breakfasted on sauteed mushroom and bacon quiche this morning.
And you'd have told me that I'm the *best cook ever.
And I'd have said, "Thanks. Will you load the dishwasher?"
Damn, it's good to be a domestic goddess.
* Moms excluded
Oh, the things this drunk mind thinks.
And this drunk body does.
And the lists she makes.
Remind me to tell you about those.
But all there is to say now is, that we once had a lot of fun with a Justin Timberlake puppet and a digital camera.
Was making my way to work this morning, and having crossed the bridge, was waiting at busy intersection for the walk signal. Must be noted: even if street appears to be void of cars, will wait for the signal. Have very strong policy about crosswalks, in general.
As the light was about to change, saw an emergency vehicle approaching, lights blazing, siren screaming. The little white walk appeared in the box and I didn't budge, waiting for the big white SUV, on its way to something very emergency-like, to pass. It didn't. To my shock and surprise, it stopped. I looked at the driver (who did not appear to be at all annoyed or aggravated at having to brake), who then smiled and waved me across the street.
Um, what?
Maybe my habitual tardiness is an emergency on some level, but isn't there someone out there having a stroke, or watching their house burn to the ground or something? Was really v. amused to have this Deputy Sheriff brake for me -- because it's certainly not policy to be so courteous, at least from past encounters with BPD.
Amazing.
Did I mention he was ultra cute, too and that I have a thing for uniforms?
Will you marry me, Mr. Deputy Sheriff, sir?
Days like today can take you by surprise.
You can wake up late (foggy headed and crabby), miss yoga, and opt for a far-too-long shower, extended kitten play-time and become perhaps even more crabby as you realize, you're late for work. Again. So you dash out the door, prepared to be frazzled and rushed... and that's when it hits you.
For no reason other than it just is, everything is right with the world. The sun, the leaves, the fact that there is no one to leer at you from the doorway of the 7-11 as you pass. You smile as you walk to work. People look at you like you're crazy, but you smile anyway. Because of the stripey mittens you're wearing. Because of the phone call to your dad last night, where he was surprisingly so up-beat that you're not worrying about him today. Because of the thought of pay-day.
And because of street music.
It's too early for street musicians. But the hard-soled boots that you're wearing make the percussion, your long-legged stride making a hard snap on the pavement, one for every two of your shorter walking companion's. Snap clackclack Snap! And the little boy in the red sweater with the wooden buttons, his reed-like laughter as his parents swing him down the brick sidewalk. And the horns of passing traffic and the deep bass of garbage trucks as they grind about their work. And mechanical song of the walk signal at every intersection.
And because you heard all this due only to the fortunate timing of dead batteries in your Discman.
am being such a smart ass today. someone stop me before I get fired.
Higher Up: blah blah... blah... pretend to care... blah.
H: (getting up from conference room table) Please excuse me.
Higher Up: Where are you going?
H: To calm down. If I don't leave now, I will lose my temper. And if I lose my temper, I will speak my mind. I feel very strongly about what happened here yesterday and if I tell you just what that is, one of two things will happen. Either I will quit or you will fire me. I want to avoid that.
Higher Up: (really long pause) Fair enough.
We now return to your regularly scheduled programming...
Last night's temper tantrum was courtesy of the most insane, frustrating, disabling day at work in the history of monkey jobs. Am fairly certain that was in danger of suffering any number of stress related maladies if not for the cool and calming effect of one v. silly roommate. Am so lucky.
And a good night's sleep. Rain smacking at the window, the Beetles on repeat and a kitten for a pillow (don't think she minded too much) -- had all but forgotten the day's horrors when woke up.
*sigh* Just got off the phone with UMF who relayed College Freshman Sister's financial woes. As the UMF is in no position to help, and as yours truly will be finally un-poor this Friday, will now be expected to cut a check. While really have no problem helping out (and more importantly want to help), was shamefully looking forward to completely selfish spending binge. Fine. Lesson learned. Will now happily (and not at all resentfully) hum song that learned in primary school:
Give, said the little stream
Give, oh, give
Give, oh, give
Give said the little stream
As it hurried on its way
I'm small, I know
But wherever I go
The grass grows greener still
Stupid stream.
Know what I want?
I want those little fuckers upstairs to turn off that god damn shit they seem to think is music, before I hike up those stairs in my bathrobe, armed with a bread knife and some duct tape and do such horrible things that even fucking Quentin Tarantino would have night terrors!!!
That, and ice cream and a hug.
I had a really bad day at work.
Am v. v. bad neighbor. Bad, as in vindictive.
Upstairs neighbors have zero problem blasting music at 11:30 at night, with regularity. And, although am open to all sorts of music, am not inclined to appreciate Rob Zombie after the hours of say, 9:00. Just don't have it in me.
Do have it in me to reciprocate by sharing my love for John Denver with them. At 7:00 in the morning. After a good early morning yoga session, combined with fact that am, contrary to upbringing, a morning person, feel like singing along to some wholesome, in-touch-with-nature, feel-good music.
So not punk rock.
Good morning, fellas. You feelin' that sweet surrender? Boy howdy, I sure am.
Am eating big warm breakfast. Have got my warm, red-stripey socks on and Kitten is singing to the Dixie Chicks from our cozy spot on the bed. It's a v. good day off from work. Thank you, Columbus!
When Kitten first came to me, it was tremendous shock and a disappointment that she did not love me without reservation. Did not even come out from under the bed. The very reason had wanted a kitten so much was for that cuddly, complication-free affection inherent with small, furry animals. And so, one night (exactly a year ago today), after being in my home for nearly two months, when she climbed up on the bed and plopped herself down in my lap to have me pet her, I was touched.
And now, a year later, after every expert on feral cats said it wouldn't happen, we nap together, we play, she seeks me out for a kiss on her fuzzy little head, and she's even begun to make peace with my friends. What changed her mind?
I guess sometimes those we love mistrust us and dodge and scatter for reasons all of their own. And one day, should they decide to take us up on that offering of love, it's just our job to offer an open lap and not ask too many questions.
After spending yesterday in absolutely unproductive ways (ie sleeping, movies, reading), woke early this morning with intent to be v. busy. Was disheartened to wake up to gray skies and drizzle. But it's SUNDAY. Sun. Get it? What is this shit??
Totally disappointed but nonetheless committed to being un-lazy, dragged sleepy ass out of bed, made breakfast for slave-to-his-job roommate and set about cleaning the house. Put on This Weather Sucks soundtrack (Carpenters Rainy Days and Mondays, Mamas and the Papas California Dreamin' etc) and then suddenly realized, it was not helping the situation. So instead, threw in favorite dance mix, cleaned the apartment to Madonna, J-Lo, Justin et al. Much better.
Also found time for a little yoga, which have been ignoring lately. Will be the first to tout the benefits of a good yoga session (whether it be power yoga or meditation), but am also the first to forget to make time for it. Now am feeling all limber and stretched out and v. energized. And it's only noon! So many hours left in which to be v. productive. Must ignore siren song of new book and big soft chair, though. They can be quiet persuasive.
Have dinner plans this evening as well -- the perfect end to a rainy day, to be sure.
Last night, fought ridiculously strong desire to go home and crash, and ended up at scream-you-lungs-out piano bar sing along with handful of good friends.
Am still hoarse.
Must be noted about piano bars: audience is mostly female. If one is male and present, is either A) there as significant other, and drinking just enough beer to enjoy self B) one of societies outcasts (the real bars don't want you). That's just the way it is. So, while was standing in line for the ladies room, spotted what had to be the most gorgeous man ever to grace the premises and thought, "Which are you? Hmmm? Boyfriend or weirdo?" And then, when was actually approached by Mr. Gorgeous and fed, "Hey. blah blah. I love this place" had my answer. HAD to be weirdo.
Sorry, fella. I don't flirt with boys who like piano bars.
Am supposed to be out with friends enoying fall time fun, but had to opt out due to overwhelming desire to sleep in and neurotically clean my house. Also, caught end of makeover show and have decided... to cut my hair. Off. Buh-bye. When payday comes, we shall see just how committed I am to that notion.
Am not feeling quite like myself today. Perhaps is lack of sleep in combination with other out-of-whack elements. Feel a little broken and if had to think enough to write anything, might get weepy or otherwise pathetic. So, instead will recycle something that wrote a year ago this month, in another forum.
Bikram Yoga, or Hot Yoga, was one of the most intensely demanding experiences I have purposefully exposed myself to.
The temperature in the yoga studio was over 105 degrees; the amount of sweat pouring from my body was clearly more than I'd sipped from my Dasani bottle during the day. The weight of my own body became nearly insupportable as I twisted and balanced and bent in ways I would never have imagined myself doing. The impossibility of it (as I perceived it), was the greatest challenge. My physical body, I'm certain, can withstand much more than the limitations my psyche imposes upon it. And at my breaking point, when it did not seem there was enough strength or water in my body to support even my own breath, the voice of my Yogi would puncture that natural fibre bubble and ease all my shaking muscles and strained mind with one word: Savasana.
In Sanskrit, Savasana is the Corpse Pose. Complete rest. Dead still. The lights would be turned off and eventually the soft sitar music would enter my consciousness and I would breathe deeply, sometimes tears forming in my eyes, using up what remaining moisture was left in my body. Savasana. Complete rest.
Thomas Paine, I believe, once said, "These are the times that try men's souls." A generationless observation of the nature of human suffering. We have obligations and emotions from which we cannot detach ourselves. We have relationships and loyalties that defy rational thought. And we have mental yoga sessions, so demanding and exhausting, that if one more drop of our precious emotional hydration is spent and if we do not soon hear that voice calling us to rest, we just may reach our limitations. Re-hydration of our willpower isn't found in a plastic, over-priced bottle of water. Such relief comes only by something as sweet as the milk of human kindness.
And in those times, when I am spent, and my entire self is bent and twisted in ways I did not know wouldn't break me, all I can do is hold the position, blinking back the sweat that stings my eyes, and wait for that voice to finally, firmly but ever so gently say
"Savasana."
Haven't been sleeping lately.
Find that when 10:00 rolls around, seem to catch this really aggravating second wind. So, have taken advantage of current insomnia bout to start writing again. Now, instead of finding self surfing the net to pass the sleepless hours, actually sit myself down at 10:00 and pound away at the keyboard, being productive. It's also the only time to catch up with Smart Assed Sibling who, much like me keeps the oddest hours. She calls me “Face” and I call her “Gay” and our conversations are easily the most hilarious of my day.
Last night, started thinking about two failed relationships and suddenly, nearly two years after the decay of one, find myself feeling embarrassed and foolish because came to the realization that -- I’m an idiot.
D
At the time, I blamed him for everything. Called him a drunk, explosive and demanding. All of which he was, but those were all the things that drew me to him initially. Out on the town after work many nights, throwing back drinks, laughing – life of the party. Passionate about his career, his family… life in general. More than ten years my senior (he was 35), he wanted something meaningful, permanent and committed. He told me I lit up every room I entered. He loved looking at me, hearing what I had to say and seemed to notice everything small I did. He was like no one I’d ever been with. And I threw myself into it full force. For a while, anyway. Months went by and it just got old – the drinking, the temper tantrums, the getting upset with me wanting spend time without him. Wanting to spend more and more time without him. I started being evasive and cold and completely uncommunicative. And then, one day, I just broke it off. In the office. He was furious. I attacked him for all the things he’d done to make me unhappy, feeling perfectly justified in everything I was saying. I made him out to be the bad guy in every way.
J
Two weeks later, I met J and fell completely and insanely in love with someone who didn’t give a rat’s ass what I said, didn’t care what I thought, and would barely glance at me when I entered a room. J wasn’t a drunk, though. No, drugs are more his thing. So with J, I took a whirlwind tour of the high life – anything from pot to Ecstasy – where everything became more exciting and… superficial. I didn’t read anymore. My two-book-a-week habit became a two-movie-a-week habit. J doesn’t read. Hates it. Instead, we bonded over movies. I lost a lot of weight. The girls at his shows made me nervous with their perfect bodies and their perky tits, clamoring to be “with the band” and so I became, or tried to become, the perfect vision of a rock star’s arm decoration. Everything was so very shallow.
But love is love and lust is lust, and when present in unbalanced amounts, the metabolism of your soul slows.
The last 9 months have been all about getting back on track. All about change. And although I’m dying to fit back into that really great pair of jeans, I’m more concerned about being balanced -- being better at my job, changing my relationships with my family members, learning to be more firm in who I am.
And maybe I’ll just buy a new pair of jeans.
Had THE greatest day at work!
Want to call up everyone I know and tell them about it. And would... if had not left my cell phone at the office.
Blast!
I burned my bare tush on the bathroom radiator. Yes, indeed I did. And quite badly, actually.
My officemate has declard me a walking disaster.
My roommate has decided to call me prison-ass because of the cell-bar burn lines on my bum. (He did not see them. He has an active imagination, though.)
My boss thinks I make this shit up.
And I think I it's going to get awfully old trying to balance on one butt cheek.
Have always known just what I wanted to do with my life.
Problem is, that happens to change all the time.
As a teenager, was die hard over-achiever. And was absolutely certain that was destined to work in the medical field. Blew Anatomy and Physiology teachers away with ungodly abilities to memorize trivial names of body structures and by the age of 16, completed medical rotations as a licensed vocational nurse, had assisted in half a dozen labor and deliveries and had an after school job in local hospital's ER.
By age 17, decided that had a weak stomach after all. And so, still determined to be amazing at something, traded in my scrubs for Adobe PageMaker, convinced that was going to be the next big thing in journalism. Soon was writing for the Dallas Morning News, editing school paper with Genghis Khan-like ferocity and basking in new-found nerd-hood at state journalism competitions.
By the second year of college, however, realized that was not going to be amazing journalist and decided to frighten already nervous parents by deciding to major in a foreign language that, for all intents and purposes, did not speak with any fluency greater than what was taught on Sesame Street. Abierto. Cerrado. Moved to a foreign country, lived off a credit card (which am STILL paying), and worked (not so) diligently on requisite, foreign-tongued thesis. Was going to be the greatest linguist ever to shed that Ugly American stigma! But do you see me working for the United Nations? Tragically, no. That whole over-achiever thing definitely wore off. Somewhere along the line, learned to relax (to whatever good or harm).
And now? Ha! Now, I just want to be happy. Remember being a kid and asking hard-working mother what she wanted her bratty-faced daughter to be when she grew up. She always said, happy. She wanted me to be happy. Know what? There's something to that. A whole lot to that, actually. And while am not going to get Monkey Firm to reprint business cards with Vice President of Happy in place of current job title, am going to make a bigger effort to see past career woes and take in the bigger picture.
And eat less ice cream.
Oh, and it's lingerie day today. For no other reason than is satisfying to know that, beneath multiple layers of clothing necessary to survive in frigid office, am sporting some v. sexy under things. Is great to be a girl. Really.
Furnace is making warm bubbly sounds in the corner of my bedroom, Joni Mitchell on CD, and am happily winding down a rather uneventful day. Friends have taken Roommate out to the ever-so-classy Hooters to celebrate his birthday, so have spent the evening quiety reading, keeping a distracted eye on the Sox game and ignoring the muffled cries of the Breyer's Cookies and Cream from the freezer. Eat me. Eat me.
No way, Jose!
Perhaps was a result of today's choice of booty pants, but was a tad on the fiery side at work today. Sure did make the day go by faster.
Oh, and for the record, the IRB did NOT call me by his girlfriend's name today.
But boy, wouldn't it be funny if he did and yours spent all afternoon teasing him mercilously for it? Yeah, it sure was funny. Err, rather, it sure would be.
We shall never speak of this again.
Before leaving for the office, must take the time to say,
these pants + my ass = HOTT
At least one out of 135 Californian Gubernatorial candidates would grope it at work.
Am a big fan of color. Have for some time wanted to paint one of the living room walls a deep, warm red. Still have not done it, though. Perhaps is the commit-o-phobe within. Who knows.
Anyhow, despite being hooked on hue, entire bedroom is white. Practical? No. But once I got on the white kick, could not stop. White gauze curtains hang on both windows, nearly floor to ceiling. White duvet covers, thirteen pillows of varying paleness, and natural wood furniture. Suppose is somewhat asylum-like in this You Will be Peaceful, Damnit! kind of way, but have always seen it as more of a retreat. No sensory overload here. Very gentle. Pure.
Pure except for new, muddy kitten prints all over everything!
Somehow, kitten found herself in contact with water and dirt, from God knows where (not in MY clean house!) and has redecorated Meow Style. *sigh* Perhaps now that am full-time kitten mother, it's time to connect with color again and redo the bedroom. Will be like child-proofing. Only, for a child with dirty paws, claws and penchant for leaving dead flies as presents.
There is a party (gathering of v. close friends) going on across the street that am supposed to be attending. Actually was there a few minutes ago, but suddenly felt the urge to v. quiety slip out and walk across the dark street to my own, quiet house.
Perhaps because have been spending so much solo time buried under double layers of down comforter in recovery, that feel less inclined to be around noisy chatter. Same old stories, different party.
Friendly Lab Person called this morning to confirm that latest Keep This Fish Home from Work illness was, as suspected, Mycoplasma Pneumonia. Or, Walking Pneumonia. Basically, bad enough that you want to die, but not bad enough to take your sorry ass to the hospital. Or, affectionately known among Fish's v. close friends and immediate family as The Poo-monia.
I get The Poo-monia at least once a year, get delirious with fever and attempt to valiantly suffer through at least one of the four or five days at work, pretending to be fine. They always send me home. Apparently looking like a corpse does not attract clients. Who knew? At any rate, Friendly Lab Person advised that should continue taking antibiotic, get plenty of rest and avoid over-taxing myself. Ah, thank you, wise Friendly Lab Person, but today, am feeling much better. So much better, in fact, that spent nearly half the day not only out of under downy retreat but out and about in the real world. Found the party to be a bit overwhelming though, and thus find self home, parked in front of computer, with sleeping kitten within kissing distance.
And now, back to goose-down heaven. THAT's a party.
1. Ice-cream lovin' ballerinas. Anna, can we be friends?
2. Lord Helmet. Oh, the giggles.
3. Indian food.
4. Nick and Jessica. Can you feel yourself getting stupider?
5. Going home early. Oh, bathrobe. I've missed you so.
As did not go to work today and have passed most of the morning in foggy, sleepy haze, have had many bizarre, medicine-induced dreams. In once such dream, went ahead and cut off my hair and gave it to charity, as though it was my plan for ages. That is the kind of dream/nightmare that would usually have this gal in a semi panic until fully awake. But not this morning. No, indeed. Waking from the dream, simply rolled over and said to no one in particular,
Man, I'm nice. But I'm not THAT nice.