In the interest of saving time and avoiding a battle with Mother Nature, I left my hair curly today. And weird things have been happening ever since.
I wore cowboy boots to work.
And contemplated a move to the suburbs - any suburb - on my way to work. Imagined self puttering about multi-roomed house with porch and formal dining room, lovingly restoring period details and calling out to Kent, "Hey babe? Where are you? I'm in [any room that is not the one he is in]," a novel idea because our apartment is spacious but basically one giant rectangle with french doors thrown in to separate the bedroom from The Rest.
I started crying AT MY DESK when I saw a notice online about a deaf dog named Mimi who lives at a shelter somewhere in Long Island and has been there for over two years without being adopted.
I immediately sent money via PayPal to said shelter for said dog when husband said No, we do not need any more dogs in our one bedroom apartment right now, and please stop looking at those websites because you are bringing me down.
I then entered my name into the lottery for the New York City marathon. 30,000 runners are selected; I am number 70 kajillion to enter thus far, so my chances look to be about 40% of making it in. If I do, then I might hyperventilate because I am pretty sure that a marathon is HARD. The lottery is not until June, but I think that to be on the safe side, I should start some sort of training regimen before then. Like, um...tonight. Because I ate my weight in moo shu pork during the Yankees game yesterday.
I was hungry for lunch by 11:45 and went to the cafeteria downstairs and got a salad with Thousand Island dressing on it. Thousand Island dressing is nasty and I have never liked it and have not eaten since I was 9 and spent the night at my friend Patty Lowell's house and that was the only salad dressing they had. Ew. But I heard Thousand Island coming out of my mouth as the salad tosser stood there with his tongs, and Thousand Island dressing is what I got. And I still hate it and it is nasty and flesh-colored and lumpy and ruined my salad and my lunch. I have no idea why I ordered Thousand Island dressing.
I went into the bathroom and noticed that approximately 17 pimples (no, let's call them blemishes, much prettier), I noticed that 17 BLEMISHES had erupted (no, let's say appeared, less violent), had APPEARED on my nose/cheek/forehead. Also noticed that at least one of the blemishes might be a hive. Did I mention that I am prone to hives, including but not limited to NERVOUS hives? Yup, I am and there is a HIVE on my face and I don't know why. Am not particularly nervous, but might be having sympathy hives for Pasty who is getting married next weekend. (Incidentally, I have not figured out who to thank for sparing me the Nervous Hives before my own wedding, because I felt the tell-tale itch a few times but remained largely blemish -free, which is miracle granted by the Goddess of Skincare herself, I am sure. But back in high school and college, the Nervous Hives were so, so bad. So bad. Bad, like I would wake up with my eyes swollen shut. Or better, ONE eye swollen shut, so that I could still see how ugly I looked. The Nervous Hives are unpredictable but give about a day's warning, then take at least a week to fully disappear. And usually mean I spend three days looking like I was beat with the ugly stick for a good, long time. Which is why I am hoping DEARLY that the hive on my face right now is just a fluke and will be GONE by the day's end.)
Went downstairs (and then back up, because my office is on one floor and the rest of the company is on another, and of COURSE there are different elevator banks involved) for a meeting at 2 pm. Arrived, realized meeting was scheduled for 2:30 pm. Apologized profusely, especially in light of the fact that meeting was originally on FRIDAY and I missed it, due partly to schedule conflicts and partly to being DUMB.
And for good measure, am having cramps. Just for fun.
Something is UP, y'all.
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We had dinner with friends on Saturday night, including Lee and her husband, who were visiting from Virginia. During dinner, Lee revealed that she does laundry every day. EVERY SINGLE DAY. She has two little kids who are beautiful and perfect, but apparently even the beautiful and perfect kids generate unseemly amounts of dirty things, and EVERY DAY she does laundry. In the back of my head, I remember something similar in my own home growing up, but I was a nasty little brat who threw all clothes - dirty and clean - down the laundry chute instead of putting them away, and am sure that I will be punished with a bitchy, petulant kid of my own someday. But laundry every day is NOT mentioned by the Baby Mafia in my neighborhood. They talk more about the mommy groups and the stroller-cizing and itty bitty shoes than about doing laundry EVERY SINGLE DAY. I adore Lee regardless of any circumstance, but hearing her talk about being a parent was incredibly refreshing and reassuring. It's not Mommies vs. Non-Mommies, despite what you may have heard/read/seen...believe it or not, parents are people too! And parenting is hard, but that doesn't mean you have to either glam it up or bitterly complain -- it is possible to talk -- about lots of things, among them being your kids.
Of course, at dinner we were also with S and her husband, who are expecting their first baby in September, which made Kent and I wonder if we had gotten in the slow lane somewhere along the line. S and Lee and I grew up together, and are now all so very, very apart. Close, but living very different lives.
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Why is there no easier way to envision different arrangements of [heavy] furniture than actually moving all the [heavy] furniture, revealing dust piles and old crud that has to be dealt with before the [heavy] furniture can be moved to either its new or old location? Why do I always NEED to move furniture when I am home alone and completely unfit to lift/move [heavy] furniture and [heavy, expensive] appliances? Why are there so many cables and cords for three things (TV, DVR, DVD, computer). Okay, four things. Why is the bastard table too long for that perfect nook? And why are the floors so CROOKED?? We moved our dining room table (currently folded up next to Ugly Extra Couch) into the kitchen, and I swear, the right side was at least seven inches lower than the left. And why, WHY, did everything then end up back where it started, which is to say THANKS FOR TAKING TWO HOURS OF MY LIFE, bastard furniture.
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Did I ever tell you that I do not own a full-length mirror? Well, I don't. I have two small head-and-shoulders only mirrors, and so sometimes, getting dressed is a gamble. Today was one of those days, and let me remind you that the house always comes out ahead. The outfit is BAD. The outfit does not really fit. The outfit was chosen SOLEY for it's compatibility with the cowboy boots. The outfit is NOT western-themed, but I think you get the idea. Which is, I look like ass. Ass in need of a tailor.
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I have an odd nervous habit of pulling on my eyelashes � only on my right eye, though � and now I think I might have a bald patch on my eye. I wish I could stop playing with my eyelashes, but it is so subconscious that I don't even notice I am doing it. Am weird. I sucked my thumb as a kid and used to have a really disgusting habit of chewing the inside of my cheek (um, I still do that, actually), but it seems that I am given to odd physical tics and nervous habits. Perhaps is a sign of genius? Am just hoping that bald patch in eyelashes does not preclude me from looking Super Fucking Hot next weekend when I am a bridesmaid at a fancy Dallas wedding.
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If this were a proper blog instead of a retro journal, I would have just posted 5 entries. Would feel v. accomplished.
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I hate my hair curly.
