This is, indeed, the very last day wherein I'll be posting with Blogger, so let's savor this. ... Long night, as indicated by my 1am post--a good deal later than any of my posts have been for ages now. The bloody holidays have my sleep schedule all fuckered, and I couldn't get my poor, tired body to conk out until close to 2am. Exhausted, yes. Sleepy? Of course not! Boy had left, even, so I was aaaall alone (oh, relax--he was taking the New Yorkers back to their hotel near the airport, and I figured I'd stay home and "get some rest". pah.), left to flirt with strangers on instant messenger. Lovely. ... Work is busy, but not busy enough to keep my brain from wandering. Boy stayed home (lucky sod), and like any sensible person--I'd rather be there with him, than here. bleargh.

Fairly full day, hopefully a promise of things to come: Slept late, smooched in the shower, headed to Dave's for an afternoon of X-Box madness with him and Quincy--we'd hardly gotten more than two private words in with them at Marty and Loree's on New Years Eve (between me and Blondie running around in our party dresses flirting like drunken loons and the hubbub created by the appearance of Dave in a Regis suit and Quincy in a dress--with makeup, even!--it was a busy night. And New Years kisses! Those took up a good deal of time as well, making up for last year and all.), then picking up Kid Sis, transporting her (and some dinner) to grandma's house (the 'rents are stuck in Victoria, as the weather has turned nasty and cancelled their boat home), then home for a few scant moments of relaxation before Boy's New York friends called on their way here from Whistler, and it was off to the airport to pick them up for a late dinner and whirlwind backseat-tour of a dark and rainy city. Exhausted, and no way to start the new year. Resolutions? Sure. -Write. Every gee-dee day. -Relax. Ditto. Not so much stressing about the little things that make me go bazongas. -Say Thank You. -Sleep soundly, and wake with a smile. This last one will maybe be the most difficult to control. and with that, it's time to finish an IM conversation and head to bed. Getting up for work tomorrow will not come easily.

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

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

Gee, there's a surprise.

"This is one of the rewards of adulthood: not all your furniture consists of laminate-clad formaldehyde-soaked wood chips that have been pressure-formed, treble-glued and held together with pegs and godless European screws." Just one more reason that we should all be reading Mr. Lileks' work every gee-dee day. So, New Year's Eve. Last year, right about now, I was slipping into a little black something, with my hair cropped and coiffed, eyes glittery and cold--spent the evening drunk on too much Cristal and a womb-warm red wine whose sole distinction was the copious amounts to be found, then later discovering just how much spanking my round, pink ass could take, courtesy of a man almost twice my age and at least four times my net worth--he called me Sport, you'll remember the story? And really, where would I have rather been, this entire time? With Boy, of course. He says that it was New Year's Eve that he realized that he loved me, though I think it took him a little longer to discover just how much. A week, that's all, a week and he loved me, and maybe a couple more and he loved me more than anything. I don't think I took much longer than that, either. This year, there's no need for longing--we're spending it together, with friends, all dressed up and slick and counting down with Robot Dick Clarke. A promising evening, and I wish you a safe and happy one as well. ... Also, for those not in the know: The new site is launching, and soon. I've just the bio and photo pages to scrap together, and a few finishing touches, voilà! It's a beaut, simple and sweet and made with loving hands. Oh, and for y'all who've been requesting pictures, personal information (cripes, this isn't enough, the weblog alone?)--you'll have all you need.

This almost made me wet my fucking pants, I was laughing so hard.

Kid Sis and her little friend are content to play hide and seek all afternoon while it's light enough to see (they were outside); they've settled into a strange but creative game of Harry Potter (both of them cast in the part of Hermione Granger, which makes the experience slightly surreal for those of us merely observing) now that it's gone dark. It's nice to have something moving in the house--Boy's crashed with the iBook, I'm puttering in the closet (well, not at the moment, as I don't currently keep a computer in the closet. Something to consider, though--I've got a lovely, cozy walk-in deal that used to be part of my bedroom as a child--there's a board hidden in there, used to be a piece of molding that we'd mark our respective heights on, me and buddy and our ex-stepsister--and one time, the cat, but she didn't like being stretched like that--and a safe wherein I keep things...safe, of course. I don't think I'd mind the idea of having a desk in there, too.) A right-cozy evening, with Etta James on the stereo, and I'm feeling a thousand times more relaxed than I was this morning. There's something about half-asleep arguments at four a.m. that leave me with a nasty taste in my mouth the next morning. Hey, did I tell you what I got for christmas? Probably not, I was such a bad weblogger last week. From my dad and ESTB, I received a new car stereo (w00t!), the Calphalon roasting pan that was on my wishlist, and some books from the same--From mom and illustrious stepfather, I received a new cellphone that I'm going to return (I've managed for seven months now to live without one, I can't imagine why I'd need one again), more books, DVDs, and ...stuff, I don't remember. From Boy? The beautiful wool overcoat that I'd lusted after, the matching rack to go with my roasting pan (hehe, rack), A HANDSPRING VISOR DELUXE AND AREN'T YOU JEALOUS??, and best of all--a harness for my dildo, making me just that. much. more aggressive in the sack, it's so fucking hot. From me to Boy? A tripod for both his camera and camcorder, battery-charger, Simpsons' Clue, and Sim City 3000 Unlimited--and it appears that his choice for an anniversary present (seeing as how he just HAD a night with strippers, I don't imagine he wants more) is going to be the Utilikilt, instead of a new vacuum cleaner. We've had a big hand in raising the consumer confidence index, I'm sure. ... Laundry's beeping, girls are calling my name, and it's freezing here.

Yeah, yeah, I've been bad. And busy as all fuck, but hey, it's the holidays! Give me a break. (Perhaps you'll notice I'm also pissy as hell, but I'm fairly sure that's a hormonal thing. Maybe. Grah!) So, my week. Obviously, it was a fucking nuthouse at work, with tons to do and not much time in which to do it. It felt good, though, despite the pressure--but I'm glad that Kimmie will be back this week. But who wants to hear about work? Wednesday we did...something. Oh! Anniversary, right. I already blogged about that. Thursday, however--whoo! What a night. We headed to the Vu with Bubbles and her husband Nick and participated in some long-awaited debauchery with bendy little strippers--though technically the dancer that I was most fond of was taller than me. Whaddev. Then we adjourned to the hottub at home, where even more debauchery took place...quite the evening, I assure you. Friday night comprised Me. And Boy. And doing almost nothing at all. Which felt absolutely lovely. We stopped by U-Village to exchange my christmas coat, hit the grocery store while we were there, and then came home for more of doing nothing--I think. --- I'm finding that my short term memory is shot right now. I am bone-achingly tired these days, and you can tell. --- Yesterday was a fairly full day, but perhaps I'm only saying that because I saw maybe an hour or two of daylight--ravaged Boy all morning in bed, the headed over to Bubbles' house to pick her up before meeting a friend of hers at the movies--we saw Ocean's 11, and I'm fucking in love with Steven Soderbergh, thankyouverymuch--then back to Bubbles' house for the infamous debauchery (although I have to admit, I find it very very difficult to orgasm with a whining dog outside the bedroom door.), then back home to grab Boy before heading to dinner with Davo, who was on a tight schedule--Quincy was coming home from visiting the folks, and he was picking her up from the airport--and then back home again. We settled into a cozy lump on the sofa with some of our new christmas books (we are positively swamped with books, I tell you.), but ended up watching Trading Spaces and the Naked Chef before I conked out. Somehow I migrated into bed, and I could have sworn that Boy was with me...But then I wake up at four in the morning and he's nowhere to be found. Well, he was somewhere to be found, but it wasn't in bed. And here is where I make the requisite poly-angst comments that I wish to god didn't even have to be made: I am tired. Of waking up. In the middle of the night to find that he's not here, he's talking to this girl, this nineteen year old girl who seems to be a complete and utter flake--I am tired of having to have conversations and discussions and making arrangements and checking with everyone to see if they're comfortable and content and if they have enough pieces of me and how many pieces of them may I have and so on and so forth until I want to absolutely scream. I must have been absolutely insane, thinking that this whole poly-thing was a good idea. I should have just given up after Nia--that entire sitaution was one big fat joke. I'm the most jealous and possessive person I know, how could I even fathom sharing Boy with someone else? If just talking to this girl gets me bent all out of shape, how am I supposed to be okay with him fucking her? Yeesh. And then it raises the question of equality--how can I justify my jealousy when I spent the afternoon getting fucked by my new girlfriend? It's a mess, I tell you, and I don't know how to clean it up. We can be all honest and open and sharing feelings (barf, i hate that phrase), but what it comes down to is this: Perhaps I'm not cut out for this. And maybe He isn't either. But the way it's working right now, well...it's not working. But I don't know how to fix it. /end angst. ... I'm picking up my sister in a bit--she spent last night with my grandmother, she'll be here with us tonight, then to her friend Danielle's for New Year's Eve--Mom and illustrious stepfather headed to Victoria this morning to spend a couple days alone. Guess it pays to have your wedding anniversary fall on New Year's Eve. I don't exactly know what I'll do with her today--there aren't many good kids' movies out that either she hasn't already seen or I'd even want to see (*cough*Johnny Neutrino*cough* [or whatever it's called]), so it looks like I'm going to have to get creative. It's a little cold for her to be outside (she's recovering from another winter sniffle), but inside can be boring, no? No Zoo, still too cold. I guess we could hit the park, but that sounds like dire punishment. We're creative girls, though--we'll figure something out. ... Boy says that he sometimes feels sorry for Kid Sis--she's so much younger than me and Buddy and Henpay, so she's either tagging along (which doesn't always work--she can't go to a kegger with the boys, and she can't come to the sex club with me and Boy, heh.), or having to entertain herself--which I think reminds Boy of his youth, the only child for a good long while, with no siblings to play with. I try convincing him that she's fine, she's got lots of friends, and neighbor-kids and a dog and my parents and ultimately Us, but I think he's right. It seems like a lonely thing, even more lonely than being the brainy kid in a family of athletes. ... You can see what kind of mood I'm in, no? Melancholic and growly, I need a good five hours of beating something with a large stick, or maybe the hackneyed "destroying something beautiful" deal. It crept in yesterday, when I was in bed with Bubbles--I had her begging and panting and I found myself ready to get up and walk away, just to see her ache a little more. I didn't, I stayed and gave her a shuddering orgasm...but the thought was there. More from the same stranger: "Actually, the words are available; it's something concrete to express that I lack. Because what do I know, really? Let's see. 1) She's named herself after a pioneering and very expensive line of shoes. 2) She likes sex. 3) She ain't shy. Which is not exactly a complete portrait of your personality, you know? So I don't really know to whom I'm writing. There's a certain fun in that, though, too... You're an unknown quality. The thing that drew me to you initially was a strain I smelled, something very indepedent and a bit brutal. Having read your diary (I never knew this whole world of blogs even existed!), I don't know if I was right. That's good, really; I was being honest when I said I was scared of women like you.". Between yesterday, and this, and what pal Robert said--I'm a little nervous. I thought that I'd left all of this behind, the detached and cold and hard parts, when I fell into the squishy busom of love with Boy. I think it's the weather. ... Now, to pick up Kid Sis. Probably more navel-gazing later, she'll be occupied for part of the day with another little friend (see? she has them, they just don't live with my family.)...but until then--I know that I've said things this morning that will hurt and offend and maybe make people cry (okay, probably not cry. I'm not that good a writer.)--but I can't apologize yet.

i feel like i've just run a fucking marathon. update when I get home from work.

Who is this person from Channel 5 looking at my weblog? And my personal profile on MSN? Identify yourself.

another stripper-hangover (don't ask.). too much work. update at lunch. shit, it is lunch. update this afternoon, perhaps. soon!

pal Robert says this about me: "geek boys are drawn to you like moths to a lantern. only to batter themselves to death against you, and get eaten by crows..." Better tell Boy to watch for the crows, then. I know not of any other geekboys still flitting about--the last year has done well with getting them gone. Still, an amusing sentiment.

Oh! The Anniversary: It went very well, though not at all according to our careful plans. We'd intended to go to the 7:15 showing of the Royal Tennenbaums, but got there and found it sold out--couldn't drive up the hill to the 5 Spot, where we'd planned on having dinner afterwards (now pre-movie, as the next show was 8:45) because we'd already paid for parking, so we wandered over to Nonna Maria, had a sweet little dinner and some tiramisu, saw the movie, and went home. No anniversary-sex because Aunt Flow just showed up with her baggage in tow--cramps and bloating and backaches galore! But! It. Was. Good. We spent it together, holding hands and having cozy-time and making fun of all the pretentious fuckwits who show up for Wes Anderson movies at the Uptown. I didn't realize until this morning that Boy hadn't even shown me the new site! It'll be up in the next few days, as soon as technical issues are resolved. I'll be leaving Blogger behind for the futuristic wonder of Movable Type, and we'll all be better for it (no offense, Blogger). I hear that I am, indeed, partially naked on this new site--and it's one of Boy's photos, which means the ones from that shoot with David a year and a half ago can get some rest. I know, me and my naked games. ... We are all having great difficulty in concentrating today--bosses gone, cookies everywhere, and dueling mp3's of Madonna and Britney (Madonna is kicking some pansy-britney ass, of course)--but the impending threat of dismemberment if I don't finish the pile of crap on my desk is keeping me from leaving early. That, and I have no car today. Stupid Dad took the damned thing to get my new stereo installed, which of course is a good thing, but I feel like someone has cut off my legs. Too much talk of losing limbs in that paragraph.

Not-so-Confidential to Pou: I actually rather enjoyed Orlando (you'd never know, because I never posted my freaking trip journal because I am a lazy lazy brat)--it was very cartoonish and warm when things are so drab and dark and wet here in Seattle. But I wouldn't want to live there.

I know, I know, I know--but it wasn't my fault! Blogger got hacked or something, right on Christmas Day, when Ev was out of town...what a mess. And NOW I've got four days' work to do in a day and a half, so I don't really have time for a huge update. I will, however, let you in on something: If your boss comes to you and says, "What do you have for me this morning?", it would be best if you did not answer with "I got nuthin' but love for ya, baby". Just so you know. Also: If you ever decide to remove your panties, perhaps don't leave them in your messenger bag over the weekend--when one has gloves on, and it's cold, and you're carrying packages while walking down the street simultaneously digging in your bag (which is behind you, not in front), a pair of panties feels somewhat like a small wool cap (you know, in the sense that they're both fabricky), and when you're doing that much Not-Paying-Attention, you do silly silly things like pull the panties out without looking and slam them on your little cold head while you're walking past the Vance Hotel, whereupon the doorman gives you a cock-eyed grin and tips HIS hat at you--and then I said, "I'd tip my hat, but I can't seem to find the brim" or something equally witty. Nothing like wearing string bikini panties as a hat in public. They had little stars and moons on them, too. ... And on that note, I HAVE to get some work done. The holidays were wonderful, and I'll be back to talk about them as soon as I burrow out from this monstrous pile.

Had a nice breakfast this morning with Panda--well, the chatting was nice. The breakfast was barfalicious, I should have gone with my first instinct and just ordered oatmeal. Anyway, it was nice to catch up on old news, see pictures of her and her residents (she's an R.A. for a special interest house)--what a bunch of hippie freaks! It's perfect for her, but it just drove home how different we are now. We exchanged gifts--an aromatherapy kit from me to her, and some beautiful vellum paper and a stamp with matching pad from her to me. We talked about old pals, new pals, lovers and enemies--it was good. I'm feeling all distracted this morning, sorry. I've got to round stuff up to go to the cabin--and then there's the ever-famous two hour drive. We're taking Lexi this time instead of the Soccerwagon--I want to test my 4WD before things get crappy down here. Mom says there's plenty of snow up at the Compound, so that'll give me lots of practice playing with it. We'll be back tomorrow night, but I can't guarantee an update right away--I'll do my best, though. Have a nice weekend!

Take the Affliction Test Today! Great.

Grah. Internet's been broken. Stupid stupid internet. Who could love such a stupid internet? From this morning: Good Morning!! Hooray!! Look at me dance and flip and turn one-handed cartwheels!! No, that's a lie. But the underlying enthusiasm is truly present, I guarantee. Somehow, that extra two hours of sleep I managed to glean from the night helped, as did a dream that wasn't about drowning or hacking people to bits or stabbing them with drinking straws in Victoria's Secret. Instead, I dreamed that my company was opening a store in the Florida Mall in Orlando (which looked more like a third-world bazaar than a mall, I'll tell you that much) (in the dream, I mean, it looked like any other Simon mall when we were there), but I had to stop overseeing construction to go buy some smoked salmon for Boy's grandmother, which was weird in itself seeing as how I find smoked salmon the most repulsive thing ever and I'd never buy it for anyone at all. Anyway, between the sleep and the dreams and the fucking best Christmas CD I've ever purchased (not to mention getting the bulk of my shopping out of the way), my tension level has lessened considerably. I've grabbed my holiday spirit (or lack thereof) by the horns, and wrangled it into shape. Ha! ... I feel like a fucking idiot, though--I've been parking in the new Nordstrom building (you know, corporate offices, not the store. They don't let you park in the store, what with all the people shopping.) for what I thought was a bargain $9/day. It was cheaper than the lot that adjoins my building (fifteen fucking dollars to park a block away from the crack-addled Bus Station? I don't think so), and I was supporting Nordstrom's, of which I am a (meager) stockholder (shut up, I know it was a lousy investment)...and then today I find out that on the next block down (in a different direction) from my building, garage parking is FIVE fucking dollars a day. Grah. So I'm parking there now. ... What is wrong with me today?? I'm all peppy and bouncy and just plain old weird, which isn't much different than usual, the weird part, but man, the peppy bit is throwing people off. Which is not to say that I am usually one big black rain cloud infecting people with gloom--but "peppy" isn't my thing. At all. Ever. Childlike enthusiasm, maybe. Energetic cleaning binges (speaking of, need to go on that one), sure. Peppy is for former cheerleaders on Trading Spaces. ... Eww. I need new running shoes, because I can smell them from here. Poor coworkers. ... Haven't I said that before? Why haven't you bought me new shoes? I wear a women's 8.5B (that's american sizing, thanks), and I prefer shoes that lace up--none of this zippered or velcro-y closure business for me. Just a nice crosstrainer. Thanks.

To borrow Boy's favorite phrase: Holy fucking queercakes. Here it is, practically the middle of the afternoon, and the roommate and his girlfriend are going at it again. What is this, a race? Are we saving money on our power bill by generating our own heat? If so, then Boy and I made our contribution last night--twice! In one night! Good god, we haven't seen that kind of action for ages! Of course, I paid for it this morning with all these weird aches. Hrm. Anyway, left work early today--headed straight to the mall with my bonus, and got almost everyone taken care of. I got sweaters for Dad, ESTB, and Mom--Eddie Bauer was bargain central (which is not normally a term that would ever pass my lips, but whaddev. It's the holidays)--Took care of Muffin and Panda with a stop at Bath & Body Works (why yes, it DID give me a sinus headache, that store. bleargh.), some more goodies for Boy, and...oh, okay, fine--some stuff for me, too, because I'm a selfish bitch who still only thinks of herself. Hmmph. Just so I remember my list: +Buddy and Henpay = Gift certificates for a day at the paintballing range (the stupid place doesn't have a website or anything, so I actually have to DRIVE over to the damned range and buy it in person) +Neighbors = Hello, Starbucks? +Davo and Quincy = ...hey, I can't say that here! +Blondie = ...uh...can't say that one, either. ...and I think that's it. Or not. Grah! ... So, where's everyone been today? record low on the sitemeter, and it's bruised my ego. Dammit. ... fngres 2 cld 2 typ gud. haf 2 leev room.

Got the go-ahead to take off early--I'll be leaving at 3pm but will be paid until 5, which is nice. In a perfect world, I would just go home to bed and not wake up until july. In this cold, dark world--I go to the bank, then shop like a fiend to make sure I avoid Blue Christmas syndrome. I think that I'm actually more prepared for the holidays than I think: I just need to take care of my mother, my brothers, a few last minute things for Boy, some coffee and treats for my neighbors, oh, and then all my friends coming home from college (dwindling in numbers, which used to make me sad until I realized we had less and less to talk about), my grandmothers, boy's grandmother and... Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. Gotta shop.

bonuses have arrived, dismayingly smaller than expected, but it's better than a box of jam. Or a swift kick in the ass. poke in the eye. whatever. Better than...your ASS FACE, at least. head is killing me, using sharp burning point sticks, pounding them into my skull. I'm going to beg off a few minutes early--boss is in a good mood, I suspect her bonus has not suffered through this economic downturn. I shouldn't have driven to work today. or yesterday. or monday or last friday. I've become weak, with this cold weather, not wanting to wait the six minutes before the bus shows up. wimp wimp wimp. ... whine whine whine. I swear, it'll be better once I get some sleep. This has all crept up on me so quickly--I'm afraid that I won't budget my meager bonus well, and it'll be a blue blue christmas for all. or at least for everyone else, since I see presents piled under the tree for me already. At least I've figured out an anniversary present for Boy (thanks, Bubbles): I'm getting him a private session with the stripper of his choice, and I'm betting that will knock me into the upper percentile regions in the Best Girlfriend In The Fucking Universe competition...although it's not like I won't benefit from it as well, hmm? ... In case you were wondering, my jaw aches no less than it did this morning. pity me, please. me and my angry, swollen, red-lipped mouth.

still reading Cooper's archives. I'd been thinking last night about the things I'd said--I still stand by my dislike of him, at least on a general level--but then I read this entry, and I softened just a little. My formerly hard and blackened heart, it's all flushed and saturated with love (everyone say thank you to Boy, else this would be a bitter bitter journal) and I find people just a tad bit easier to bear. ... In order to ease the tedium of a stale music folder (christmas is coming, why buy myself cd's now?), I've been listening to every single album I have copied onto my harddrive at work, in alphabetical order. I'm thinking about going through the album folders and creating a playlist with every single song on it--in alphabetical order. Because I'm fucking nuts that way. ... I have a confession to make, and this time it won't be "I'm really a man, baby!", I promise: It may shock and surprise you to hear this, But. I am. Indeed. An Extraordinary Girl. I'd almost sort of halfway forgotten until I received the following: "When I was a little kid, my dad had this idea that I would make a fine engineer. This complete misreading was based on the fact that I liked to play with blocks. Most kids, little boys especially, use blocks to show their ability to constructivel influence the world. They build nice tall buildings, very fliomsy, and when they come crashing down it makes for a trite metaphor about human's place in the grand scheme of things., blah blah blah. That's not what I was on about as a child. My favorite game was to build these squat little vaults that had just a little bit of empty space inside. I'd put a Hot Wheels in there, stand across the room and then bombard my bunker with rocks or extra blocks or whatever was at hand, trying to demolish the house I has tried so hard to make impervious. So I understand, on a root level, what it is to be destructive. I pretty regularly raze some facet of my life in order to rebuild. Very liberating! And when you become an adult, you have so much more power to do so. All of the sudden. you have sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll. What's more, the block houses that surround you are more tempting than ever before — there's bourgeoisie sensibility, injustice, tedium, unecessary traditions. What fun! But it has become so cold out there. And my heart sometimes feels like it might starve. Not to be pitiful. And recent events in my own life have shown how eager I am to torpedo any relationship that threatens to make me fall asleep. My problem is that I want the love and steady knowledge that I am now convinced only a stable realtionship can give me, but I do not want to stop myself from being dsangerous. I can stop fucking other people, no problems there, but I need my companion to have the same apetitew for real freedom. It is a kind-hearted and good world that has decided not to make us live around each other. I wouldn't have even written, except there has always been something about the adventurous, reckless, sometimes callous and above all free females of this world that I cannot stop from interacting with. My only hope is that you grow old to want guys with a shade of your own impish glory and a fur jacket of affection and devotion. This, in case you hadn't noticed, isn't a come-on. And I've possibly made it hard to respond... hell, you might just be profoundly creeped out by the entire thing. I can dig it, I feel the same way about myself sometimes." And I gave a shuddery sigh and wondered who this stranger was, sharing such personal and private things with a girl who hardly has a private life at all anymore. ... Throat is still painfully swollen. And I've only aggrevated things by having a very starchy day, a starchy day indeed. ... Had another baby-killing confession today--twice, actually. It's been a day where every conversation we've had today at work has revolved around gynocological issues. One of the guys in CS tried to contribute with his surprisingly wide array of knowlege regarding, and I quote with a big fat smirk on my face and a resounding giggle, "Female Problems". I felt like a twelve year old boy. ... Finished Cooper's archives up to the point where I began reading his stuff regularly--and a secret dark corner of me wants to give him a big hug.

Oh yeah: I got crazy-person fanmail last night. But at least someone responded to my "Dirty Motherfucking Bastard People" comment.

a big doughy bagel isn't helping. Anything. Except my growling stomach. But the swollen glands and desparately sore throat and aching jaw are ready to fucking mutinee.

just so you know, it's likely to be a slow blog-day--I'm focusing all my energy on making my swollen throat-gland be not-so-swollen. They're making it hard to...you know, breathe and shit.

Oh, and my wisdom teeth are fucking killing me. Dammit.

Woke up with swollen glands and a distinct ache permeating every single square inch of my body. This does not bode well for my holidays.

You know what's had me off all day? My cuffs and collar aren't starched. Amuse self at will. Seriously, my favorite white dress shirt that usually feels so crisp and bright has felt rather wrinkly all day, despite having just been washed and carefully ironed, with linden water no less! But the anal freak in me wants this shirt drycleaned, and drycleaned NOW. As for the other cuffs and collar...Hrm. Probably not the best topic for this forum, not today, not with this much crack in my system because I'm liable to tell you all manner of inappropriate things. muahahaha.

I think the worst side effect from the holidays has to be that constant buttery-mouthed feeling. Between the fudge and the croissants and the catered luncheon and the two HUGE boxes we just got from Harry&David as a gift from a customer...It's a constant thing. There is not enough bottled water in the world to flush out the toxins in my system now. I am resigned to my fate--that fate being the life of a Big Fat Cow. A COW, I tell you...with an...ASS FACE! ... You can always tell how much sugar I've had in any given day by counting the number of Waiting For Guffman references I make. And hell, you people only see the ones that manage to seep from my sugar-shaking fingers.

The luncheon is over, and now I am back at my desk bulging with salmon and phud thai and chicken satay and it is finally goddamned noon. or noon and a quarter, whatever. ... noon and three quarters, and I've done nothing but zone for the last half hour. Well, zone and read Coop's archives. I don't know why I keep reading him--my ex-pseudo-girlfriend's ex-lover, though we have other connections as well--but he's a rather cold-hearted bastard, and I don't think I like him much. I might have buzzed him once or twice on Nerve, but it was a dark, dark time, when my standards were low and I ached for nothing more than a quick but loud and bracing fuck--I was a horrible roommate when I lived with the Psychotic Mess, but don't expect me to feel bad about it now. He's such a lonely and unhappy person, and it should only make me feel better to read his journal...but instead the unfamiliar buzz of empathy is all I can muster. I should NOT be feeling empathetic--never in my life have I been close to the loneliness that he experiences on a daily basis. Silly brain, making busy with heartstrings. ... Bonuses should be here tomorrow, and I can stop living the National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation From Hell. I've only got a few more gifts to purchase--gift certificates for mom (spa day-thing), and brothers (paintballing), and a few things here and there for boy--to say nothing of stocking stuffers. I've got a few bitty things to plop in our shared stocking, but I need more. Always more. Want. Not need. I have everything I need. Love and a cozy blanket, nothing more.

holy shitballs. It feels like noon...it smells like noon...and yet it's only ten o'clock? Why hast thou forsaken me, O god of Making Time Go Faster? *sob*

O, fucking holidays. I am never going to have firmer abs and slimmer thighs with the damned holidays lingering--I just had a croissant and two bites of fudge for breakfast. Cripes. ... Had several remarkably vicious dreams last night/this morning--lots of drownings and maiming and heartbroken sobbing. Hard to feel rested, but I'm doing fairly well so far--I think that the Brunch was contributing more stress than I'd realized. Having it over is a relief--now all I have to get through are two more parties, a date with Boy's new toy on Friday, cabin on saturday/sunday, back down here for christmas eve dinner with Dad and ESTB, christmas day breakfast and the first round of presents with them too, then back up to the cabin with grandmother and great-aunt in tow for the second round of presents and christmas day dinner with mom and illustrious stepfather and kid sis and both brothers, only to come back down again that evening so I can be at work on time on the 26th. No sweat. Hell, I did it last year--and I did it alone, only to come home on the evening of the 25th to begin a six hour phone conversation with Boy, which left me two hours to sleep before work, after which we had our first date and made out in Nicky, the Little Gay Truck...and the rest is silly, romantic history. I used to think that when I grew up and got married and had children, I'd be able to control how my holidays worked--I could make them come to me, instead of dragging everyone everywhere--but I realize now that will never ever happen. This is how my holidays have worked for seventeen years, and this is how they'll work until my parents are old and senile and infirm and they'll be living with me, all four of them, I'll be changing their diapers and fetching their newspapers and helping them figure out The Online "why won't this work?! I clicked it, I just know I did!" and then, maybe after they're so old that all they do is sleep (although I've also learned that the older you are, the less sleep you need, apparently, so they'll probably take that to heart and never sleep) I can have a peaceful christmas where I stay in my own home and my own bed and open the presents under my own tree...Ehh, maybe. Truth be told--I like having two christmases. Always have, disregarding the immense traveling time. Who wouldn't love twice the presents? Sheesh. ... I am shivery-freezing today, and it's the fault of my damned shirt. I'm wearing my gorgeous white-on-white pinstriped shirt with the french cuffs, the one that I usually wear the black-rhinestone bra under, because I'm a slut like that? and I just know that my niblets are poking. The cold apple cider I'm drinking (almost typed driving there, which is bizarre. my brain moves in mysterious ways, and right now it's got me on my knees) isn't helping, I'm sure. I have a feeling my boss thinks it's something other than apple cider, and with good reason--it's all brown and murky and i'm drinking (not driving) it from a pilsner glass, and appearance is half the battle. ... My stupid Mini-Zen Garden is sitting up on my monitor, just taunting me with its damp dirt and hibernating seeds--didn't I mention? You've got to grow the damned thing yourself. I made Boy laugh last night when I told him--I planted the seeds yesterday, in the teaspoon of dirt they provide, and watered it carefully...returned two and a half hours later, after the world's Most Excruciating Meeting EVER, and honest-to-god, I was surprised it hadn't already sprouted into a little tree. I am going fucking nuts, that's the only explanation. At least I'm not the only one, right? All those crazy people on the Buffy reruns right now--and the saddest Buffy episode was on last night, the one where Joyce dies, and I swear to god it took about three seconds for me to start bawling. And then Boy comes home three hours late and I was all sad and frowny and it SO was not his fault, but I just couldn't help it. It got better after we'd crawled into bed and listened to some Etta James and just talked, which is pretty much the non-drug equivalent of Ambien for me--just get me talking while I'm in a horizontal position and I'll be snoring away in no time. How's that for amusing--I talk myself to sleep. I can only imagine what I do to you poor people reading this--I envision y'all sitting at your desks, head on keyboards, drooling between the keys. Oh, and I'm sorry for calling you 'fuckers' yesterday. It was completely inappropriate. I meant to say, "not a single suggestion from you Dirty Motherfucking Bastard People". Just wanted to clear that up. ... People have some pretty nasty opinions of webloggers. Just so you know. I've got a nasty opinion of most of them, so I should watch what I'm saying--or at least, that's what I thought, I thought I should watch what I'm saying and doing and telling you--but I repeated my Weblog Mantra: This Is For Me. If You Are Entertained, Great. But This Is For Me, So Shut The Hell Up. or whatever, and really--if you all stopped reading, I would still write this blahblahblah. Just so you know. More clarifying. ... Do I really look like a complete idiot with a scarf wound completely around my neck in an attempt to counteract the niblet-poking? No more idiotic than that girl who keeps trying to type with her mittens on. ... Still no ideas for the Anniversary Present (now so pressing an issue that it requires capitalization). Any suggestions would be met with Much Gratitude and even some Heartfelt Thanks

I just ironed all my napkins, sheets and pillowcases. And a tablecloth. The worst part? I enjoyed it. ... I finally succumbed to the increasing fury--living with a rommate has been difficult for me--and put up a bunch of snippy notes everywhere. "If The Sink Is Dirty--Wipe It". "If The Dishwasher is Full, Empty It", "If You Can't See Anything In The Mirror, It's Your Damned Ass Face!!" and so on. To hell with them if they think I'm going to keep doing their dishes just because they leave them in my kitchen. I get depressed when the counters are cluttered. I don't think I like the direction in which this post is heading. That mile-wide anal-retentive streak is stealing the show. ... Not a single suggestion for an anniversary present from you fuckers--for that matter, I never get any fan/hate mail anymore. Am I boring you? If so, why do 150 of you keep reading? Chalk it up as another thing i'll never understand about people. That bit's next on the list, following "people who iron their underwear". Now that is going too far.

Gosh, look at the time. I'm going home. taking shoes off. hell, taking clothes off. laying down. sinking into brunch-food-induced coma. sleeeeeping. jealous? me too.

Have I mentioned the latest dilemma? Only six days until me and Boy's One Year Anniversary, and I've absolutely No idea what to get him. I mean, it's not like he's getting me something--he's building me an entire freaking website! That's a gift from the heart! And I'd take that over diamonds any day. (Though I wouldn't mind a nice pair of diamond studs, hint hint.) Anyway, I'm at an utter loss. I don't want to just buy him something, I want it to be so very very special. But one must keep in mind that I'm po' po' po' until...well hell, until I'm 25. And maybe even after that. But this is beside the point. I need to figure out what to get him. Unfortunately, I can't ask his friends what I think he'd like because...well, because I want it to be JUST that special. I want someone to convince me that I already *know* what to get him. I've got it in me--no one on earth spends as much time with him as I do, and no one is as close to him. So...why am I having such a hard time? This is a big damn deal. I'd bet it would be easier to figure out if I'd ever had a one-year anniversary with anyone before. Which I haven't. And that sounds so pitiful in my head, I can just hear myself saying it in my little whiny-pay-attention-to-me voice that I use when I want pity and attention etc. But it's true! I've never been in a relationship that lasted an entire year--at least not without some serious break-ups and get-back-together's in there somewhere. And the breaking-up-but-sleeping-together-for-another-eight-months doesn't count, either. Grah! Help me. Please.

Conor. Not Colin. That was my brain, not working. This, however, is my brain working very well: Get a copy of Sliced Ginger's debut release, "Set Them Puppies Free" while you can. I'm predicting record sales, angry mobs clamoring outside stores...well, Cate and Conor's house, whatever...to get their hands on this tasty morsel of indie goodness.

Okay. It's done. Ahead of schedule, and the whole thing went off perfectly--or at least as perfectly as a thrown-together department brunch can go off. The gift I received in the Exchange? A mini bonsai garden. Irony, no? I've got the blackest thumb you'll ever see. Enough about the damned brunch, though--you'll never hear another word. Ever. I swear.

I've got the work-sweats now. You know, like the Mall-sweats? Where you get all clammy and flushed and you're sure everyone is looking at you, wondering when you're going to succumb to the inhalathrax or viral pneumonia or whathaveyou? It's an extra-Bleargh day.

Never ever again will I undertake projects like these that I've been so preoccupied with lately. Fuck dat sheeit, yo. My brain feels like it's all shrunken and aching, needing water or booze or anything dammit--too many hours spent directing my energies towards other peoples responsibilities all in the pursuit of a favorable 6 month review. Bleargh. I didn't expect my review to be so damned expensive--even though I'd broken kneecaps to get money out of everyone on the floor, it still wasn't enough, and I've spent $20 of my own tightly-budgeted cash. And this is before the coffee arrives. It'll just have to come from someone else, that's the only solution. No, wait--the only solution is to kill them all, and play with their blood! ... Well, Boy thinks it's funny when I say that. Confidential to Law Enforcement-types: I have no intentions of actually killing my coworkers and playing with their blood. Yet. ... I. Am So. Exhausted. ... Okay, time to be presentable. I shall return later, with tales of mimosas at work, and what they do to coworkers when consumed at 10am. On a Tuesday. Double bleargh.

Why does two hours at Costco with my mother and Kid Sis feel like eight years with anyone else? Perhaps it was the rush hour crowd, but that could not be avoided. Almost over.

Can it be my De La clothes, or is it just my De La...what?

I want a doctor to take your picture, so I can look at you from inside as well. Creepy. But ohgoodgod, that Liz gets me going.

w00t! I got a hint about the new site: it will keep the blue-theme, and it's using a picture of me in which I am bare-assed naked, I'd bet. He's just That Kind of Boy. I'm in absolute agony, waiting. Only nine days to go. Nine days too long!

So I come home from work in the middle of the day, and I see my dad out in my driveway, and I am instantly overcome with a panicky feeling that is comPLETEly irrational--but I'm remembering skipping class and getting caught and the same feeling applied here, even though I know it shouldn't. Say it with me: I Am A Grownup. I Can Do What I Want. Didn't help to have him tell me as he's leaving: Do your dishes fold your laundry vacuum take the garbage out wash your car and just do something with your hair, will you? Grah!

That post took two-thirds of my morning to write. I'm going home in an hour, to run errands for work. O frabjous day.

So, the weekend. Blogger has been tempermental--the Post & Publish button has just eaten all of my posts, a vexing vexing thing. Grr and such. Thus, highlights, in abbreviated form. Friday night: As previously mentioned, the hair was colored, though I'm thoroughly dissatisfied with it now. It's rather bright at the crown of my head, and dark towards the front, which provides me with a distinct pointy-headed look. I'll attempt to remedy the problem this evening if I just can't stand it any longer. Saturday: Uhm. I'm pretty sure we didn't get moving until noonish, and didn't get dressed until about 5 (well, I didn't. Boy went to the grocery store at some point, and I'm pretty sure he wore clothes, but the entire day is fuzzy for me--I'd best quit having my liquid breakfasts. No, that's a joke, there's no scotch for me until evening. Usually.) So, that was daytime--evening was spent wining and dining with Bubbles and her hubby (who still needs a name, but that will have to come later), and snuggling with their new dog, with whom I felt some great kinship. which is kind of odd, kinship with a strange dog. you should not be surprised, oddity is normal 'round these parts. Sunday! Boy spent the day falling in love with Movable Type--and so you all are not caught unawares, I will be jettisoning my loyalty and resolve for MT when the new site is launched. Sorry, Ev. Also on Sunday, the following things occured: Ironing, laundering, haircuts (not matching), and finally, the long-awaited Company Holiday Bonanza. We arrived promptly and were among the first to leave--it was packed, and everyone had a jolly-good time...but I was surprisingly uncomfortable for the entire thing. I tried passing my discomfort off as pantyhose a size too small--but if I can't be honest here, there's no hope for me. I was uncomfortable because I was not my stepfather's daughter at this party. Not like our familial relationship had dissolved, don't be silly--but this is the first circumstance wherein I couldn't introduce myself as Illustrious Stepfather's Daughter. Or, alternately, Boy's Girlfriend. I am doing this alone, and it's hard work, and it makes me a little scared. Rabid feminists might make the assumption that I've been brainwashed into feeling more comfortable as some man's posession (which isn't true, that's not what I'm saying)...but what it boils down to is just a slight lack of confidence in my own talents and ability to make something of myself. I admitted as much to Boy when we were leaving last night, and he pshawed--I'm perfectly capable of being a success, even without illustrious stepfather's influence. Right? Right. ... I'm reminded of a snippet of talk from Saturday night--we were in the car after dinner, heading over to Candycane Lane (it's this very WASPy neighborhood where elaborate Christmas decor is written into the homeowners covenant or whatever. Enforced Holiday Display. Yikes)--we'd been talking about people we knew at MSFT--Bubbles' hubby is a microserf, and I...well hell, I dated half the company...And I mentioned how meeting Martha Stewart (it was at a MSFT party, there's the connection) was the most exciting thing ever, even after having met heads of state and having them offer me jobs...Illustrious Stepfather was most disappointed. Somehow, that anecdote was far more amusing in my head. ... Also this weekend: I woke up Saturday morning with angry red scratches across the top of one breast--disorienting, though I've been feeling restlessly itchy for the last week or so, which leads me to believe I did it in my sleep. The scratches left me feeling fragile and thin-skinned--I'm hoping it'll fade once the they're gone. ... Incidentally, this interview with Maurice Sendak on Morning Edition that set me off today. Not once. Not twice. Three times, two of them right here in the office, no more than a minute apart--I just had to sit down and cry and here I am just writing about it not even saying it out loud, that makes it feel more real, if I can just write it it's a little more removed--this little girl who went to school practically at Ground Zero, she tells her parents that it was like a movie, and she could see the birdies on fire, but then later that day she admits that she knows they weren't birdies, they were people and god, that's so fucking sad. I can't even think about it, much less write it or say it, and I'm bawling. Fragile, I tell you. ... The holidays have something to do with it, I'm sure--they shouldn't. I've never had a bad christmas, at least not that I can remember. There have been some that were better than others, and some that I remember very distinctly--my 10th, I believe, when mom and illustrious stepfather were getting married in a week and everything was so damned exciting--but they've always been pretty good. Perhaps it's the feeling of impending doom, that this might be the last christmas I ever spend with my family because they're leaving me, leaving to go traipsing about the globe only to be tortured and killed by pirates in the south seas. Hello, paranoia. And then there's the baby-factor: ours would have been born right around christmas, which preceeds our one-year anniversary by a single day--it's hard to forget that. I shouldn't forget it, you're right. It's been hard to move on, months and months and months later. This is promising to be the best christmas ever, though--so long as I spend it with my Boy. I don't need gifts, no diamonds (got 'em) or fur (can't wear it here without getting splashed with paint anyway), no fancy vacations--I just need him, and a blanket, and a fire in the fireplace on christmas eve. And high-speed internet access. And my dansko clogs. Seriously! That's all I need. And maybe some knishes, that's all I've been hungry for lately, but it's not like I'm going to get them anytime soon, so I'll just be fine with that other stuff. ... Whee!

Let me amend those weekend plans: Mom and illustrious stepfather headed up to the cabin for the weekend, so there was none of that movie-ness. Boy and I debated going anyway, but after mexican food we were nearly comatose. Logical next step? Shopping, of course. It was productive, though--I crossed illustrious stepfather off my list (got him the Ken Burns Jazz Anthology thing), and Kid Sis (a Nancy Drew computer game, some books, etc), and got myself Tomb Raider...Man, I'd forgotten how bad that movie was. Except for a cumulative 17 minutes of naked/shooting/riding a motorcycle/wearing leather pants Angelina Jolie and a few scattered glimpses of bouncing tits, whoooo so slow. Also, no brunch today--I'll be wrapping presents and making all those stupid ornaments for the department's Holiday Brunch on Tuesday. Bleargh. Hair is colored, though--now it's just needing a cut, but I think I'll wait until tomorrow to do that--that way I won't actually have to do my own hair for the company party tomorrow night. I'm taking the camera. (Did I mention? Boy got a photo printer last night, too. We're going to print out some photos to send to the grandparents--my suggestion was that picture of me sucking his cock, but he veto'ed that. How about the picture of me giving my patented Death-Look(tm) while naked and extremely hungover?) Such a boring update. My apologies. Only eleven days until the Great Unveiling. Now, wrapping presents while listening to a Very Judy Garland Christmas.

How Frustrating: Chou says: Have you talked to Muffin? She left a message on my machine some time this afternoon, I guess she's home for the holidays Manzell says: i have not heard from Muffin. Chou says: I'm surprised she called--I haven't heard from her since August or so. Manzell says: she was supposed to call me over thanksgiving but she failed to do so. Manzell says: although I did hang out with campbell and his sex-predator friend. Chou says: Wha? who's this now? Manzell says: some bisexual jewish girl. tried to get us drunk and have a threesome, but between me not having it and campbells fear of taking off his shirt it just wasn't going to happen. Chou says: Erm. Ew. Chou says: We had a threesome this week with my new girlfriend. It fucking rawked. Manzell says: outstanding. Chou says: quite. Manzell says: how do you go about propositioning for the threesome? do you have a method? Manzell says: and no wonder your boy always seems so relaxed. Chou says: I took her to dinner, we came back to my house to sit in the hottub, jeff came and joined us while she and I were already making out. Then we all went to bed and did it like minks. Chou says: Or minxes. or foxes or whatever. Manzell says: and you do the whole x-rated affair, not a watered down threesome with rules? Chou says: this was a pretty spontaneous thing. Manzell says: i couldn't imagine watching my girlfriend have sex with another guy, or vice-versa for you Chou says: Hmm. Boy didn't seem to mind. I think watching the two of us go at it was his favorite part. Manzell says: im sure he didn't mind. it's not considered that two women have sex like a man and a woman have sex. maybe its the same analytically, but since when does that actually matter? Manzell says: from his point of view, you didn't actually have sex with anyone else. (and here is where I assume my friend has gone crazy.) Chou says: Of course it's the same. Chou says: Sex is sex even if a penis is not involved. Manzell says: you are thinking too logically. Chou says: I hate to sound like some sort of wymynist or whatever, but you're being very predictably phallocentric (god, I can't believe i even used that word) when you say that. Chou says: By that logic, a lesbian couple never ever has sex. Chou says: Which is patently untrue. Manzell says: well, it's a phallocentric world. Chou says: Not in my house. Chou says: it's all about pussy here. Chou says: Which is not to say that Boy doesn't get his--but it is NOT all about penises. Manzell says: perhaps true, hetero intercourse has a different status because of the expectation of children. Chou says: This has nothing to do with children, though! Procreation is not the goal for us when we fuck like bunnies. In fact, we do our damnedest to avoid it. Chou says: This is about s-e-x, pleasure, and getting it any way that we can. Manzell says: well, yes, but biologically intercourse is for baby making Chou says: And if it means that I fuck another woman while my boyfriend watches, then so be it. Manzell says: and our brains don't evolve quite as fast as social consciousness. Chou says: We're not talking biologically here. Chou says: I have no idea what you're getting at, really. Chou says: Is it so unimaginable that this sort of arrangement should occur? Manzell says: unimaginable, no. Chou says: then what's the issue? Manzell says: i think my original point was that I wouldn't do it. at least with my 'partner'. Chou says: Ah. Manzell says: but my other point was that on a fundamental level intercourse is different than sex. Manzell says: and 'more' than sex too. Chou says: I don't happen to agree with that point. Chou says: intercourse, sex, whatever--I fucked her, she fucked me, Jeff fucked me *while* I fucked her--and we did just fine with only one dick involved. Manzell says: I cant imagine you enjoying it if your boyfriend were impregnating other women. Chou says: You are being weird. he's not impregnating ANYONE. Chou says: It's not about that! yeesh. Manzell says: no doubt, but I don't think the primitive brain understands that. Chou says: Uhh. I don't think we're working with the primitive brain here, even if your assumption was correct. Manzell says: my point is, there are parts of your (and everyone's) brain that thouroughly expect impregnation following intercourse. it's only, uh, natural, and it must be a tough feeling to overcome. Manzell says: you get me? Chou says: Not in the least. I think you've gone mental. Chou says: And I'm not really sure where you're getting this "primitive brain expects pregnancy" thing, because I know that's the last thing on MY mind after I've been thoroughly fucked Manzell says: well, yes, it's all subconscious. Chou says: You're thinking WAY too hard about this. Manzell says: well, when you have alot of time to think than you can think about many things. Chou says: Uh. /end scene. ...Sometimes, I think it's more trouble than it's worth. No, not really--but the explaining things over and over gets so. damned. tiring. I hope I never have to explain all of this to my Evil Grandmother. It took her four lessons just to learn how to turn on her computer. bleesh!

Because I'm bored: The Friday Five. 1. What did you want to be when you grew up? A pirate. Of course. 2. Do you have any nicknames? Obviously, Ferra. Chou, Tibby, Hot Lips, That Girl. 3. If you could change something about yourself what would it be? I would have already gotten a haircut. As it stands, I have to wait until this weekend. 4. Have you ever bought anything from an infomercial? A collection of doo-wop cd's from a Time-Life Jukebox Gold infomercial. They're really, really good. Mostly. As good as any doo-wop collection you can buy from late-night teevee, anyway. 5. How do you plan to spend your weekend? Movie with my parents tonight, possible brunch with Scott and Dani tomorrow, haircut, dinner with Bubbles and her hubby tomorrow night. Sunday will entain preparations for my company's holiday party--I'm nervous as all hell. And I'm still bored. I want to go home now.

Oh. My. God. I'm quitting my job. (via jish.)

Though I often plug new and interesting weblogs and such that I come across, today is something different: You are all knuckleheads if you don't read what Cate & Colin have to say. And in the styling of Cate & Colin, I'm going to start offering little "About Me" tidbits every day. Because apparently you don't know enough about me. About Me: Among my unreasonable fears, there is a special place for my fear of revolving doors. I've never had a "revolving door accident", or anything of the sort, but they are still awfully menacing. You know, for doors. And now, crackers.

Grah! Big Morning Post all written and link'd up, and what happens? The Online stops working, and my post is lost.

This fucking game is driving me bonkers. I can't break 3800 points. (via jish)

Did I mention? The internet is broken. ... Overheard from one of the guys in CS: "That email we got three times is a virus!"

The best part about having your boss be out of town is leaving at 3pm. And using her butter.

Sheens is learning to cook through me--tonight she's attempting meatloaf. I've given her a truncated recipe, making it as simple as possible but still edible. And as I was composing the mail in which I was sending the recipe, I went bonkers: Chou's Patented Meatloaf (tm) "Hey sheens-- Here's a pretty simple way to make meatloaf: First, preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Next, the ingredients. Put them all out where you can see them before you start mixing everything together, because then you know you've got it and you don't have to run to the store in the middle of glooshing meat and eggs and whatnot all together. For the meatloaf: 1.5lbs of ground beef, containing no more than 16% fat 1 large egg, lightly beaten (this will make it easier to mix into the meat) 1 medium sized onion, chopped 1/2 cup breadcrumbs (the ones that come pre-seasoned work the best), or 1/2 cup crushed crackers (Saltines, Ritz, whatever. Not Cheez-Its. Probably not goldfish crackers, either.) 2 cloves of fresh garlic, minced finely (or one big heaping tablespoon of that pre-minced garlic that comes in a jar. the fresh stuff is better.) 2 teaspoons dijon mustard 2 teaspoons ketchup (instructions: put on food) 1/2 teaspoon each: dried thyme, sage, parsley and oregano (no rosemary--this is not a Simon&Garfunkel song.) a good shaking of both salt and pepper. and MAYBE a 1/4 cup of milk or half & half (I'll explain in a minute) For the glaze, mix together these things in a separate bowl. You'll put this over the top of the loaf before you bake it: 1/2 cup ketchup 4 tablespoons brown sugar 1 tablespoon dijon mustard. Before doing anything else, line your pan with aluminum foil, or you'll have a huge mess to clean up. Now, all you need to do is mix the first set of ingredients together in a big bowl (use gloves if you don't want to touch the goop--or use a big wooden spoon, but make sure to mix it in well. If it's not mixed well, it'll suck.). If you notice that the mixture is sticking to the bowl, add that 1/4 cup of milk a little bit at a time until it's moist enough to not-stick. If it's already not-sticking, then drink the milk because it's good for your bones. After you've got all the meatloaf ingredients mixed together, just form it into a loaf shape in the pan--make sure that it's pretty even in terms of depth and width--it'll cook more evenly that way. After you've formed it into a loaf, brush the glaze over the top--don't use all of the glaze, you'll want some of it for when you're actually eating dinner. Bake the meatloaf for 45 minutes to one hour--the cooking time will depends on how thick the meatloaf is. You can poke a hole near the thickest part to check--if you see any pink, then it needs to cook a bit longer. When it's cooked all the way through (don't leave it in too long, or it'll get dry and gross), take it out of the oven and let it cool for about 10 or 15 minutes. Then, bring it to the table, slice it, and place it on plates. Cut a small, bite-sized piece of the slice on your plate, and place it in your mouth. Chew, at least 24 times to aid digestion, and then swallow. The chewed meatloaf will travel down your esophagus to your stomach, where it will be digested, and then later pooped out! It won't look too much different coming out than it does going in. The End. If you have problems, I'll be home tonight--just call and we can walk you through it. Our crack team of Meatloaf Experts will have answers to any questions you might need answered. just call 1-800-EAT-MEAT. I need to get out more. Love, Chou"

If you were a king, up there on your throne--would you be wise enough to let me go? ... Everywhere I go in this building, I can hear that freaking Dido album. If my company released a soundtrack, here's what it would contain: 1) Here With Me, Dido 2) Something by Staind (I couldn't tell you the names of any of their song, but that cd has spread like wildfire.) 3) Greatest Hits, Celine Dion 4) interchangeably: 'NSync, Backstreet Boys, and Britney. And any other teen sensation. 5) and then there's me, with my Robbie Fulks, and my Massive Attack and my snooty Bizet and Dvorak and Beethoven sonatas. Good thing we all get along.

Well! Quite the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed morning for me! ...More like burning-eyed and aching tail, but it's the best kind of burning and aching. No, just the aching is good. The burning is bad, because it means I went to bed without taking my makeup off. Fool! Either way, last night's second date with Bubbles was a...rousing success, heh. Dinner was had (cheesecake factory), dessert was gobbled (pumpkin cheesecake for me, oreo cheesecake for her), and we headed back to the Cottage (that's what I'm calling the house now, it's suitably pretentious. I'm also going by the name "Chou") for some time in the hottub. Note to self: Being naked in a dark and secluded hottub is certain to get you laid. Oh yes. Just like that. (faaack, I can't stop saying it.) So Bubbles and Boy met for the first time--and got on fairly well, relieving me of some anxiety. It's never a good thing when the two people you're fucking don't like eachother. We're going to be perpetuating the Great Big Poly Family idea soon by having the four of us (me, boy, bubbles, and her hub) go out to dinner--the boys are both geeks, so we're speculating they'll get on well. Anyway, I'm sure you've heard enough of the hot chick-on-chick action. (wait, that should be Boy-on-chick-on-chick. My bad.) ... Not to be a total downer, but I have to say: It's been three months and two days since everything in the world changed--and every single time I drive in to work, I start sobbing. Hearing this tiny musical interlude did it for me this morning. It came on the heels of a piece about "The Guys"--Anne Nelson's new play "centers on a fire captain and an editor who helps him write the eulogies of fire fighters killed in the Sept. 11 attack in New York,"--and I just couldn't hold it in. It's not the constant war-talk, Khandahar, Jalalabad, Al Jazeer, terrorist networks with billions of dollars at their disposal. It's every single human-interest story that gets me. But enough about that, too. ... More stupid projects, because my workload is nil. I want meatloaf.

I'm listening to Level 42. Good thing I'm the only one in the office right now--I don't think I could handle the ridicule. At least it's not Celine Dion. Shudder.

Yeah, I've been busy today--I took on a massive project for some CS folks, hopefully wrangling me a delicious moment in the Employee Of The Month spotlight. Four hundred and fifty padded envelopes, stuffed with custom non-denominational holiday cards (picture of the department included) and cloying little boxes of chocolate in the shape of hawaiian shirts (our staple product--though our shirts are approximately 31 times more expensive than the chocolates). Each and every envelope has been lovingly addressed, stamped, and adorned with hand-drawn sprigs of holly and berries--and now they've all been postmarked as well. Oh, how they love their customers. So I took cart-load after cart-load of these huge padded envelopes down to the building's mail room, until the mail room could hold no more (yes, I've still got a cart-and-a-half to go)...and as I'm standing there, silently debating whether or not to just start piling them through the lobby, the Dumbest Woman In the World comes up to me and says, "Are you mailing those?" *blank look* After my nod to the affirmative, she asks, "Is 'Local Mail' for letters going somewhere in the U.S.?", to which I reply, "That is indeed possible, but then again, there's also the box that is marked 'Out Of Town Mail' to consider. Feel free to discuss quietly, and make your own decision.". Remember? I say all the things y'all are thinking but don't have the guts to say. I should really start carrying a gun--one of these days, someone will have the guts to bitch back. ... Oh, but for some work of my own to do right now. Or maybe a quiet corner in which to read my book. ... We were talking earlier about why we all carry big bags--messenger bags galore around here, which is part of the delight of working with people my age--I'd tried for ages to carry dainty little purses that were barely big enough to hold my bulging wallet (which, unfortunately, does not bulge with cash, merely a trail of receipts that speak volumes to my material addiction)...'but I've come to realize the benefits of my messenger bag,' I said. "I can carry the wallet with ease, along with my makeup bag, my book, my gloves and hat, a jelly sandwich and water bottle, and my little blue notebook in which I write stories. *strange looks from coworkers* You know, when I'm on the bus, and I'm watching crazy people do weird things, like that little woman who has an even littler television that she watches with headphones on..." *more strange looks, but I go on* 'Look, it's not what you're thinking. I sometimes take the things I've written and copy them into my weblog--" which only made things go downhill, so I stopped talking about it. The entire concept of publishing your private diary (and trust me, my friends--it does not get much more private than this) is unthinkable to them, much like the entire concept of waiting until marriage before having sex is unthinkable (and sheerly idiotic, frankly) to me. It's our little differences that make my day just that much brighter. ... My day is certainly guaranteed to be a great deal brighter than the mail carrier's, at least--My job is over when the envelopes are in the mail buckets. So long as my day is not the worst of all (which is it not, by far. I am the goddamned fucking happiest person on earth, aren't you jealous?), I'm okay. Especially since I take such great pleasure in the discomfort of others--an idea that I should not be nearly as proud of as I am, I'm sure. My mantra lately has been 'Tis The Season To Be Nice And Shit, which is not intended to mean "be nice and defecate", so clear your gross dirty gutter mind now, please. ... Another fifty envelopes have appeared. I vow to banish thee unto the depths of hell, foul packages!

One of Those days apparently means g-string day--I'm discovering just how comfortable they are, once you get over the "something in my ass" feeling. I briefly contemplated restocking my entire underwear collection with the inimitable g-string...but then I tried wearing one under jeans and...Yeah. I've crossed the TMI line, haven't I. ... Seriously, the dream I had this morning was entirely about parking my car. Also, the garage that I usually park in when I drive to work had changed their prices--suddenly they were charging $70 a day to park. I decided to park on the street, but every single metered spot I could find required you to stand there and constantly feed quarters until you left. So I drove all the way home, and tried taking the bus. I thought I was getting on my regular bus, but I ended up on the #14 (there is no #14), which dropped you off in the middle of the express lanes--you had to make a mad dash between cars over to the bus tunnel, where the moving sidewalks went perpendicular to the direction in which you intended to walk... So I wake up this morning and I'm already frustrated. Should be a fairly easy day, though. Boss-lady is still out of town, along with most of management--sales meetings in december are a blessing, not a curse. I've got a project to finish, some orders to deal with, and then it's home-free for the rest of the week! Definitely time for some two hour lunches. ... Oh, did you hear? Aimee's back. Let the games begin.

Spent the last hour before fully waking up (late) dreaming about parking my car. And posting inane bits of overheard conversations to this here weblog. Looks like it'll be another one of those days.

"It is September. The light is still good when you get home from work. The bourbon is poured sacramentally, cracking ice clinks punctuating the anticipation. The ice must melt just so. She hasn't arrived just yet, and you have waited for this moment since you said goodbye in the morning. Waited for the moment when she comes through the door and you approach her, silent, staring not entirely wantonly. Waited to gaze deeply, not a prison bound dog, and move in slow. You know you will pin her slowly against the wall. You know you will kiss her. You might lift her up, without a word. You know that as your lips meet, you will feel every part of her melt into you. You know that despite arriving at this place before, you are now completely home." I'm so glad I'm not the only one. ... Today has been about reaching out, stretching for similarity--I am not alone in this crazy crazy world--and simultaneously drawing back. It's painful on both fronts, but it's encouraging growth. You'll be proud to hear that I've let someone cook in my kitchen. This is said much in the same tone of voice that a preacher might say "I've let someone fornicate (very messily, I might add--and she didn't even throw away her garbage, much less wash a damned cutting board) on my altar." Letting go. Relaxing. Going with the flow. I can do that. Dinner was successful, even if I was less than satisfied with my dessert. Now, bed.

"The Simpsons, at this point, are less a TV show than a utility, like heat and water; the TiVo gathers two a day, and whenever I want Simpsons I just press the button." That, my friends, is why you should be reading this man's work. Oh yes. Just like that (sorry, jish.)

I have re-explained penisaurus rex, with a more sympathetic audience, and the joke was very well received. I feel the power of redemption.

Updated the Usual Suspects, let the endless amusement begin. ... Apparently yesterday was the Most Pathetic Day ever--between eating nothing but bread and jam for dinner and having a pathetic lunch (popcr0n and jelly bellies, if you are a twerp and don't read my weblog every day and keep an eye out for every detail) and plain old looking pathetic last night (as soon as I got home from work, my back started spasming, and i couldn't sit or stand or lie down or breathe without moaning in pain)... And what does Boy do? He tucks me sweetly into bed and makes me a grilled cheese sammich. Life does not get any better than that, folks. ... I worked for illustrious (and quick-tempered) stepfather for waaaaay too long, folks. You know how it worked, right? I worked for him while I was in school (and then after that was finished), and for the last year or so that we worked together, he'd make a habit of firing me--at least twice a day. He's very demanding, and has exacting tastes (yes, that's where i get it), and when things aren't done His Way, Right Away--he's not a happy camper. So now, when things go wrong (even when they're not necessarily my fault, and when there's nothing I can do about them--Look, once it hits UPS, it's out of my control.), I'm instantly convinced I'm about to get fired. I know it's completely irrational, I've just got to train myself to stop. ... Boy has been working like mad on the new site (don't worry, it just redirects to here for now). He's not giving me any hints as to what it looks like, though--promptly driving me bonkers. Heh. Prompt bonkers. Those are some nice prompt bonkers you've got there. whoooo too easily amused. ... Speaking of easily amused, I still can't stop thinking of my faux dinosaurs from yesterday--I've started calling Boy's package Penisaurus Rex. So very very many bad jokes to be made, and so little time. ... Okay, I'm feeling particularly unbloggerific, so please make use of the links to your right. In the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat cushions may be used as a flotation device.

Since I had to be stuck at work today, I thought I'd lighten my frown and pretend I was at the movies while working (don't ask, it worked out in my head)...but now I've discovered that popcorn and jelly bellies do not a good lunch make. My tummy's grumbling and my head hurts. But I'm going home in fifteen minutes, woohoo!

Ooh, that PB&J sammich I had for breakfast done gave me some heartburn. Eeuurghh.

I said "penisaurus rex" out loud, and was once again reminded that there are, indeed, some things that my coworkers just. won't. understand. Even after I explained it.

Contraceptadon. Hee! Still funny.

Assceratops. ... That one wasn't as funny as Penisaurus Rex.

Dreamed last night that everyone who worked at our warehouse had the day off, so my coworkers and I had to go be pickers and packers for the day--but before starting work in the warehouse, we had to have a brainscan (this, of course, being completed with a hand-mixer thing, you know--one of those Black&Decker ones?), it was getting all tangled in my hair and chopping it off...woke up with a headache, absolutely monstrous. ... Also, I can't get the (made-up) word "contraceptodon" out of my head. Like a big dinosaur, in the shape of a diaphragm or something. I think I should stop watching that ancient creatures show right before bed--which is when I take my pill. Then on the bus this morning, I started thinking up other faux-dinosaur names: Spermosaurus, Vaginadactyl, Penisaurus Rex (that would be for those who are very well endowed)... And now, next time someone gives you a funny look--just point in this direction. You'll suddenly seem completely normal.

And finally...

I'm The Internet-Addict Test!

I love in-jokes, especially if they help highlight the marvellously geeky cultural differences between my internet clique and the rest of the world.

Click here to find out which test you are!

I'm the Internet-Addict Test. How appropos.

Believed to have been brought to America as stow-aways on banana boats, Cuban Tree Frogs are the largest tree frogs in North America. They are notorious for cannibalism...if there are other species of frogs in the tank, or even specimens of the same species, they have been known to feast on their neighbors!

What kind of Frog are you?

And a Cuban Tree Frog. You'd think this would have endeared me to Boy's family...

Which Evil Criminal are You? Great, now I'm Pinochet. This is going to suuuck.

I am a Lobster Telephone. For nine potatoes have my multi-throttled keys subdued the nice leaves of strangers. Sprays of wild satin guacamole enters my document. I relish four mushroom deals with metal. Do you bite the wax tadpole? The Utterly Surreal Test

Why yes, utterly surreal.

I've learned not to put things in my mouth that are bad for me. Which Clinton 'Ho Are You?

I'm also Monica Lewinsky. double w00t.

Unpretentious? *snicker*

While Boy watches (shudder) Deliverance in the living room, I'll be hiding out in here, passing memes weeks after they're popular:

If I were a work of art, I would be Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa. I am extremely popular and widely known. Although unassuming and unpretentious, my enigmatic smile has charmed millions. I am a mystery, able to be appreciated from afar, but ultimately unknowable and thus intriguing. Which work of art would you be? The Art Test

I'm the Mona Lisa. w00t.

Pretty slow weekend so far--Blondie never showed up for breakfast yesterday, so I went to Paint'n Place without her, and had a blast with my coworkers--I've never been much for socializing with people I work with (with the exception of dating my stepfather's paralegals and law students, but that's different.), and I'm glad to say we had a really good time! We had hot cider and painted away--K painted a napkin holder and salt and pepper shakers for her new kitchen, I painted a bigger bowl to match the little one I made my Dad and Legend of the Drunken Nazi last year. Came home from that to find Boy huddled on the sofa, shivering like mad--at this point in time, he's got a 102 degree fever, up from last night, and I'm not sure what to do anymore. I've been force-feeding him liquids, trying to cram more advil down his throat--- When the new roommate fucks his girlfriend upstairs (this is the third time this morning, if you can believe that. Ah, to be young and newly dating.), it sounds like they're sawing the mattress open. With little girly-grunts occasionally punctuating--and a dog-bark here and there. (They let her cocker spaniel watch them do it, which grosses me out to no end.) Urgh. Anyway, back to doting on my Boy--heh, a guy just walked past the house (remember, I get the street-side view when I'm at the computer) and looked up at the roommate's window with a funny expression--I'm pretty sure he just heard them. This is an old house! Although you'd think that the new double-paned windows dad installed would have helped...Ah, well. Back to Boy.

Yay

Time for some link updates. Have fun with the new "I love me some queens" section. Now, off for shopping and pottery painting with the girls from work!

Shopping! Then dinner! Then Ocean's Eleven! Then sex! Then sleep! Arrghh. Those be the plans for this evening, matey. Whar's me grog? ... Boy says that one of the (many?) things he finds odd about me is my fascination with pirates, both old-timey-blackbeard's-ghost-like, and new-fangled-bloodthirsty-merciless-machine-gun-like types. I have slowly tried to pry more odd-things out of him, but he's only said wonderfully flattering things, like how he loves my butt and hips and thighs at which point I am overcome by animalian lust and the rest of the list is forgotten in the ensuing boo-tay knocking. Aren't we just terribly romantic? Indeed. ... Now, to finish the shopping end of things (though my list is vague at best) before meeting the Boy for dinner.

I have discovered the problem: The vague uneasy feeling I've had all day has been caused by my panties being on inside out. Just so you know.

So very, very patronising, our IT department. When attempting to explain what happened to our internet connection, they sent out a company-wide email saying "The little man directing traffic inside the router, his arms got tired and he had to take a break". Graahhh. I am suddenly reminded of that SNL sketch. Fools.

Oh, dammit. Our internet connection has been lost, so we're all forced to keep ourselves entertained with snipy-gossipy email back and forth. Sometimes it feels funny to be emailing with someone sitting six feet away. And thus, I shall be writing a nice, long post. ... Ha! Never mind, they fixed the router that done got broke. And I've got envelopes to address and mark with cute little holly sprigs.

Callou, callay, o frabjous day--my pop tarts made it to work without being crushed to smithereens. Yay!

After listening to this NPR broadcast this morning, I think it's time to become concerned about the nature of Public Broadcasting. (let's not talk about some of the tripe on PBStv, that is another story for another post.) Yeesh. It was the least compelling bit of radio I think I've ever heard. Perhaps if I had a bit more of the frat boy in me, things would have been different. But as it stands, there was nothing interesting about listening to the sound of beer being poured. In fact, listening to that sort of thing in the car is bad bad bad--I've had to pee ever since. Also NPR-related: Every time I hear anything about the collapse of this company, I start humming "Every Body Dance Now". You know, from that episode of the Simpsons with the Gay Steelworkers Union. They wouldn't let their plant go down, either. Unless the phrase "glory hole" was involved. Nothing like flying the pervert flag first thing in the a.m., yeah? (make your own flagpole jokes, please, it's too early for me to be that clever.) Sooo many one-liners. But it's just. so. easy! ... Anyway, happy Friday morning to y'all--there was a distinct lack of posting from me last night, and I'll give you two reasons for that: 1) I got home, and the internet had gone kablooey-gone, no more, why god why? *sob. But apparently it was nothing, nothing at all--or at least, it wasn't for Boy. Why does technology hate me so? and 2) My kidneys started bleeding, which was no fun at all. It went away after a while, but still. Ugh. ... Apparently I have a second review, and it's a good deal more flattering. Except he says I use the word "heh" too much. Newsflash: I say it all day long, too. In speaking. With people. Heh. But then he says that I could become "one of the best weblogs out there", so I'll let that one slide. ... Really, when I think about it? Whole wheat bagels got nuthin' on pop tarts. And let's not even start on stale whole wheat bagels. I'm being good, though. Being good. being good. being..good. ...being...g-huh? what? Where are the pop tarts?! ... it makes me nervous to come in to work and have six voicemails already waiting. That can't mean anything good. ... Oh! So things are fine now between me and the Boy--I think we're both just nervous because of the whole One-Year-Anniversary-Fast-Approaching-thing. I was going to take him to dinner last night (yeah, Blogger ate that post, dammit.), but between him coming home later than planned and my pissing blood, those plans were postponed. Perhaps tonight? Who knows. ... Okay, I tried eating the bagel, but I just can't do it. The chemical composition had changed, giving it vaguely the same consistency as toasted concrete, and the addition of light and fluffy whipped cream cheese...no good. I'm off to Pop Tart Heaven now. Don't try to stop me! It won't work. I'll eat it anyway. Heh.

Okay, nevermind. The "About Me" page is going to have to wait until Boy's done with the new site. T-minus 20 days and counting until the Great Unveiling. Work has become pressing. Fires cropping up all over, and none of them my fault--but I am still duty-bound to spit on them until the bucket brigade arrives tomorrow morning. *ptooey*

You want an "About Me" page? I'll give you an "About Me" page...hmmph.

Oh, the pain. Oh, the heartache. The Weblog Review says that "there's nothing really special" about my weblog. And apparently using a Blogger template is a bad thing, too. This, coming from a reviewer who has a geocities' site. Yeesh. Ah, well. Perhaps it will boost readership--although yesterday was indEEd a banner day--150 site visits, a new record. Thank you, Nerve.

It's not that I'm afraid that he'll leave me--I'm afraid that he'll just stop trying, and stay. I'm afraid he'll lose interest in dealing with my crap but won't want to upset me, and he'll just put up with it and spend the rest of his life unhappy. Because of me.

Gift Crisis was averted, with T-minus one hour thirty minutes to go. I got him a celestial navigator and the Worst Case Scenario Handbook: Travel, and it didn't seem like he hated them right off the bat, so that's good. I'm glad we waited until after he'd gotten good and sloshed before giving him presents. Also, went to that particular store and ordered a particular gift for Boy--I'm concerned, though. I've had just vague ideas of what to get him (and don't remind me of his wishlist, that would be too easy. Besides, I'm not ordering things from his wishlist--it would be too easy for him to cheat and peek before xmas day ;-), but I've sort of been flying by the seat of my pants. Especially when I start thinking about an anniversary present, that vague gift-buying Panick returns. He hasn't given me any hints and all the while he's working so diligently on mine... I'm a bad girlfriend, too. He thinks I'm unhappy, which is so very far from the truth. Do I seem unhappy? I guess I should qualify that by saying, If I seem unhappy, it's not because of him. I was unhappy about not having a roommate which rendered me poor which I HATE, but he made me feel like it wasn't the end of the world. I was unhappy about my parents fighting and talking about splitting up--but he made me feel like as long as two people love each other, anything is possible. And I've repaid him by being a crappy, crappy girlfriend. I don't finish things I start, I'm moody and difficult and demanding and I certainly don't deserve ho well he treats me. Why yes, it's Self-Pity Day. Didn't you get the memo? ... Another day of waking up late--this time I managed to catch the bus, thank heavens. I arrived at the second Park&Ride with three seconds to spare, which was actually kind of nice--meant I didn't have to wait outside in this gawdawful weather. I almost got blown into oncoming traffic crossing the street after getting off the bus. Eeuurgh. No hottub for us anytime soon; if the weather is this bad downtown, it's sure to be a hundred times windier and rainy-er and ugly-er at home. ... I guess I should get some work done--not that today is going to be a busy day in the least. Silly me, getting all my work done yesterday.

Boy and mother dearest and siblings alike have found gifts for Mr. Hard To Shop For. I'm having a moment of Panick, panick with a capital pee and a kay at the end, because I am a bad, bad daughter who is unable to think of a single thing that one might purchase for their paternal figure even with twenty years of relatively close relations... Gah! If you don't see any posts from me tomorrow, it's because I've committed hara-kiri after shaming my family so.

Oh! Also, two very important things I'd like to share: 1) I. Am Wearing. A G-String Today. If the niggling "there's something up my butt" voice in the back of my head would go away, I'd be feeling dead sexy. Matching bra, too, which makes me feel especially put-together. Just thought I'd let you know. 2) I've had over 100 site visits today. I believe that's a new record? Yay for me! That is all.

Man, I'm glad I wasn't the one to purchase that new Pink CD. Ugh. See, here in Tiki Hell (also fondly referred to as the Office Of Too Much Information Shared Between Coworkers. Did I mention the Constipation Conversation I overheard? *gag*), no one buys CD's anymore. Or, more accurately, one person will buy a CD, bring it in to work whereupon we all pounce, begging for the chance to copy the disc to our harddrives. It's a vicious system, with no room for compromise. Copy the whole thing, or nothing at all. RIAA? Who's that? And I've had that "Get the Party Started" song stuck in my head since Flowida--shit, that reminds me. I *still* haven't finished the Flowida Trip update. By Friday, I swear. So many empty promises from me, I know. But guess how much I care? That's right--very little indeed. If you saw my workload for the next couple weeks, you'd understand.

Well, work is fairly nuts today--seems to always happen when there's plenty of stuff going on outside of work. In case you're wondering, I still haven't figured out what to get illustrious stepfather--it's more difficult than expected this year. I'm afraid I'll have to head over to B&N at lunch and grab a couple of books and a CD or something. Why on earth must he be so difficult? Urg. ... No closet-cleaning was done, quite obviously--that pop tart knocked me out. Okay, that's a lie. I did, however, fold some odious laundry, much to Boy's delight. Hung out with one of my brothers, too--he was on his way to his tutor's house and stopped by to rummage through our fridge. Apparently the meds he's on suppress his appetite--so he doesn't eat during the day, not usually until 8 or 9 at night. I think I need Ritalin. I mean, aside from the apetite-supression-thing, perhaps I'd be able to focus. Oh wait, that's why I need glasses. ... You'll notice I'm not side-splittingly funny today. That's what happens when I have work to do, heh. And I couldn't remember my dream from last night, perhaps later.

Banner day for readership--and I haven't posted a thing. Do you know? Because that dream I had Monday morning practically came true! I slept through the alarm, woke up superlate (okay, half an hour late), couldn't find my wallet, car was out of gas, traffic was disgusting, etc. I'm having a morning.