Wash And Fold

My weekend was great and a bit whirlwindy but now I think I have a busy-ness hangover. I slept for five hours on Sunday afternoon and missed the Cavs lose on television, and now I feel sick to my stomach which is what always happens when I nap for too long. I don't know if I have mentioned before that I hate naps, oh wait yes I have, so no need to go into that again.

I am feeling pretty broke down physically, what with the ankle business and my back hurting and falling down AGAIN on Thursday night. Lest you think I am suffering from some sort of balance disorder, I fell on account of my own stupidity while trying to surreptitiously trying to kick someone in the behind. Of all the stupid reasons to fall down and throw your body further out of whack, that is by far the dumbest. Don't even try and argue with me. Anyway, I'm broken, so treadmill time has been greatly reduced and I am feeling sort of sluggish.

Not long ago I was doing some laundry downstairs. Usually I only use one washer or dryer at a time because I like to think I am teaching a lesson to the people who feel perfectly free to use all of the washers at once. I am sure this does not work in the least, but it allows me to feel morally superior. So, I had a load of laundry in one of the washers and another load of sheets and towels sitting in the basket ready to wash. Except that when I came downstairs I found the sheets had already been washed, presumably by a kind if anonymous benefactor with quarters to burn. I thought this seemed a little strange, but since it was just sheets and towels and nothing with special washing requirements I got over it and besides, free load of laundry. Or, maybe the person somehow had spilled some detergent in my basket and felt compelled to wash them. Who knows.

So I had forgotten about this incident until the other day when something much weirder happened. I was up late doing laundry and left my last load in the dryer overnight, with the basket on top of the dryer in case anyone needed to use it between 1 a.m. and 9:30 a.m. The next morning I ran out the door and tossed the dry clothes in the basket, which I again left in the laundry room because I was late (except uh, to the Indians game I played hooky for and not for work). Later that night when I fetched the basket, I found that my clothes had been run through the dryer again AND FOLDED.

I'll let you think about that for a moment.

So, all the underwear is accounted for and everything, and it was just laying in the bottom of the basket and not folded. But still. Why would someone do that. Is there a laundry perv in my building? Or is someone just like a benevolent laundry fairy? Either way I think now I will pay more attention to the timing of my laundry and not leave it to linger in the laundry room lest I find it further molested.

Or -- maybe I should leave it there on purpose in hopes someone will just wash and fold it all the time.

Nashville Help

Internet: I need a hotel in Nashville. Three rooms, one night. Relatively nice place but not necessarily fancypants. Close to touristy stuff, namely bars. Tell me where to stay.

Gimp

Today was not the most illustrious of days. I was regular late to work, not grievously late, and I remembered my lunch and my tea and everything, but then I decided to go to the bank at lunch, which turned into a side trip to Macy's, which turned into a whirlwind jeans-buying trip. And I had success! I found cute jeans! They weren't on sale and I didn't even care!

So I went back to work and finished things up, and I walked outside and turned my ankle in my stupid shoes and hit the pavement, hard. I have turned an ankle or two in my time and I have the accessories to prove it: ankle wraps, air casts, crutches, the whole bit. But this was a whole new ankle, the left one, and it fucking hurt, bad. Bad enough that I wasn't sure I'd be able to get up because not only was I wearing the stupid shoes and had an ankle that was on fire, but I also chose today to wear my denim pencil skirt which is not really what you wear for maximum mobility.

I did manage to get up and get the shoes off and arrange myself in the car before I started crying, because it really really hurt, not just the stupid ankle but the huge swath of road rash across my right calf. WHAT IS IT WITH MY LEGS. I am frigging Courtney Love with the leg scabs, and it is starting to annoy me, A LOT.

And then I got back homee and put the jeans on again and they looked stupid, so back to the store they go.

It should have been a Monday.

Two Shorts And A Long

My cat has not been eating for the last few days. I mean, he gets excited about the food and goes right for it when I put it out for him, but then he just kind of licks it for a while and then leaves it alone. I have been throwing out a fortune in Fancy Feast and finally in desperation the other day I gave him some real tuna, which disappeared instantly. Then on Sunday morning I gave him some plain yogurt and that, too, was lapped up with the quickness. Listen, cat, there's a recession on and I can't afford to be feeding you Chicken of the Sea and Stonyfield Farm organic yogurt. It is just not happening.

Have you seen this commercial where Extra chewing gum is purported to be a snack? Gum is not snack. It just is not. Emergency toothbrush perhaps but never a snack. A pretzel is a snack. Grapes are a snack. Gum is not even food, so just fuck off Extra.

I know any number of people have addressed this, but this show the Bachelor? Is just so crappy. I mean, I can't even blame dudes for thinking chicks are bullshit when this is the stuff they see, a bunch of women claiming to have fallen in love with some random who has had so little success in the dating world that he's gone to ABC and agreed to debase himself on television. Also, I'm sorry, I know people are complicated, but what is with these guys being all, "oh I don't know who to choose, I'm falling in love with both of them, I'm just so confused!" Brother, please. You haven't fallen in love with shit over the past, what? Six weeks? And you can't possibly think that anything you've experienced is the least bit genuine (certainly not the hair and tits and teeth and eye color and fingernails). Plus, it is just gross, all the business about the "fantasy suite" and whatnot, how many weiner warts must this loser have? Sorry, it makes the back of my mouth feel greasy, all of it. At least with a one night stand there is no pretense about what is going on, but with all the roses and champagne and grand gestures it is just too awful for words. The more I think about it, in fact, the more angry I get. And yeah, I get it, they have the Bachelorette, a shitshow of equal proportions, which is supposed to "even things out" or what have you. But forgive me, it is still a bunch of desperate women willing to look like fools, all in the name of getting a husband. YUCK.

I put up a truckload of new pictures.

See some at my Flickr page.

Life Is Weird

I will never:
Be the girl with the perfect hair, be able to wear shorts and not look stupid, be on time, say the right thing in every situation, be a pro at small talk, feel smart in the presence of other smart people, feel graceful, play euchre, have a tan, master the art of makeup that stays put all day, be comfortable having a massage, want to wear a bathing suit in public or even consider it feasible, like my upper arms, turn heads in a bar, clean my kitchen floor often enough, send Christmas or birthday cards on time or know the secret to smooth hair in humid weather.

I will always:
Underestimate how long it takes me to drive to a meeting, oversleep, pay at least one bill late, forget to take out my garbage, procrastinate, have pills on my sweater or scuffs on my shoes, miss a few hairs on my knee while shaving my legs, feel awkward around successful people, be nervous during public speaking, think that teenagers will think i am a dork, worry, hate hot weather and dread bars full of hot people.

But sometimes people see me as:
A girl who has beautiful hands and skin, a sharp dresser, a really intelligent person, a good writer, gracious, good, funny, the girl with the fun job, wise, resourceful, a talented bargain shopper, sexy, articulate and compassionate.

Monday Mourning

On Saturday I had possibly the girliest day ever, because I met a friend at the mall and we got our nails done and then bought shoes and then went to dinner. The shoes were a real score that I found by employing my time-tested technique of scanning the bottom of the racks at Payless, which this time yielded a pair of sparkly black peep-toe flats for $3. THREE. That is awesome and I am awesome and that is also why you should always shoe shop with me (but not if you wear my size). (Also, how did I not know that these existed? I'm pretty sure I've been looking for them all my life.)

My nails look pretty good except that the person that did them cut the shit out of one of my cuticles, mere seconds after she tsked at me for having pulled at a hangnail and given myself a cut. I really wish there was a way to tell them to take it easy with the clippers, but it seems like you either end up with gibbets of flesh being cut from your fingers or ratty untouched cuticles, there is apparently no in between.

Also, this is a real conversation that happened.
Manicurist: You have very soft hands.
Me: Thank you.
Manicurist: Like you never work!

I spent yesterday afternoon and evening on a boat, which was chilly but fun, and then I was up talking with my friend until about 2:30 in the morning, which was dumb and made all the dumber by the pitcher of screwdrivers we were drinking. Celebrating the moments of your life with Colonial Club vodka is a surefire way to wake up wishing you could go back to sleep or even just die for a few hours, which is also another way of saying that I didn't get up in time to run on the treadmill this morning. Fortunately this promises to be a slow week, with the exception of a somewhat drinky baby shower I must attend tomorrow evening.

No Colonial Club vodka, I'm thinking.