He was rubber and I was glue.

What I wore to work today: A stretchy ribbed camisole underneath a stretchy long-sleeved fitted top underneath a cotton T-shirt underneath a ski jacket (consisting of a thick fleece jacket inside of a water- and wind-proof nylon jacket), and fuzzy lavender-striped socks underneath full-length thick cotton Danskin leg warmers underneath jeans. And two pairs of stretchy cotton gloves. And a fleece scarf. (And my stupid vest and my stupid hard hat. And my awesomely adorable size-5 work boots.)

Climates for which I was appropriately dressed:
Siberia, Alaska, the North or South Pole, a Swiss Alps summit, Greenland, or 2 a.m. in Chicago at the beginning of January.

The actual ambient temperature outside: 60 degrees Fahrenheit

Fact 1: I was not tempted to burst into tears and curl up into a little huddled ball of not-warmth and die from hypothermia for 9 straight hours the way I was yesterday, when I just had on a thin cotton long-sleeved shirt and thin cotton pants.

Fact 2: I was still really cold and hid in my truck whenever I had downtime.

*****

This may or may not have something to do with the fact that on Monday, I mercilessly insisted to someone that he was a pansy. Investigation is pending. Right after I peel my melted self off the heater.

Or the DF fanbots implanted a censorship chip into my brain. Your pick.

An AIM Conversation I Might Have Had With Someone Tonight If I Still Used AIM, But Alas, I Do Not:

Not Me: i cant believe its almost december
Me: I know! I was just thinking about how time has *flown* since July.
Not Me: hey have u seen august rush
Me: No, but I super want to. Freddie Highmore is growing up way better than Dakota Fanmnnnmnn
Me: jmnnmnmmnmnmnmn
Me: nmmnnnmmnmnnmmnmnmnnnnnm
Not Me: ?!? wtf
Me: Sorry. I dropped a chunk of ice cream on the keyboard and was trying to scrape it up with my fingertip before it melted. Also, it was really good ice cream and the last of what I had in the freezer.

Good for potato famines and malaria, too

I bought a new toothbrush today (actually: I bought three new toothbrushes because I get very excited about the prospect of virgin bristles scrubbing away at my enamel and therefore go a bit overboard when it comes time to make a selection; I also bought three bottles of sunscreen: 50, 60 and 70 SPF) and every time I’ve looked at its packaging, I keep thinking it says: "Fights plague!"

And he makes about $72k a year.

-So you don’t speak any Japanese? Or– wait, what’s the language that people in Korea speak?
[beat]
– …Korean?
-Well, but I mean, isn’t there an actual name for it?
-Yeah. Korean.
-No, I’m serious. Like in China, they’ve got Mandarin and Cantonese, right?
-Those are dialects. Dialects of the language, which is Chinese.
[beat]
-I don’t know. "Korean." Are you sure?

I ran upstairs to post this because I am twelve, too

In the kitchen, my sister’s boyfriend asks her as she stands behind the stove, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She thinks for a second, then responds: "You could stir my gravy."

And then I thought of all my guyfriends who are still 12-year-old boys at heart and who are way too much of an influence on me and wished I had someone to duck into the other room and start snickering with. I guess you’ll have to do, Internet.

Happy Et Cetera!

I seduced ’em with my shampoo and conditioner during that lull (true fact)

I finally caved and bought a new bottle of perfume. I mean, it’s the same perfume that I’ve been using for the last four years, but I’ve been doing without for over a year now. Actually, no; I’ve had a gel stick applicator that I actually like a lot more than the bottle, particularly because it fit so well in my tiny makeup bag (which typically had that, five pens, and a tube of lip balm in it) but Givenchy doesn’t make it anymore (it came in a box set, alas).

The point of this is to tell you that I’d gotten really used to not smelling this perfume everyday, so now when I *do* smell it, I immediately think of 721 San Fernando Pl., because that’s where I lived when I first bought it. I’m flooded with memories of cold-but-humid nights, the wet air so heavy with salt you can feel it on your skin after a few minutes of standing outside. The phosphorescent blue waves are probably gone by now– I think their main peak is in September and October; I never did manage to properly capture their wonder on film.

A lot of one-year marks are coming up over the next two weeks. It’s been bothering me more than I’m willing to acknowledge, I think, and is probably one of the reasons the flight instinct has been kicking me in the head so hard lately. They mean nothing, these milestones, but sometimes I’d just rather not be reminded.

It’s mud that’ll run you about $100 per cubic yard, woo

I was being a total snothead last night regarding reviewing for my ACI certification today. "It’s concrete," I announced witheringly. "How hard can it really be?"

Got home, opened my workbook. Half-a-page later, decided to take a "power nap," which– naturally– turned into four hours of hitting the snooze button (each time the alarm went off, I’d squint at the clock, think, it’s concrete, and then resume sleeping). Finally woke up, crammed for an hour, crammed a little bit more at the stoplights on my way to the performance exam, then had a five-minute panic attack in the parking lot as I realized I was probably going to fail and seriously how the hell was I going to get through this.

And then the performance exam turned out to be a breeze. Man! You should have heard my recitation. I was on top of those details and procedural descriptions. My proctors were all impressed with my mastery of the subject material and assured me I’d pass the written exam "with flying colors!"

So then I drive over to where the written exam is, right? While reviewing some more at the stoplights? And, yeah, no, passing with flying colors isn’t how I’d describe the likely outcome of *that* sucker. So now I’m back to feeling like the condescending moron that, let’s face it, I kind of am, because it would have been– should have been– so damned easy to ace that written and now I’m going to have to take it *twice* (I mean, I guess, I’ll find out in a few weeks).

I am understandably peeved at myself right now.

Anyway, so there’s this banquet thing for work tonight, their version of the company Christmas party except obviously *not* for Christmas, and just about the only thing motivating me right now to still go is the fact that I get to dress up. And this motivation, it’s motivating and you have no idea just how much so. I’m cranky and tired and I’ve heard lackluster things about the food and I’m not even in the mood to drink and really all I want at this point is to sulk at home, but because this is my one big chance to actually look like a girl in front of my bosses and co-workers? I will gladly spend the two hours toiling over myself to take advantage of it, even if I only show up for 10 minutes before jetting home. To sulk.

Grrr.

whattheeff hypochlorite NO

I thought it was just the water tonight. Tap water sometimes tastes like chlorine, whatever. I’m really not that fussy about drinking tap water, even when it tastes like… well, like anything. The whole goal of water, in my opinion, being not to have any taste whatsoever, but hey, tap’s tap and I’ve never been a bottled-water person. EVER.

But then I got home and I got to studying and I realized I needed to eat something so I started eating this danish, right? And it’s not until four bites into it that I finally identify the funky-ass taste this danish is exuding, and that taste would be– you guessed it– chlorine.

Fucking tooth, man.

If only there were an RSS feed for BoCL

Inbetween sleeping and drinking gallons of tea and room-temperature water and hauling myself to the bathroom and zonking out all over again, I caught myself up on the best-of-craigslist because really? That’s some good, good readin’ over there. And I saved these three just for you:

I SAID EVERYTHING ON THE TARP, NOT THE TARP ITSELF!:

Hey! Could you please bring my tarp back?

Survival Of The Fittest:

When I reach the end of the pack, I am left with one M&M, the
strongest of the herd. Since it would make no sense to eat this one as
well, I pack it neatly in an envelope and send it to M&M Mars, A
Division of Mars, Inc., Hackettstown, NJ 17840-1503 U.S.A., along with
a 3×5 card reading, "Please use this M&M for breeding purposes."

(I have actually been doing this with Skittles since high school, except for the mailing bit. Skittles Wars!)

Dear SEPTA Train Passengers:

You know what religion I am? I’m the religion that doesn’t discuss God
with freaky people on the train who can’t identify what conversations
are inappropriate for complete strangers. I regularly attend the church
of Please Leave Me The Fuck Alone Already, Lady.

If I had words to make a day for you

The one thing I hate most about being sick– and the only way I *really* know that I’m sick (as opposed to being fatigued or malnourished or dehydrated or overexerted)– is the bad dreams. I call them nightmares even though they don’t involve monsters, which is what always comes to mind when I think "nightmare".

My co-workers sent me home after a few hours because 1) in case I *was* sick (despite nightmares and other symptoms from last night and this morning, I was adamantly in denial about things), they didn’t want to catch whatever I had, and 2) I was just generally sucking, being listless and dazed and quiet and mopey. As opposed to the sassy, sparkling spitfire I typically am with them. I think they were pretty weirded out by the difference. Though one of them thought I was just on my period.

Anyway. I came home wondering what the hell I was going to do. I felt shitty but wasn’t tired, and I kept thinking this even as I crawled under the covers, and then two minutes later I’d passed out. And proceeded to sleep for six hours straight.

I still feel pretty crappy. My eyes don’t hurt as much; everything else does. I have sick breath, which is gross– my sheets were drenched with sweat when I woke up, which is REALLY gross– and walking around is a wobbly sort of experience (which is just annoying). I don’t know if this is just a November thing— I tend to blame getting sick on food, as inaccurate as that may be, because food is always what triggers the symptoms (on the way home from the Cheesecake Factory last night is when I started to feel pukey). And apparently there’s dancing tonight and there’s a really great shoe sale going on at Dillard’s and I’m just thinking, of all the weeks to get sick, this was not the optimal one. BOO.