I have to say, I think that Guestmap thingy blows ass.
Apparently, it only stores the 40 most recent entries. Plus, it’s really hard to aim the little arrow when you’re placing your square onto it. In addition, if there are a lot of people in one area, you can’t see all of the squares. So I guess it’s back to the lame old message board that Chauffi, Trance, and I are the only people using for the most part.
Esteban’s right. I am a big whining martyr.
I think I’m feeling better. The Fudge Fluffs are starting to taste like little wax-covered blobules now, which is a sure sign of health. (Oh, and a little junk food lesson for the day, Fudge Fluffs are basically Marshmallow Pinwheels, but of the Rippin Good variety, which are plentiful in Green Bay because they’re made in Ripon, Wisconsin’ get it’ Rippin’ Ripon’ yeah, it’s very funny) Esteban made spaghetti last night, complete with fresh herbs and pepperoni and lots of yumminess, and I managed to eat a small portion and then go back for another small portion, which was a good sign. He also laid on the guilt pretty heavily that I should try some, even though it was going to make me hurl.
Scott, who has no pseudonym, stopped over for several hours, which was lovely as always. We all watched AbFab as we ate spaghetti. It was a very nice evening, considering I felt like dog saliva for the most part. One of the guests on AbFab was the guy who played Mike on The Young Ones, which I miss entirely. It used to be on MTV at like 10:00 on Sunday nights, and would pain me to no end to stay up and watch it on a school night. It was always a trade off’ stay up and make Monday morning miserable and tired, more miserable than it had any right to be’. OR’ be subject to the insane Anglo hilarity that was Neill, Vivian, Mike and the fourth guy I can’t remember (Francis?). I picked the boys every time. Once, they had Madness as a guest act and they sang ‘Our House’ before it was popular over here. Another time, I had a revelation when I figured out that ‘bottom burp’ was British for fart. That was an important part of Weetabix’s development, right there. Probably ranks right up there with the first time Marilyn Monroe ever put on lipstick or the first time Neil Armstrong mooned someone.
(Edited to add: I just remembered the other guys name was Rick, as portrayed by Rick Mayall, I believe.)
Tilly has discovered a new trick. After eight years of basic sociopath bi-polar behavior, she has determined that she liked to lay on me. Just me. All seventeen pounds of her. But she doesn’t quite get the hang of it yet. She tries to lay upon me when I’m laying on my side, settling sort of on my side, crushing my internal organs. I swear that when she does this, I taste my own liver. Or something livery. Then she lays up there, sort of on my hip and sort of in my waist divot, and purrs. It would be very cute and heartrending if I weren’t slowly bleeding internally.
I really hate this time of year.
January always sucks so hard. It’s that time of year when one puts away all the sparkly Christmas stuff. The streets are marked with tree exoskeletons, slowly shedding pine needles, occasionally still trimmed with tinsel. The streets are bleached white from too much salt. The newspaper flyers are full of reasonable, practical items, such as non-skid boots, furnace filters, and shovels which are specifically designed to get the snow off your roof. There are stock-up sales of flannel sheets and moisturizer for wind-bitten skin. There is an ever-present smell of Carmex and the sound of sniffling. Semi-used Kleenexes are left in everyone’s wake.
It’s when the bill comes for the over-indulgences of the previous month. Oh, I don’t just mean shopping and credit card bills, no, those come too, in mailbags and phone calls and anemic checking accounts. No, I mean other bills. Such as the one for eating Aunt Sylvia’s fabulous rum balls by the dozen or the gloopy melty cheese spread that you only eat at Christmas. The obituaries fill up with people who were only hanging on until the holidays were over, the elderly, the infirm, the people with terminal illnesses. People are a little surlier, having spent their goodwill at Christmas and are now left wandering through a cold landscape. January is when people put to rest that holiday spirit and get down to the serious task of making it through another winter. You’ve only got three choices come January: live through it, die, or move. Since one of those options isn’t possible and the other isn’t attractive, you do what you can.
Or maybe I’m just pissed because I’m not going to New Orleans this week as we had planned. Not going anywhere warm at all.
I really hate January.
On a plus note, new Buffy on Tuesday.
Yay.
