On this, most American of holidays, the one where we take a religious icon and . . . .drink in his honor? I like to make an Irish Car Bomb, or Irish Car Firecracker because I always do half measures. A bi of Irish whiskey in a shot of Irish cream, dropped into Irish Guinness and drunk as fast as possible.

It’s silly, but I do like it, on this day. Once a year. It makes me silly, and nostalgic for like, 3 years ago, but it’s a fun thing. Plus, the booze makes my fingers warm and assists me in ignoring the passage of time as I vacuum. You’d be amazed at how quickly stair vacuuming can go when one is gently “illuminated”. Happy holiday.

This is not, actually, going to be wildly inappropriate. I just like to have a signature scent, like perfume. I used to wear a Calvin Klein perfume, but they discontinued that subset of the line and I thought it was too young for me, anyway, after a good few years. I tried another one, this time by Marc Jacobs, but there was an undertone that I thought I could ignore. Turns out I can’t ignore it.

So now, I am trying an Issey Miyake perfume. I know this is riveting information, so try to take it slowly so you don’t get overwhelmed. I have a tiny sample in my pocket, and two spritzes on my sternum. Now it’s a question of if I want to smell like this all the time. I’ll know if I like it in a few hours. The ultimate question: does this give me a headache/make me sick?

And you guys, I really want to have a new perfume. My house, while beloved, smells faintly of the cigar smoker who was in residence prior to us. I need to smell like me, and not my house. And especially not like my house’s previous residents.

This perfume is pretty floral, pretty rosy. Not sure how it’s going to turn out.

I HAVE NO HOT WATER. This is not okay. We knew our water heater was having some issues, so Nikolai called the company, did their little test, and ordered the missing part. The best guesses, given some little education, were that one of the elements had gone flopsy and needed to be replaced. No big deal. Except, the part isn’t here yet, and the other one seems to be flipsy, rendering my post-workout shower (that I was totally looking forward to savoring) into more of a test of my sturdiness of character.

I heated water on the stove and washed in a sink. THAT IS NOT THE SAME AS A SHOWER. I’m clean, but it’s not the same. Gah. I will accept your pity and sympathy, now.

Today has been a day of samples. Which means I’ve tried out two. I slopped down some floor paint to see if we liked the color, it’s sort of a medium blue/gray? I think it’s too close to the lighter blue/gray we have on the walls. We’ll see, it might dry differently. Next up is the pickling stain I’m trying out on the beams and ceiling. I like the pickling stain! It lightens up the wood and makes it paler, instead of the golden-yellow  it currently is. We’ll see about the floor paint. I know, my life is riveting.

After weighing myself on a whim and discovering that my corporeal form’s relationship with gravity had become more loving when I wasn’t looking, I made a decision. More exercise! Less eating! Less drinking of not-water! I ate less ALL DAY TODAY and took an entire exercise class. After all that good behavior I really wanted something sweet so I mixed cranberry cocktail and 7 Up. I just need something sweet, you know?

Before 10 o’clock a.m. this fine Thursday morning I have spoken with both my parents, at length, on the phone, completely separately, about facets of rape culture and our society.

I explained to my dad the basic fear all women feel, and how we all have to assume every man is a threat to us until proven otherwise, and that it wasn’t fair but it couldn’t change until everyone taught their children not to rape. He scoffed. He’s not a bad guy, he just doesn’t believe it. I think he would rather I wear modest clothing, as if sexual attraction was why rapes happened. As if I could ever protect myself enough to not “make” someone attack or rape me. So that was a fun start to the day.

Then my mother called and we chatted about things, eventually coming around to a friend who had ranted on Facebook about a marketing campaign that uses women to sell food. The women are never fully dressed, and mostly seem to be an attractive backdrop to the food that gets artfully, seductively dropped on various body parts. My mom also scoffed at the idea that the marketing campaign is affecting the friend’s daughter’s self-image, instead saying the parents are responsible for grounding the girl in a strong sense of her own attractiveness and worth. I mentioned that a woman can be told over and over she’s beautiful, but if she can never see a portion of herself reflected in the media and called beautiful, she’s not going to believe it completely.

What is even happening today that these conversations happened? Geez. It’s not the most fun I’ve ever had.

Three days ago, while mixing chocolate chip cookie dough before baking it into a large blob I could cut tiny adorable hearts out of, I went to add the egg. I did everything normal, tapping the side of the egg against the flat of the counter just like I’ve done truly thousands of times before. I quickly moved the egg over the bowl and separated the halves to let the *nothing* inside fall into the bowl. Nothing. Nothing? The egg in its floppy, classically eggy entirety was lounging on the countertop. I guess I was just too strong for it? 

After a frozen moment of debating my options, I decided to scoop the egg off the countertop into the bowl I held just below the edge. It worked, the cookies came out fine, all this after Nikolai came rushing downstairs after I shrieked in dismay and followed it with promptly shouted, “EVERYTHING’S FINE.”

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