Some things:
I had Monday off because it’s my hell week at work this week. It was like playing hooky from school, in a way, because I hadn’t made any plans. I didn’t know what to do with a whole day. Also, my house is more or less in order, barring the big projects like cleaning Computer Rooms #1 and #3. #1 will have to wait until we finish Computer Room #2, which currently has no ceiling, walls or floor. Nothing like starting a new project while there are many other half-finished rooms in the house yawning ‘Bored Now’.
Then I decided that I didn’t have enough jam. Or rather, my friends didn’t. I bought $70 worth of jam last October, but with my generous spirit, I gave my last two little jars to K.Lo and Akkelly, so I had but half of one big jar left for my own self. Well, actually, I think I had a small cherry blackberry one too, although I have decided to stop trifling with the pretenders and devote myself fully and wholeheartedly into my addiction to the Chopped Cherry variety. Thus, I decided that if I got my act together I could make a jam run up the thumb, have Swedish pancakes and lingonberries for lunch at Al’s, hit the cheese factory on the way back and be home by early afternoon. And it would be an adventure! And that’s exactly what I did, except that it wasn’t an adventure, but rather just a lugubrious four hour drive so that I could essentially be a picky eater.
Speaking of that, I suspect that I’m getting the beginnings of my flutter tummy phenomenon again. Yesterday, I drove around during my lunch hour, uncertain of a single thing that sounded decent. I decided upon sushi, except that I drove to the sushi place with a feeling of impending doom. Sushi. The very idea was making me sad. And that made no sense! Unhappy sushi is an oxymoron. It’s all happy sushi! It’s in the very fiber of sushi itself, somewhere between the sticky rice and the seaweed. And wasabi! Nothing makes you love your life and embrace the joy that is your nose like some lovely nuclear wasabi.
Once in the store, I grabbed a tray of random rolls that included my favorite tekka maki and went back to work, feeling completely apathetic and confused. I was not so much with the sushi. I started thinking that maybe it was smelly, except that it wasn’t. Then I took a bite and it was fine. I convinced myself that I do love sushi and I love tekka maki and I love eating healthy stuff, so be happy damn you! Except then on my fourth bite, there was a big chip of bone. And honestly, I don’t even know how that happened, but needless to say, we were done eating sushi. I finished the day with Cracker Jacks, because the prize inside was a predictable fold ‘in of dinosaurs that folded in to reveal a meteor. Or perhaps a booger. Don’t know. It was very post modern.
Regardless, I then had a full-blown flutter tummy, which demanded that I eat like a latchkey kid for the rest of my life. Later, I did attempt some very mild three-day old cheddar, but even that made me a little squeamish. Finally, I cut my losses and for dinner, Esteban made himself tortellini and leftover tenderloin, while I had a very delectable peanut butter and chopped cherry jam sandwich on French peasant bread, accompanied by a glass of juice.
This morning, I woke up early and knew that there was no way that I’d be able to eat anything out of the vending machine or from a drive through for breakfast, so I assembled a fruit salad and spent twenty minutes cutting and peeling an orange, kiwis, a banana, strawberries, and grapes, and then combined them with my Operation Hottie standby of pre-cut fresh pineapple from the snooty grocery store.
I left for work early and decided that I wouldn’t chance a mocha at Sbux, but by the time I had crossed the river, I talked myself into some jet-fueled pick-me-up, so I continued to a different (horrors!) coffee place and got some kind of uber mocha with a double shot of espresso (which was.. let’s just say ‘intense’ and leave it at that, shall we?). And it was all good! I was happy! I walked into work half an hour early and took care of the few people who had called early even for the East Coast then popped open my fruit salad and began to munch on my fruit in a way that can only be described as self-righteous.
Then I noticed a black something on my pre-cut pineapple chunk. A smashed something black. A smashed something black with what might just have been wings.
My poor flutter tummy began radioing distress signals to my brain, but my brain decided to be rational. It couldn’t be a bug. Couldn’t possibly be a bug. Bugs have one two three four five six legs and one two antenna, oh shit, the math works out’ ok, it can’t be a bug because it’s winter and we don’t have bugs in our house, except that it could have come from the store, oh god yes, I bought pineapple with a smushed bug in it! BUG! BUG! ABORT! ABORT!
Man. I am so sick of Cracker Jacks and that smug-assed little sailor. Salute this, you bastard.
I’m feeling the traditional Pre-Vacation panic attack starting to come on. It’s a pity, because I’ve been gloriously free of anxiety about the impending England trip. Right now, I’m panicking about money and thinking that our budget will translate into roughly seventeen British pounds after the conversion rate. I also can’t decide whether I should make a cash exchange before we go, so that we have cash for the trip, or what if I can’t use the ATMs to access my savings account? Or what if some pick pocket steals all of our money and passports and I have to sell myself on the street to pay for our hotel room? Which I could probably do in a matter of a few hours, because for as much as I am catnip for lesbians, I am apparently absolute crack for the English guys. Seriously. I have never been hit upon quite so frequently as when I was in England. Maybe they’re just more aggressive. Or maybe I’m just hot on Greenwich Mean Time.
There’s a radio advertisement on local stations right now for the musical tour of Oliver. It took me a few minutes but then I realized that the announcer was trying to do an English accent. Or rather, every English accent that was ever spoken in the United Kingdom, and also perhaps a touch of Australian. It’s like they took Winston Churchill, David Bowie, Hugh Grant, the Young Ones, Jamie Oliver, and also the guy who used to sell me my Time Outs by Warwick Tube Station (whoa, I just remembered his name was Billy and his dogs names were Major and Sergeant’ crap, like I need THAT clogging up my brain) and just whirled them around in a blender and then glurted out a radio spot for Oliver. Or rather Owlivah. Which you can learn more ahboot aht Whydnah Centah doot comb.
I had an MRI on my knee. I’ve never really considered myself claustrophobic, but when I started getting shoved into what is essentially a big fucking coffin, it was a little freaky. Luckily, though, they stopped at my neck, and also let me listen to one of my CDs. For future reference, I would not suggest listening to Jane’s Addiction, because you cannot move while being throttled by the magnets and while those crazy dogs are barking at the beginning of ‘Been Caught Stealing’, I defy you to refrain from shakin’ yo ass. Or shakeeng guv’nah’s ahss.
They had a big awards ceremony at work yesterday. My sister Mo got one, which was cool. The weird thing was that they announced the nominees for said awards a month or so ago, but many of them were team awards. One of them was my team, but the way that it was worded, I wasn’t sure if I was included on that or not.
Then, however, at the end of the team awards section, they started talking about my project, and then I knew that I had one too, because I am the only person who does anything on my project at my office. Which made me very glad that I didn’t wear slummy clothes that day and actually looked rather cute in a white button-down, flat front black trousers and black shoes with leopard accents, since I had to get up and walk up there by myself.
Then I started to walk away without shaking the hand of the guy who is responsible for the impending outsourcing, which made everyone titter. That’s me, baby, corporate rebel. Except that really I just got flustered and didn’t realize that he wanted to shake my hand and say congratulations. And apparently, when I did realize my mistake, I did a little curtsey. Because not only am I a modern career woman, I would do fine in Elizabethan high court as well.
Also related to the impending riffings, they announced an April date for the upcoming spring banquet a few weeks ago and then today, sent out another email indicating that the date had changed and that it will now be in May.
I snarked to the folks on the other side of my little artificial wall ‘Because they won’t have to pay for as many dinners then?’ and they tittered. Except that a few seconds later, suddenly another email from someone many departments away, that said ‘Gee, is this because we’ll have less people?’.
Ah, the horrors of Reply: All. It was the best thing that happened all day.
What’s cooler than cool? Apparently me: On Orkut, I am apparently almost twice as cool as I am sexy or trustworthy. I guess I’d better stop hanging out behind the roller skating rink, pressuring the other Orkuters to smoke. I just don’t know what to make of all those ice cubes.
Esteban doesn’t know what he wants to do in London. He’s taking my word that he wants to see the Tower of London and I already plan on dragging him to my favorite V&A museum (the Renaissance wing is the happy place I go to whenever I am sitting in the dentist’s chair). The comments section would love to hear your ideas.
