I put my bag in the wrong cubby at dance class last night. It was the cubby that had an open back, and was apparently where the scented plug-in room freshener was located. Now, my bag has been swamped with scented room freshener. It has been wafting this aroma all day, and I do not want it. It is terrible, it is strong, it is too soapy, and it is giving me a mild headache. So far, my tactic of glaring at my bag while coughing pointedly has yielded no results.


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.

I have wondered if I ought to tell you this, but the possibility for humor outweighs my dignity.  Like always.

It was a coworker’s birthday today, and another coworker made him a pie.  She made a pecan pie, because they’re his favorite.  We all had some.  As I ate my way through my slice, I glanced at the spoon and noticed some red residue on the underside of the bowl.  I thought it odd, but perhaps I was scraping a little too vigorously and was removing paint from the plate.  I kept checking at intervals, and there was still red something on the bottom of the spoon.  The plates were dark green, so they could not be the source, and the pan the pie came in wasn’t red.

I finally got a mirror out of my purse and checked.  Yes, my mouth was bleeding.  I hoped it was spontaneously bleeding from the abundance of sugar, but alas, it was not to be.  I looked again and saw that I had cut my lip on the inside.  How had I done such a thing?  Why, with a spoon, of course!  HOW ELSE DO PEOPLE CUT THEMSELVES IN THE MOUTH EATING PIE?  Remember how people who are a danger to themselves and others are not given forks or knives?  Well, in my hand a spoon can be just as dangerous.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my mouth stings.  Still.

This week just seems to be MY WEEK.   Friday night, Nikolai called me out on being mean to him without cause or good reason.  I guess Some People don’t like dead legs when I disagree with them.  Who knew?  thought I was expressing my opinion, but he thinks I was being needlessly cruel.  Potayto, potahto.  All I’m saying is, when he says something I don’t like, he might get punched in the thigh.  OR not, now.  Because he doesn’t like it and gets sad or whatever.  Pshhhhhh.
Nextly, at work having a discussion with a friend brought up my tendency to play devil’s advocate and argue sides of conversation I don’t even agree with, just because I can.  I do it because I think so many people write off all sides of an issue once they decide which they agree with, and decree that side to be right.  When that is done, everyone who disagrees becomes the enemy instead of another rational being who believes their view is valid, and also the right side.  Then nothing gets done between the factions because everyone’s too busy fighting the enemy.
I would let this friend start telling her side, and then I’d save time later by defending the opposing side right away.  I’m all about efficiency in communication, you see.  It would seem that she does not appreciate my efficiency, instead preferring me to hear her out, and let her allow the other view some validity in her own time.  BUT IT TAKES SO LONG AND I’M FASTER AT IT AND STUFF.  It seems that she feels condescended to whenever I do that. Well too bad, Senorita Sensitive!  I have things to do and communication to facilitate.  I can’t sit here all day and listen to my friends finish sentences.  I have things to do.  Good grief.
ed. note:  Please realize this was all tongue in cheek.  I don’t like learning unpleasant things about myself, so I trivialize them and adjust blame so I can deal.

I found a lovely knit sweater pattern which I knew would not fit me.  I made it anyhow because clearly I am smarter than a vintage sweater pattern.  I don’t even need to make sleeves.  I can make it a sweater-vest thing.  I can even add in extra panels on the sides and stitch them in at the end.  It won’t mess up the fit, it will make it perfect for me.  I won’t measure, I don’t even need to do that.


On an unrelated note, does anyone want a nice lavender sweater-vest?

I started a lovely sweater recipe that I found on someone’s blog (no really, I don’t know them at all) but it was for a vintage size, this weekend.  It was to be knit out of bulky yarn, that thick stuff that looks like skinny rope, or macrame` stuff.  It’s knit up quickly, given that I started it Saturday evening and it is now Monday evening.  My sad is not my pretty, soft, thick yarn or the speed of the project or my very obvious skill, my sad is that I took matters of sizing into my own hands, and now a lovely thing that ought to brush my hip bones is. . . looking like it will not.  Midway through one shouldery piece, which is at the top of the entire back of the thing that I’ve completed thus far, I have realized the sad truth.  this sweater will not work unless I undo the whole shebang and start again, this time being a good student and actually following the recipe.

(I say recipe because I can never seem to remember the word “pattern” in time to use it, and really they’re very similar in meaning.  I’ve given myself slack on this one, you should follow my good lead and do so, as well.  No, do it.  Go on, give me slack.  I’ll know when you do.  Ah, thank you.  Very kind.  Gracious, even.  Wise, benevolent, some would say.)

I have to rewind the yarn, and tug out all the soft, lovely stitches that I made using comically oversized needles that made such a nice clacky sound when I would hit a nice rhythm.  I am not great at rewinding yarn.  I make it too tight.  Also I wanted to wear my new sweater this week, and that is looking like less of a possibility.  I plan to dramatically sigh myself to sleep tonight, the better to impress upon Nick the desolation I feel.

**warning:  this post will be composed primarily of whining, and ought to be read with a high-pitched tone, extra syllables in words, and exaggerated sighs and sobs **


Mostly I’m proud of Nikolai for running a game online.  He’s learning things that can be applied to a job, he’s having fun, and he’s getting some small notoriety for it.  I do not like it when this hobby cuts into my attention time.  Like today, I got home from work and bantered with him and his buddy over skype as I changed and got some food.  I did all the things I wanted to do on my computer, and then realized that I had been home for an hour and Nick hadn’t so much as hugged me, or stood up, or kissed me or anything.  I marched over to demand my rightfully-owed attention which got me a seat on his lap for a minute and a half.  And then he dislodged me and turned back to his screens.  Hmmmm. . . .


Fists clenched? Check.


Lips pursed?  Check.


Eyebrows pinched together?  Check and check.


I had my angry face on.  He glanced back and noticed, then proceeded to whine at ME that they’re doing a big thing today and he needs to focus, good grief!  Because clearly, this is universal news.  You guys knew, right?  Who didn’t know that they were working a big thing today?  Gosh, what is my problem?  I need to calm my business down.  Oh, wait a second – yeah, I was never informed of this.

I totally did the polite and mature thing, though.  I quietly and calmly informed him that I will need advance notice for days that he will be unable to shower me with attention, as is my due.  Otherwise, I get hurt, and I get disappointed, and I roll those vulnerable emotions into something powerful, like anger, and then I tend to sneak up behind him and smack him in the head with no warning.  Because he didn’t warn me about the game.  It’s called poetic justice, babe.