So I woke up pretty cheerful this morning. I puttered around the house getting ready for work, watching the news, petting the unusually-clingy cat (she kept trying to climb into my lap, even when I was standing up. Ouch.) I had a few extra minutes before I needed to go catch the bus, so I figured I'd call Barry at work, to see how his morning was going. He tells me that the cat found a bug this morning -- always a traumatic experience for her; she HATES bugs. She had a bad experience with a ladybug once, but that's another story altogether. So he tells me she found a bug.
Me: "Was it a big bug?"
Barry: "Pretty big, yeah."
Me: "How big?"
Smoke: "MEOW!" (I think the translation was, "IT TRIED TO KILL ME!")
Barry: "Huge, actually. I had to rescue her from it."
Me: "Oh, no wonder she's so upset. What happened to the big scary bug?"
Barry: "Oh, I disposed of it."
And that, I thought, was that. I reassured the poor cat that the bug was gone, nothing more to worry about... and then I went to wash the dishes. Turned on the water, grabbed the dishsoap... hmmm, what's this weird crunchy thing on the sponge? "YYYEEEEAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!!!" I found the bug. By "disposing" of it, Barry meant "I squashed it with the sponge, then threw the sponge back into the sink. Surprise!" And man, that was one big bug. 820 legs, 32 sets of big bulgy eyes... fangs dripping venom... on the dish sponge. Ick. Bleah. Gag. Feh. Luckily we had a new sponge under the sink, so I could throw away the bug-tainted one. Feh.
In Barry's defense, he has been getting up at 4 a.m. for work lately, and he hasn't been feeling well. I'm sure he asn't thinking terribly clearly when Smoke's bug crisis occurred, otherwise he would have been expecting the indignant phone call he got from me after I found the remains.
So that was my morning. How was yours?
I don't know what's going on with my mood lately. I'm cranky and irritable, and just feeling fed up in general. I'm chalking it up to pre-moving stress, though there really isn't anything to stress about -- we have plenty of volunteers helping us (suckers!) and the new place is going to be great, and I can't wait to be out of our old place.
Work is the same as always -- though we did just find out that we are going to be shortstaffed permanently. Really Annoying Guy quit a couple of months ago (yay!) but then the administration got to thinking that we have too many staff members, so maybe we really don't need to hire someone to fill that vacant position. My boss tried to convince them, but it didn't work. We really do need to hire someone -- as it stands now, we can cover the desk, but we can't get any work done away from the desk. The work we do manage to get done is half-assed, because we can't really spend any time on it, because we get interrupted constantly. And forget sick days or vacation time -- that's just a nightmare. I'm dreading taking three days off when we move, just because I know how stressful it will be for Oliver (the other circulation desk person).
I think I'm just tired. I haven't really done much lately, but I haven't been able to fall asleep before 11 or so in a long time, and I have to be up by 5:30. Barry's been working crazy hours, plus he doesn't feel well, so he's usually asleep by about 8 -- I feel like I haven't seen him in two weeks.
Whine whine whine boo hoo, poor little me...
I did start reading a good book yesterday. It's called Those Bones Are Not My Child, and it's a novel based on the Atlanta child murders in the late '70s and earl '80s. I don't know anything about that case, so when it turned up in the book drop here, I snagged it. I've read the prologue and part of the first chapter, and it's beautifully written so far. It also looks like it's shaping up to be extraordinarily depressing.
I finished Motherless Brooklyn yesterday, and felt just the way I expected to -- I wanted to know what happened to Lionel next. The book doesn't have a necessarily happy ending, it just... ends. I wanted to know what Lionel did after that.
The movie version is supposed to be starring Edward Norton. Yippee!
Okay, so I changed the template AGAIN. I had the little orange stars, but they were hideously annoying -- I got a very very funny email from David V. asking if I was mad at my readers... so this design was a close second. I like it; it's plain, and not hard to read, and doesn't have little orange stars...What do you think of this one? Or if you want to give me idiot-proof instructions on how to make my own background, let me know. I'm HTML-impaired, though, so be warned.
I'm in a better mood today. I have high hopes that the moving van reservation won't get too screwed up, and I just talked my way out of going to a meeting I didn't want to attend. And it's stopped raining.
I don't really have much to talk about, now that I've cheered up. I'm still reading Motherless Brooklyn, and it's still excellent. I think I'm putting off finishing it because I don't want to be done reading it. The thing is, the storyline isn't really that good -- it's very confusing, and I keep losing track of who's working for who, and who's a bad guy and who's a good guy. But I like the main character immensely -- he's a sort of a detective, and he has Tourette's Syndrome. The story suffers, I think, because the author spends so much time fleshing out the main character, Lionel. That's really not a bad thing -- Lionel is a fascinating character. He's funny, and a bit sad, and I want the book to continue because I want to know what happens to him. I only have a few pages left -- the mystery is resolving itself, and the loose ends are coming together.
I just had a phone call from someone who wanted me to go to a different department, find his friend, and give him a phone message. Um, no.
I'm going to take a little break and go stand in the sunshine now...
What do you think of the new look? I don't know how to design my site myself, so I'm relying on Diaryland to come up with new templates. I thought this one was okay -- I was bored with the old one. Anyone out there want to teach me how to design my own?
I think it's only fair to warn you, I'm in a vile, ugly, rotten mood. It came on me last night, when I was walking to the T from class. No real reason -- my shoes were giving me blisters and I was tired, but that only warrents a mild crankiness. I was ready to start shoving people under cars by the time I got home, and it's only gotten worse today.
I think I might have been successful in renting a moving van. I'm not sure, because the guy at U-Haul was talking to me on one line, while simultaneously trying to argue speeding tickets with a DMV in Florida. He had a phone up to each ear. He kept putting me on hold, then hanging up on me. When he finally got all of my information down -- or so I thought -- he told me he'd call in a few minutes to confirm the rental. An hour later I called him... when I asked why he hadn't confirmed, he said he hadn't done the reservation yet. Why? "Well, I didn't write anything down when you called, so I didn't have the information." Ooooooookay.... I found out later that, though he told me they had no trucks at all available for the Saturday when we want to move, they actually had no reservations at all for that day. I called again, just to check. So I think I have a truck. I'm going to call them again next week, to be sure. Last thing I need is to find out on the morning of the 29th that we have no transportation.
But that little hassle is no excuse for my mood, really. I have no idea what my problem is. Even a warm cat in my lap didn't help. Barry had a bad day, so we've been sniping at each other since he got home. I'm not tired, really, but I think the best course of action is for me to go have a cigarette or three, then go to bed. And possibly stay there for the next two weeks or so.
Send me jokes or something, and hopefully that will break me out of my funk, and I can write a worthwhile entry tomorrow...
It's beautiful out today. Probably about 70 degrees, clear skies, a nice breeze... wow. I hope it lasts. I've got a bad case of spring fever.
I went to Lee's to watch TV and eat Chinese food with her and Patrick last night. It was apparently National Jackie Chan Movie Night, because there were at least three different Jackie Chan movies on at a given time. We watched the end of Rush Hour, which I haven't seen -- we own it, but we haven't gotten around to watching it yet. Then we flipped to a very disturbing and sad HBO documentary about a horrific crime in Arkansas and the three young ment who were convicted of it, but who are fairly obviously not guilty. It's far too long a story to get into here -- the documentary was very good, and the web site has a lot of information, if you're curious. The film was actually the sequal to an earlier documentary -- I haven't seen the first part yet, but I'd like to soon. Suffice it to say, even without seeing the first part, and even though I was trying to stay objective while watching, I was convinced the three men convicted had not committed this crime. That was one of the many things that depressed me so much about the case -- I was up until after 1 a.m., just thinking about it. If you're squeamish, I don't recommend watching the movie or reading too many details about the case -- it's truly horrifying. But what's worse is the fact that three young men are in prison, one on death row, for something they likely didn't do. The documentary brings up a whole can of worms about people being judged by appearance -- the three accused wore all black, listened to Metallica, and at least one of them is Wiccan, so they were suspects right from the start, in spite of a lack of evidence. I have a great deal of sympathy for anyone who is considered weird or bad because of their style of dress or musical taste -- I was partial to black in high school, and listened to music that was deemed "weird" by my classmates, and I suffered for it -- I stopped riding the bus and got rides from my mom because I kept getting threatened and hit and kicked on the bus, I made sure I had friends with me at all times between classes so I wouldn't get beaten up, and I learned to try to be as invisible as possible. It's a rotten thing to have to deal with -- but then, everyone I know had a rotten time in high school. Comes with the territory, I guess.
Hmm, this is a downer of an enrty. I'm in a good mood, I really am. I went shopping for spring clothes today, very successfully. I found the street I'll be living on along the bus route, and I finished a paper yesterday, so I have nothing at all to do today now, except maybe clean the litterbox (ew). So I'm happy. I might just go laze around on the porch with a book -- I'm reading Motherless Brooklyn right now, and it's excellent. Funny, and a little sad, and utterly entertaining. I almost missed my stop on the T Friday night, because the scene I was reading was so engrossing. I'm about halfway through it, and I already recommend it highly.
I signed the lease on the Wonderful Apartment last night. I went to the rental agency after work, intending only to drop off a deposit, fully prepared to spend the next few days worrying about the credit check and such, waiting to hear from the landlord. When I walked in, Rick the rental agent had a great big grin on his face. He said "I'm so glad you're here! You've got the place! Your credit is perfect, and the landlord is on his way over here with the lease!" So I paid the deposit, waited around until the landlord, Scott, arrived, and signed the lease. Scott wrote it up himself, so it's very detailed and includes everything we discussed when we looked at the apartment. It's also a very fair lease, which is nice. After I signed it, while Rick was sweating over the adding machine, trying to work out how much money we still need to pay, Scott leaned over to me and said "I have to tell you, I'm really glad you guys are renting the apartment. I was really hoping you would decide to take it. I think you'll be very happy there." Wow. I smiled and said "I'm sure we will be, too -- it's such a beautiful place," all the while pinching a big bruise on my leg, trying to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Poor Barry was stuck at work, having a hellish afternoon, so I called and got his permission to sign the lease for him. He missed all the fun. We'll be moving over the weekend before May 1... I can't wait.
I'm so relieved, I feel just... limp. Not knowing where you're going to live is a horrible feeling. I get really insecure when any little bit of chaos enters my little life -- I like stability, dammit, and when something is out of whack, I am NOT happy. I worry far too much. But the sick thing is, I worry when there's nothing to worry about. "There are no problems to deal with, everything's fine... something's going to go terribly, terribly wrong, I can sense it." Drives Barry up a wall. Drives ME up a wall. But I can't seem to help it. I worry all the way to work whether I've left the coffee pot on, or a light on... "I left the bathroom light on. The wiring in that house is terrible. The house is going to burn down!" I worry irrationally that I'll los my job. If Barry is more than half an hour late getting home, I worry that he's been in an accident. I'm amazed I don't have gray hairs yet. Well, I can worry about that, I suppose
I'm very paranoid today. I'm afraid of jinxing myself.
We found a fantastic apartment yesterday. It's beautiful. It looks like the "after" segment of one of those HGTV shows. It's in a nice, quiet neighborhood in Chelsea, we can keep the cat, and the landlord is a dream. It's five rooms -- two bedrooms -- the first floor of a beautiful Victorian-style house. The landlord obviously loves his house, and takes good care of it. There are flower beds all around it, and a big back yard.
The landlord lives on the second floor -- he has three cats and a yellow lab, so I liked him right away. The woman who lives on the third floor designs costumes for the Boston Ballet, and has a Dalmation.
The price is right, and the landlord offered us a deal on the security deposit -- half a months rent, paid in four installments if we want. There's no washer-dryer hookups, but he offered to put some in in the near future.
While I was wandering around the apartment last night (with little pink cartoon hearts swirling above my head, I'm sure) I overheard the landlord telling the rental agent that we are exactly the type of tenants he wants, and he really would like to rent the place to us.
I'm smitten. Poor Barry -- I have fallen in love with an apartment. He is more hesitant than I am -- he says we shouldn't jump at the first place we see. I say, if it's perfect, why wait? We won't find better, I'm positive of that. I followed him around all last night giving him the eye until he finally laughed, threw his hands in the air and said "Fine! We'll take it!"
I'm putting the deposit on it tonight after work. Then the rental agent will do a token credit check (it's a seedy place -- I don't think they dig too deep, and our credit is good anyway) and a reference check. And then, hopefully, we'll be all set. We would be able to move on May 1.
The street the apartment is on has a block party with a full fireworks show every Fourth of July. Sigh...
So yeah, I'm happy, but very nervous too. My credit's good, I know -- the only debt I have is school loans, and I don't think they check that kind of thing. Even if they do, I've never been late with a payment. Barry's credit is spotless. The rent would be higher, but we can afford it. We'll have very little spending money, but we can handle it.
So the apartment search hell begins... we spent yesterday poring over the Sunday Globe, circling ads. Well, I circled, and Barry called. He's good at charming people, plus he's got that lovely British accent. We left a bunch of messages, made one appointment to go look at some places with a rental agent, and heard a lot of "Sorry, the apartment's been rented." We got one callback from a woman who seemed entirely too desperate to unload a small place in Cambridge. We got a wee bit nervous when she desribed the apartment as "pretty run-down inside." Yikes. No, thanks.
I'm trying not to worry -- we have six weeks, after all. I'm sure we'll find something. I have a potential home lined up for my cat, in case we can't find a place that will take her (although the few people we actually talked to all said that cats weren't a problem -- that's moderately encouraging.) I have a possible buyer for my treadmill -- I hate to part with it, but it's heavy, and I haven't paid for it yet. It's one expense I can live without.
I saw our scumbag... excuse me, landlord this morning, and he gave me a long story about why he didn't tell us he wanted to take our apartment sooner. He said he didn't know he was going to have to move -- hard to swallow since he owns his own house. I had to catch a bus, and I just didn't have the energy to argue, so I just left it alone.
So I wasn't really in the world's best mood when I got home last night. I worked until 7 p.m., a 10 1/2 hour day. The weather was still horrible (windy, snowing and sleeting, very cold) so I had to wait around at the station for a bus that would drop me off close to home. When I finally got in, all I wanted to do was have a cup of tea and some dinner.
Ha.
When I got home, I found a scary-looking registered letter waiting for me. I didn't recognize who it was from, but it had been sent return-receipt. I briefly entertained the thought that some long-lost relative had died and left me a vast fortune. When I opened it, I found a letter from our landlord... regretfully informing us that he is terminating our tenant-at-will lease, and we have to be out of the apartment on or before May 1.
I didn't know I knew so many swear words. I think I invented a few phrases.
Barry immediately called the landlord, who said that he had decided that he wanted to live in our apartment. A lot of things made sense at that point: the landlord has been building a mysterious room in the basement for about three months now. It has a full bathroom, a living area, a bedroom... everything but a kitchen. The permit indicated that this room was "for first floor use." That would be us, we thought, so why hasn't he said anything to us about it? I saw the landlord last week, and asked him what the room was going to be for. He gave me a vague answer about wanting extra space in case someone had company, and needed an extra bedroom. Oooookay...
Turns out that he was planning all along to move here with his wife and adult daughter. Now, I understand that, since we had a tenant-at-will lease, he legally only had to give us thirty days notice to move out. But it seems to me that the DECENT thing to do would have been to tell us his plans oh, say, three months ago, when he started building the new room. That way we could have looked for a new apartment at leisure, shopped around... instead of having to scramble, like we are now. We don't have the money to move. Our savings are meager, at best. Barry had just purchased a ticket to fly to London, to visit a friend whose father has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. The ticket is nonrefundable, but he can't go now -- the trip was planned for right when we'll be moving. I'm in school, and paying the taxes on my tuition reimbursement from work. We can't afford this. Even after getting our security and pet deposits back, we won't have enough for a deposit on a new place, so one of us will be borrowing from the bank. We'll certainly have to pay more rent, probably a lot more. Rent in and around Boston is obscene, and getting higher all the time. We were lucky here -- our place is huge, and has very low rent.
Plus there's the prospect of finding a place that will take a cat. We have looked through the classified ads a few times, and every ad that looked promising ended with the dreaded phrase "Absolutely no pets." I hate to give up my cat -- my mom is willing to adopt her, so I know she'd go to a happy home. And I'd get to see her. But that's not the point -- she wouldn't be my cat anymore. And dammit, I love my cat.
So I'm thoroughly pissed off today. When I told my mom, the first thing she said was "That fucking asshole." My sentiments exactly.
It's way too nice outside for me to be sitting here in a dark, stuffy library. There aren't even any windows we can open. It's close to seventy degrees outside, with a nice warm wind. Of course, tomorrow it will be in the thirties, with bitter cold wind chills and snow...
I got an email from Nancy, asking a fun question -- What five books would you bring with you to a desert island? I don't think I could pick just five -- I'd want to haul my entire bookcase with me. But if I had to choose, I think I would pick:
At least one Douglas Coupland book. Microserfs is my current favorite, but Miss Wyoming is very good so far.
Even though I just finished it, I expect to read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius a few more times. It's a fantastic book, and I'm sure there is plenty that I missed during my first reading of it.
Travelling Mercies by Anne Lamott. It's hard to pick just one of her books, but this one is my favorite, so far.
A guilty pleasure -- The Stand by Stephen King. He's good for pure escapist reading -- I reread this one whenever I just want to be entertained. But then, The Haunting by Shirley Jackson still scared the socks off me, even though I've read it about a dozen times. So maybe I'd take it, instead.
And the fifth... hmm... I'd have to pick A Prayer for Owen Meany. I like John Irving a lot. And the ending of this book made me cry -- on the subway, even. I got some funny looks on that commute.
I'm really a creature of habit -- I find books that I really like, and I read them over and over again. The true test of a book, for me, is whether I can read it half a dozen times without its losing its impact on me. The books that I cave in and buy are usually the ones that I have read a few times without getting bored. I'm not the kind of girl who can walk into a bookstore and buy a book I haven't read before, unless I know I like the author. I'm not very adventurous that way.
So what books would you take to a desert island? email me and tell me.
Barry Manilow is performing a private concert... in my head. "At the Copa, Copacabana..." Stuck in my head. All day so far. Can't shake it.
I have far too many books to read. I faced the facts earlier today, and returned some of them -- the ones I really wanted to read, but knew I'd never get around to. I had over 50 checked out from just the MIT Libraries -- I managed to weed it down to 28. I don't work in an interesting library (well, it isn't interesting to me, anyway -- management and political science. Yawn.) The thing is, people drop off books from the Humanities library here, and the books look interesting, so instead of sending them on their merry way, I check them out to myself. And the stack grows and grows...
I'm reading "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers, for Beth's book club -- it's an excellent book. It reminds me a lot of Douglas Coupland, but the writing style is a little tighter. (If that makes any sense.) It's the type of book that makes me miss my stop on the subway. I've been sitting at my desk trying to figure out some way of sneaking the book out of my bag and reading it on the sly... oh, the irony of not being allowed to read in a library!
Next, I have Douglas Coupland's "Miss Wyoming." I'm a huge Coupland fan, in spite of the nauseating "Gen X" thing. I met him at a reading once, and he was so pleasantly weird... I gave him a little silver policeman's whistle, which seemed to make him very happy. He made a point of having a conversation with everyone who lined up to get their book signed (this was for "Microserfs," so it was a few years ago) much to the annoyance of the bookstore staff.
I also have "Motherless Brooklyn." All I know about it is that it centers around a detective with Tourette's. That, and I read a few pages over someone's shoulder on the subway, and it looked really good.
Someone dropped off a book here today called "A White Bone." The story is told from the point of view of an African elephant. That could be good, or it could stink -- I was intrigued enough to add it to the pile.
Damn. Thinking about books makes me want to go read even more. What I really need is a week off, to do nothing but sit and drink tea and read. I'd be happy with that.
What are you reading? email me and tell me about it. (Incidentally, if you're worried that I'll be annoyed if you email me, I won't be! I'm an email junkie. I love getting email. And I try to be good about replying. Personally, I hate it when I email someone and they never reply, so I try to at least say hello back. So really, email me.)
I'm feeling very lazy right at the moment. I didn't do squat over the weekend -- went to the grocery store, played Playstation (Diablo -- I died messily over and over and over... lots of gory "AAAAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! *gurgle*" sound effects reverberating through the house), straightened the house, played Playstation ("AAAAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!! *gurgle*), slept, Playstation (AAAAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!!!"), etc...
So you'd think I'd have woken up all energetic and ready to take on the day this morning, right? Ha. I think recent stress has decided to ambush me. I woke up with a stomachache, then felt faint and wobbly all morning, until the blinding headache hit. I feel better now, though, so I won't whine anymore.
The stressful stuff also seems to be easing -- thanks to all of you who send nice emails to cheer me up (especially Nancy -- that really was one of the nicest emails I've ever gotten, thank you). I still don't really want to discuss it here -- suffice it to say, the first year of marriage really is the hardest. It's been weird and tense and not very happy around our house, but it's better now. Hopefully it will continue to improve.
Barry brought home a copy of "You Don't Know Jack" for the iBook today, and I'm hooked. I suck at it, of course -- all that's missing is the "AAAAAAIIIIEEEEEE!!!! *gurgle." I suck so bad the annoying announcer-guy yells at me. He insults me for being so damn dumb. It's pathetic. But fun, really fun. So what if my final score is usually around -16,250...
When I was little, and got sick (which happened quite a lot), my mom would entice me to eat by making little menus. She'd think up silly names for food (sick-kid comfort food -- soup, grilled cheese, etc.) and draw little pictures, and let me choose what I wanted to eat. It was one of the high points of being at home, sick in bed.
She reminded me of that yesterday, when I was home sick in bed with The Cold From Hell. I had to make my own soup (boo-hoo!) and tea (oh, wah!). But I did have a happy warm cat sleeping on my belly for much of the day, while I watched utterly horrid daytime TV.
Smoking while sick is never a good idea. I quit a couple of years ago, but... funny how stress makes bad habits creep back in. My rationale right now is, I quit once, I can quit again. Never mind how bad quitting sucked the first time around.
I've said it before, I'll say it again -- I am an email junkie. So send me some! Tell me what your mom did when you were little and sick in bed. Or what bad habits you revisit when you're stressed. Or just tell me a story.
I thought staying home today would be a good idea. I figured I'd sleep a lot, catch up on some reading, watch cheesy daytime talk shows, and let the germs run their course.
Ha.
At 7:30, my landlord arrived to do work in the basement. He's building some sort of mystery room down there -- he says it's just a workroom, but it has a kitchenette, a bathroom, windows... looks like a basement apartment to me. To his credit, nobody is usually home after 7 o'clock on weekedays. He had no idea I was trying to sleep.
I staggered out of bed and put a cup of coffee in the microwave. Push the buttons, hit start... "whirrrrr...POP!" Dead microwave. Again. Third time in three months. Fuck.
I spent the next four hours arguing with various people in various Sears offices, trying to get the micrwaved replaced. I kept getting transferred to some guy named Reuben, who kept telling me "Sorry, can't help you." Click.
Finally I got connected to Purcell, who sounded just exactly like Barry White. I was briefly cheered up by the mental image of Barry White talking to me about my microwave... until he told me he didn't believe that I wasn't breaking the microwave on purpose, and there was nothing he could do for me. I asked to speak to a supervisor, and he said no. No? "They're very busy people, and they aren't going to drop everything to talk to you." Barry White, being rude??
I hung up, tried some primal scream therapy, and then got a call from Barry White's boss, who told me how I could very easily get my poor lemon of a microwave fixed. I just have to bum a ride to Burlington, MA. Sigh.
I'd have gotten more rest at work.
I'm just finishing reading 'Tis, by Frank McCourt. Good book, very engaging... but if he refers to hbis eyes as "piss holes in the snow" ONE more time, I think I'll throw the book out the window. I was enjoying the book up until the last chapter, when McCourt's waffling about what he wanted to do with his life started to grate on me. He suffered a great deal, true... but once he's gotten a degree, gotten a job, married the girl of his dreams, and his family has been moved from poverty in Ireland to contentment in New York, you'd think he'd be happy. Nope. He can't decide whether he wants what he has, or (apparently) if he'd rather be a drunk like his father. Hmmm. I'm almost finished with it now -- only about fifty pages to go. I rarely leave a book without finishing it, so I'll get through it. I think I would like it a lot better if it had ended a chapter or two ago.
After this book, I have Motherless Brooklyn and Girl, Interrupted. I didn't see the movie version of Girl, Interrupted -- I almost always prefer the book. Motherless Brooklyn centers on a detective with Tourette's Syndrome. That's all I know -- plus I read a few pages over somebody's shoulder on the subway, (yes, that's really annoying. I can't help myself.) and it looked good. So now I think I'll make some tea and go finish 'Tis.
I don't feel so hot. I've been fighting a cold for a few days, and it seems the cold is winning. My big brother is coming to visit this weekend -- figures, I'll be all snotty.
I told my boss I was feeling sick and she said "Once you get really busy you'll forget that you're sick." Mmmmmmm, sympathy... She did ask if I wanted to go home early, but the look of dread that came over her face made me feel too guilty to say "Yes, I'd love to, 'bye!" We're too understaffed right now. I'm not happy about the fact that being sick is going to turn into a luxury, but there isn't really anything I can do about it. Of course, I'm sick because of the people who came to work hacking and coughing and sneezing all over the place...
I'm wearing a dress today. I NEVER wear dresses. But see, I got these shoes the other day, and they really only go with this particular dress. They have big heels. I'm over six feet tall when I wear them. I like that. I have, however, almost fallen over a few times. Serves me right for trying to dress like a girl.
Look out -- I'm getting on my soapbox for a minute. There, I'm done. That comic pretty much summed it up.