You know, I read all of these posts out there bitching about the time change over the last few days, and I was all smug and "Pffft! Time change! No sweat!" but I am here to tell you now that I was in DENIAL and I am ready to repent. Bless me, internet, for I have sinned. Everything is just WRONG and yes, YES, I ADMIT IT, I cannot handle changing the clocks by one hour. It is more than my wee, delicate little cortex can handle. And the children, forget it. They weren't all that stable to begin with, you know. Now they are both insufferable AND sleep-deprived. Well, they were. Until I ate...
I don't know that it's my favorite part of The Holy Grail--there are so many fabulous parts--but I've always had something of a fascination with the killer rabbit. It's the perfect comic setup, right? Something that should be cute and sweet and cuddly and harmless ends up being deadly. That's hilarious. And it's funny, in part, because it's ridiculous. But it's also funny because it's such a silly representation of what happens all the time. Nothing is more part of the human condition than betrayal by people who should love us or--at the very least--be on our side. Nothing is more a part of...
Apropos of absolutely nothing, I feel the need to discuss typing. Right here, right now. Can you touch type? I can touch type, if by "touch type" you mean "type rapidly without looking at the keys." But if you take "touch type" to mean "type the way they teach you in school," then no, I admit it. I cannot. I suffer from a rare disorder known as... ummm... Uncoordinated Pinkies. So I touch type, but I move my hands around too much, because I cannot, in fact, use my pinkies to depress keys. My pinkies are useless. With my current method, I can still type about 80 wpm. Just imagine how speedy...
I'm trying this new thing. It's very revolutionary; I don't know if you've heard of it. It's called living in the present. Have you tried it? It's WILD! But lord, it is WORK. Hard work. Good hard work, but still. When I'm not living in the past, I'm fretting about the future. This whole present thing does not come naturally to me. At all. It requires a boatload of motivation, which--at the moment--I have*. We'll see if it's enough. Anyway, I have this very wise friend. And she keeps telling me the same thing, over and over. She says: Lower your expectations, but not your standards. In...
Exchanges I have participated in today, filtered through the lens of complete anonymity to protect those involved: [Not that anyone needs any protection, per se, but after all it adds to the fun because there's a limitless number of possibilities for you, the reader, as you imagine where each exchange may have taken place. It's like those Choose Your Own Adventure books! But with a blog!] * * * * * Eenie: I want green beans! Meenie: Okay, we can get green beans. Eenie: I want to get them! Meenie: Alright.... Miney: I can hold the bag. Meenie: Okay, um, you hold the bag, and you put some...
I've just noticed tonight that my hair is at that lovely stage where I've got two botched colors growing out, as well as enough new growth to leave me plenty of grey-spiked natural brown. It's the Amazing Technicolor Dreamhead! But I'm sure many of you will be pleased to learn that I've decided to be a big girl and stop screwing up my hair. For a little while. I'm growing it all out, and then I'm going to sell my body on the street corner just prior to BlogHer and let my stylist do my color. That way, when I'm sitting up there with Alice and Tracey during our panel with a blank look on my...
I seem to have misplaced the funny. It might be underneath that pile of puppy treasures on my desk, but the last time I saw it was definitely right before my ex pointed out that when he remarries, I'll need to figure out my own health insurance. Now, so far as I know, he's not getting remarried any time soon. But I'm also pretty sure he's not going to base his life-planning on my freakish medical needs, and even assuming that I never again need poking or prodding or surgery, this is problematic. Without insurance, I'm thinking I wouldn't even be able to afford my hormone patches. Which would...
Monkey was running a little temp last night, and then again this morning. He wasn't deathly ill, or anything, but just sick enough that we needed to skip church... and he, apparently, needed to whine a lot. So I was worried that it would be a long day of being cooped up in the house with the children bickering. But I'd worried needlessly, because it was a long day of being cooped up in the house with the children bickering and Princess Puppypants either proudly bestowing gifts upon me or slinking away from the kids as they yelled, "Drop it! Drop it! GIVE IT BAAAAAACK!" Ask not for whom the...
If you have a Gmail account (and if you don't, WHY NOT, and also ask me for an invite, because I have about a thousand of them), you may have noticed the new Gmail Chat feature. It's... odd. But interesting. I of course had to test it out immediately by pestering Jenny with it, whereupon we chatted about many important things, including but not limited to: 1) The fact that you can "pop" the window out of your browser 2) The fact that my saying "Oh, I popped it out and it feels better now" sounds really dirty 3) The fact that the chat window reads "pop-in" or "pop-out" in the bottom corner,...
