Oh. I guess it's Monday. And morning. My whole sense of day/date/time is off, thanks in part to the holidays and in larger part to my wacky work schedule. (I had to work this weekend. Let's not talk about it. Except how it allowed me to have today off.) I also just came from the gym, and I normally only ever do a morning class on a Saturday. So I am seriously extra-messed up, timewise, but my computer clock insists it's Monday and I am forced to believe it.

However, I also remember that it's New Year's Eve as well as SBD. Here is my mini-SBD: how come there's a boatload of romances set at Christmas, but none at New Year's? It's odd. I mean there's the champagne, the parties, the party dresses, the midnight deadline - it's auto-loaded with the drama. The non-family variety thereof. It's a no-brainer. Weird.

Okay, I need a shower, and then to the laundromat. If you're SBDing, then (1) you're a hero, and (2) tell us about it.

I'm okay, ok? Just a little lonely and a lot sad. Persistent feelings of abandonment and unlovedness. But I'll live. Or so one is forced to conclude.

I don't really feel like saying anything.

It felt like Monday, so I opened the blogging window. But it's not.

I dunno, I'm depressed. Big shocker, I know. Maybe it's working so much - I have to work this weekend, and I worked last weekend, and well just barf. It's enough to make anyone despondent. And every year, work makes life unbearably miserable, after Christmas. But it feels slightly different this time. I have a friend who once said she'd felt removed from other people for years. Like there was a thick glass wall between herself an the world that prevented her from really feeling life, from touching anyone or being touched. A kind of numbness and isolation. When she told me that, I remember thinking how awful that must be, how I couldn't imagine feeling that way.

And now I realize, I feel that way. That I've been feeling just as she described, for I dunno how long. A few months, maybe? Some of it's my own fault, and some of it's other people's fault, and some of it is just how life works out, how the world is. And I wish I were different, I wish I were better, I wish I could just trust someone, believe in anyone, I wish I could just get over it and move on and be a better version of me. But it's not working out like that.

Anyway, whatever. Nothing like a big fat depression to usher in the new year. Or to make these next few weeks at work ever so much more pleasant.

Don't you love when I start the day with sunshiney goodness?

So I was driving home from my brother's this morning and thought: When you're an adult and single and/or without children, the general population worries about you being alone at Christmas. Which I actually don't consider demeaning or unjust or whatever. What I find really wrong is how the world doesn't worry about you if you aren't alone at Christmas. Like somehow being with other people means you're fine. Like millions of people aren't at this moment opening crappy gifts and eating crappy food and enduring all kinds of humiliating and belittling and horrid comments/actions/looks, and praying that the day please please please will just END already and put them out of their misery - or plenty who are even are just mildly bored and disinterested and wishing it were any fun at all, like it used to be back in childhood.

But they're not alone. So it's perfectly joyful and nothing to worry about.

God, the holidays are fucked up.

Is anyone gonna SBD? I doubt it. I mean, most of you have sorta left me alone with the SBD thing lately anyway, even when it's NOT Christmas Eve. But today IS Christmas Eve and I or one have to work, come home, finish wrapping my few gifts, stop and pickup some wine or something, then head to the festivities at my brother's place. So I'm not gonna SBD.

Except I will say that I got that Mary Balogh Christmas anothology everyone over at that Bitches thread went on about, and omg: Crap. Not thoroughly crap, but definitely mostly crap. However, I did learn that in order to Get In The Christmas Spirit, you need to go gather greenery (beware the prickly holly, and get the men to climb the trees for the mistletoe), have an amateur whittler carve a crude-but-inspiring nativity scene, and preferably have an unloved/tragic child or two around. Throw in some wassail and we're cooking with gas. Seriously, every single story had pretty much all of those elements as plot focal points. Yawn.

Anyway, okay I gotta get ready for work and doubt anyone much is online anyhow. But Merry Christmas and all that.

Hello hi happy Saturday, I guess it is. I worked a like 7-hour day today, which was unintended but oh well. Then I came home, promised the mighty mighty Thunderpussy that I'd stay put for the next 36 hours at least, decided to call for chinee noodles, discovered I'd left my wallet on my desk, and had to fucking drive back to the fucking office to fucking get it. Goddammit.

Then I came back, noodles in hand, to find my Christmas gift from Dawn, which is My So-Called Life on dvd. This is the perfect gift because I frikken love that show and actively miss it on a near-daily basis. It's brilliant. I sat and watched the first episode, madly overeating all the while. (Which always happens at this time of year because I forget to eat all day and then by 6pm, I will eat two or three times more than I should and regret it. But anyway.) And there are all these little fantastic moments all throughout the show, but the really magical part of the storytelling is near the end, when Angela walks into her mother's room and starts crying and apologizing for her hair. It's beautiful. This moment where you know all she wants is for her mom to hold her and make her feel better, but how can you ask for that when you've been yelling at her and resenting her and pushing her away in that honest teenage viciousness which is your birthright - but you just really really need your mom right now, even though you kind of hate her, because you're so tired and the whole night was a little wonderful and a lot lot horrible and just unspeakable and really, you're just a kid. It's too much. You need your mom.

I get this show. Every minute of it, and every single character. It's some seriously awesome fucking writing, man. And some terrific timing on Dawn's part because I plan to sit on my fat ass in front of the TV tomorrow and barely move. Except to heat up the leftover noodles and maybe take a nap.

Well I might pick up some around the apartment. It looks like a bomb went off in here. A bomb with dirty dishes and unclean laundry.

My family is having the holiday mass get-together tomorrow at my mom's. I'm not going. It makes me feel lonely if I do, and lonely if I don't. So I might as well stay here, save the gas, and get a nap. But I don't know. I miss my big loud crazy family, once a year. Not that they'll all be there, of course. We might never all be together anymore - not until someone dies, anyway. Adulthood is sad like that.

I don't know what to do with myself, but I only say that because I'm tired and overworked. Some part of me logically knows, but no part of me feels it. I don't feel much of anything anymore, except a lot of empty emptiness. But eventually - sooner rather than later, one hopes - sunlight will have meaning again, instead of being something that just happens in the daytime. And then I'll figure it out. But until then, I just feel like an Angela after a long day, and a long span of years without that loving comfort to turn to. Thankfully I've had enough such days that it doesn't reduce me to tears. Which is also kinda sad.

I might bust out the scotch for a nightcap, though. Hey did you know Target sells liquor now? Including Johnnie Walker black. So now it really is my one-stop shop for staple household items.

Okay okay - must go lie down now, for the sake of my cat. She must have a partner in sloth, and who am I to deny her that?

No one in the entire world is more tired than me. No one. No, not you. No, not them either. In the entire world. No one. I am the most tired.

Just wanted to make that clear.

So in case you haven't read between the lines (and in case I haven't said it, because I'm never all that sure about what I've said or not), I hate my job. No, not hate - loathe. Loathe is definitely the word to use here. On a good day, I only think "I haaaaate my job" about 10 times a day. On a bad day, I lose count. It becomes a kind of chant that I try to stop ot change but it just keeps on chanting in my head. Because it's such gospel truth that my brain must sing it: I hate my job.

This is not the job's fault. The job is what it is. I am what I am. We don't belong together, me and this job. I do the best I can - or at least I do the best I can bring myself to do on any given day - but the flat-out truth is: I really, really hate my job. Because I just don't belong in it, so it cannot help but make me unhappy. (As you long-time readers will remember, I sorta hated my last job. Except: I didn't really hate that job. I hated my superiors. I hated this one piece of the workload. I hated my pitifully small salary and the even smaller hope of ever making more money. But I didn't hate the job. It was an untenable situation rather than an I-hate-my-job kinda thing.)

But anyway. I feel like I struggle every single day, even on the non-Christmas-crazytime days. It's like this huge effort, to get to the place and through the day, and it leaves me bruised and sore and bitter. It's not easy. It makes my world look rather ugly.

There's a guy in Colorado, a colleague. Unless something goes grossly awry, we excahnge an email here and there, maybe once a week or so. He's one of about 130 different vital contacts that I deal with on a regular basis, and he is without a doubt one of my favorites. Him and this woman Deb, in Ohio - she cracks me up. The thing I love in a work colleague is supreme competence (first and foremost, always) and, naturally, a good sense of humor. Out of 135, there are two that I really am thrilled to get to work with.

Anyway, there's a guy in Colorado who told me he loves working with me, that he couldn't stand to go more than a week without talking to me even just about little work things, and that he knows I'm tired and all, but I should smile and remember that I make a guy in Colorado's worklife a little brighter every day, and that's no small thing because so many people in this business are big fucking dickheads. (That's a paraphrase.)

And it was really, really, really nice to hear that. Proving that even in a rather shitty world, there are some truly wonderful, thoughtful people. Who say really nice things to really tired women who really want to stop working 14-hour days.

So yeah anyway. Good night.

Most of the time lately, I clip along at about a MQ 3ish or so, but when I glance beneath the distracting whir of my work consuming my life, I see about an 8. I just try to keep busy and not think about it much.

I should sleep, since I slept so little last night, but here I am awake. I should step away from a computer screen, at least - maybe read some more of that Mary Balogh cheesey Christmas book, but I have to check up on my banking issues stuff payment charges I dunno whatever. Though really, it's not like my brain's actually working well just now even without throwing math into the mix.

Oh shit. I forgot to get milk. Shit shit shit. Argh.
I have to do laundry this weekend.
My cat's mad at me for being so scarce.
And I should just stop blogging because the only things I can think of to take my mind off the MQ8 is annoyances like the lack of milk and the need for clean laundry. Yeah.

In closing, I totally want a chocolatière. (Not the mugs, those are dumb.) I saw it at the frou-frou kichen shop this weekend and decided I should have one. Perhaps I shall indulge. Then again, perhaps I shouldn't encourage my hot chocolate fixation. Then again, I totally want to make hot chocolate from chocolate shavings. Then again, maybe I should be in bed now okay night.

Oh. It was Monday. Well technically still is, yah. Sorry. I'm realllllytired. And I ran around like a crazylady all day and then zoom zoom to the gym workout and then I was SO HUNGRY when I came home and I cooked and plopped down and ate (too much, I'm sure, and I'll probly wake up with like heartburn and regret at 2am or whatever) without taking a shower first because I think I meantioned I was SO HUNGRY. And I really really really reall yreallllllllllly need a shower now but I don't wanna get up. It's so much effort. But I want to be clean clean very very cleeeeeeeeean, see. I wish I had like two Beth-tenders (Beth-keepers?) who could just scrub/hose me down like an elephant at the zoo. And I'd just wallow on the floor while they use those long-handles scrub brushes on my gross sweaty hair and ooooh scrubbing the aching back oh my aching back, gah. I need professional Beth-tenders. Totally. Failing that, the will to stand, undress, and twist a faucet handle or two- that'd be nice. Because I'm tired. And it was Mnday. And I forgot SBD. Sorry.

Blah blah depression insecurities misery loneliness self-hate holidays despondency work bleak future blah blah fucking blah.

Nice of me to condense these things down for you.

G'nite.

Yesterday when I woke up, it felt like Saturday. Physically felt like it, I mean. Basically, my body gets to a point after 5 full days of workworkwork where it needs a Saturday and it quite obviously tells me that right now is when it's Saturday-time. So I half-wake up, feeling not all that refreshed, still crazy-sleepy, and knowing I can only be a viable human again by burrowing under the covers for another hour or two of sleep: must be Saturday. So yesterday, when I woke up, it felt like Saturday. But when I flopped over and reached for the pillow so's I could settle in for more snoozing, I realized it was only Friday. And I couldn't go back to sleep. And I had to get out of bed and get through the day in this state. I almost cried, it was that upsetting.

But this morning? It really WAS Saturday. Gads, what a relief. I sleepily rejoiced briefly, before conking out for another 2 hours. And I may nap later, too. So there.

My fingernails are constantly dirty lately. I can't understand why. I wash my hands more throughout the day, I take the nail brush to them at least twice a day, but still - filthy. It's grossing me out.

Anyway. I dunno why I'm blogging. I need to get dressed and get out. But I dunno. Something on my mind. You know how when something doesn't turn out like you thought it would? Not something big, like a whole life or anything. A conversation. A revelation. A moment. Whatever. Something that just didn't quite play out like you thought. And afterwards, you're just like, "oh." And you wind up kind of restless and unsatisfied because of it. Just shouldn't think about it, I guess. Move on.

But anyway.

I must find a good Christmas gift for the eye-talian. Perhaps I shall go forth and shop tomorrow. Something kitchen-related would be good, so maybe that uppity place over on the square would have something. And I'm considering buying a set of hot rollers for myself, in the hopes of spending less time with a blow-dryer and round brush every morning. This is the problem with my Christmas shopping for others: I always wind up buying twice as much for myself. I truly believe that I deserve it more and I know exactly what I want and what I'll like, and it's my money, and and and. I'm very self-centered like that.

Stuff

• I have a goddamn motherfucking cock-sucking bitch of a headache. Ow.
• Though I haven't mentioned it, I still adore my Wilson. I ne cannaught liven without it. It's my precioussss.
  
• I need to go to the freaking post office yet AGAIN. It is so unbearably annoying now that they don't have those self-serve package mailing machines. And it's not like they've upped the staff to compensate. GAH.
  
• Incidentally, I heard this thing on the news that Netflix is pretty much entirely responsible for the last postage rate increase. No, seriously - that's not a conspiracy theory. It's true.
• It's not that I doubt myself. It's just that I worry. And second-guess. And I'm really tired and over-worked and over-stressed, so I can't do certain things just now.
  
• But along those line, I'm afraid of "later" becoming "never". Which is a reasonable fear. A good fear, if you ask me. Which you didn't. But anyway.
  
• Every time my blood pressure is taken, the person taking it always exclaims over how phenomenal my blood pressure is. I am a wunderkind of blood pressure, and I worry about how totally, like, proud and preening I become when the cuff is pulled out. But I can't deny it: I am vain about my blood pressure. Like an annoyingly perfect student with an A+ paper or something.
  
• My mother's been on major blood pressure meds for years. This makes me an extra-special wunderkind. Go me.
• I really, really, really hate gifts that are given just because "I should get that person something." Like there's a list of non-family, not-really-friends recipients that some people make up at the holidays. On a theoretical level, I find people who gift-give like this (something for the teacher, something for the mailman, etc - and none of those somethings is cold hard cash) totally fascinating. It's a culture and a mentality that is so utterly alien to me. But on a personal/recipient level, I feel, like, used. Or something. I dunno, I fucking hate it, man.
  
• I know I don't eat meat anymore, but every once in a while, I want braunschwager. On white bread. I miss it. Even though it's totally gross. But as a kid, I loved that shit. Go figure.
• I have this gift certificate for a free 50 minute massage from some fancy-schmancy massage place. I want a massage. I don't want the gift certificate to go to waste. However: I do not want to go to a fancy-schmancy massage place, get naked, and have a stranger rub me all over. I just don't. What to do, what to do.
• OMG tomorrow's Friday? Hey, tomorrow's FRIDAY! Hot damn. I think I'll get chinee noodles.
• Me and my unhealthy relationships. Every last one of em. And a stupid heart and stupider brain and worthless gut and blah blah fucking blah. Jesus.
  
• What the fuck ever.
• I have all these random and varied pictures on my camera, from the last like 8 months, most of which I'd intended to post just after they were taken. But I never did. I think I'll do a hodge-podge picture post this weekend. Try not to swoon with excitement.
• I love the word "hodge-podge" and try to fit it in as many dorky ways as I can. I am the same in re: poleaxed, obfuscate, and toothsome. Others too, but those are what come to mind.
  
• I think I mentioned how Snookie and I activate the Philadelphia cream cheese sale phone-tree? In case you thought it was a joke, allow me to assure you: it's not. I currently have a message on my machine that goes "Code red, code red, this is Snookie, we have a code red. Philadelphia cream cheese for 88 cents at Jewel, limit two. Repeat: Philadelphia cream cheese for 88 cents at Jewel, limit two." Click.
• (And that's my healthiest relationship by far, I'll have you know.)
• My cat? Is the best. And I think she just turned 10 years old. Maybe 9. I'm really bad with years.
• There are Thanksgiving leftovers in my fridge that I only recently rediscovered. I should clean them out. I've been telling myself to clean them out, scrape it out of the tupperware and clean the tupperware in a way that involves bleach, then return tupperware to eye-talian. I know I have to do this. But.
  
• I fear the leftovers. I fear them. It's true. I am a goddess of good blood pressure, but that is but a paper tiger against the stench of past-due leftovers. Alas and alack.
• Dr. Dawn is very serious and has no sense of humor at all when it comes to educating the masses about certain things, like how alcohol is the worst possible thing for one's sleep. Never drink it to get to sleep, never drink it just before bed, it does horrible, horrible, terrible things to one's body/brain/life.
• I'm having a nightcap anyway. So there.
• Flowers!
  
• As bullet points!
• YAY!
  
• And now I'm gonna drape a wilson across my forehead and sleep. Ni-night.
  

I just got home from work.
I opened my mailbox to find another Christmas romance novel awaiting me.
I can't wait to read it.
I feel guilty because my cat is very lonesome when I work so much.
I keep forgetting to buy scotch, and I want to try that one that Tracey recommended.
I can't wait for my new gloves to show up.
I am going to bed now, gnite.

Happy SBD and only Kate still loves me. Which is good, because I still love you too, Kate.

Okay hi I'm really freaking exhausted and though I intended to tap this all out yesterday --well, I didn't. I just didn't, okay, so whatever.

Let's start with the crappiest of the three, shall we?

It Happened At Christmas
(OMG The Italian Billionaire isn't the worst of the batch. I know, right? Keee-RAY-zee.)

Someone named Penny Jordan is the headliner on this anthology. Never heard of her or anyone else listed here (Helen Brooks, Carol Wood), probably because they're all British and very old-skool. It's a Harlequin, but I feel certain it began its life as a Mills & Boon and if that's the case - and if these are typical of M&B - then my gawd almighty, let's just burn the whole place down and start all over. Eeeek.

I mean, holy schnikeys. The first one - The Bride of Belle Bellian Belmont Something About Bells, I don't remember - was just stunningly confusing in its awfulness. She's traveling to some town for some specific yet mysterious yet totally predictable reason, and she finagles a job as maid in an old spooky manor house, home to the Lord Of Bell-place who has a very gothic reputation. Her first day on the job - first day! - he is seriously wounded at the mill he owns and spends most the rest the time, in bed, wounded and silent. Then alla sudden when his recovery is speeding along, he announced he's in love with her and he knows where she came from and why she came and it's all Out With The Backstory, Full Steam Ahead. Then they're engaged.

Wha? They had - and I'm not even kidding - like 2 conversations. Total. She changed his bandages once. That's about it. The rest of the time we got to hear the gothic rumors and read about the difficulties of the coal scuttle. Seriously. And he proposed and they're wildly in love? Yes. Yes, that's exactly what happened. And it was Christmas at some point. Ooh lah, be still my beating heart, I just might swoon with the romance of it all.

The second story was about a farmer and some girl from the workhouse and her like 4 orphaned siblings she was trying to take care of, blah blah blah. He lets the impoverished family live on his farm, she cooks and takes care of his sick mom, some angst about being from different classes, tra la la. Then she falls through some ice, he saves her and Happily Ever After. At Christmas.

Then the last story, I'm not even done with but it sucks - Tilly of Tap House. I've left off where she's fallen horribly ill and the handsome doctor has (you guessed it) discovered he cannot live without her. At Christmas. Ta dah.

They all read like bits from some romance magazine circa 1930 or so. And all I can say is: Man I'm glad it's not 1930 anymore. Ugh.

Next!


The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

Holy crap this book cracked me up. So our Canadian heroine is in Sardinia (ah-HAH! He's not REALLY Italian, he's Sardinian! HAH!) on vacation but also wanting to learn about wine-making, and winds up being showed the ropes (um, vines) by I can't remember his name let's just call him Alfredo or something. See, she inherited a small vineyard back home and oh who cares anyway, he's a BILLIONAIRE and they're hanging out in VINEYARDS all day he has dazzling white teeth and an olive complexion and crisp whine linen shirts and a sleek sports car. Except the author doesn't call it a sports car, she calls it something else that is So Totally Harlequin and made me giggle constantly, even though I don't remember it now.

Gads, I need sleep.

So naturally they can't resist their deep mutual attraction for each other, but Sardinia isn't romantic enough for their long-awaited nookie. No, there's a wine convention in Paris, so he takes her on his private jet (of course) to the best suite in the best hotel in Paris, and then they make love like crazed weasels and in the morning, he tells her he wants to show her some other vineyard just outside of Paris. So the chauffeur drives them to a big open field where they climb into a hot air balloon and take a ride over to his summer home (a 17th century chalet) so they can have lunch.

And before I got done snort-laughing like a maniac at that, we step into the greenhouse, where prized blooms are being attended to by the Downs syndrome kid, which neatly demonstrates what a sensitive, charitable, sweet soul Alfredo is. (In case you don't get the point, he gets to say something like "What is the purpose of money if you cannot help people?") Jesus God, the whole thing is like a SNL skit, and I kept waiting for the punch line - like he'd whip out his penis and insist she call it Santa, or something. And he turns into that lovable recurring character, The Billionaire With The Jolly Pee Pee.

Or something.

Blah blah blah, lotsa nookie, the fake-out Thing That Almost Tears Them Apart, they say their goodbyes expeccting never to see each other again, then she's back at her start-from-scratch vineyard and it's not making it. Oh no! The bank will foreclose! You must pay the rent! I can't pay the rent!
You must pay the rent!
I can't pay the rent!
I'LL pay the rent, says the Sardinian Billionaire Viticulturist.
My hero, says the heroine. And also I'm pregnant.

And that's the Italian Billionaire's Christmas Surprise. A pregnancy. Ho fucking hum.

Not that it was a surprise for me, because on the back cover was a little logo that said: EXPECTING! She's sexy, successful ... and PREGNANT!

Good god. People purposely buy these. And I'll note here that thisheroine wasn't successful, a point on which the whole plot hung. Details, details.


Anyway! The best of the lot was, surprisingly...

A Very Merry Christmas

Lori Foster is the headliner of this anthology. I never heard of her, but then I never hear of anybody. Hers is the first story, about a pet psychic (really) and a guy who's SWAT. Not a part of the SWAT team - he's SWAT. An adjective and an entity. Like being hot. And being male. And being brunette. He's SWAT. That's how you say it. And heaven knows how I picked that up, seeing as how he only mentions it on every other page. I might be more impressed if his name wasn't Ozzie, of all the dumbass things.

***ATTENTION: This story contains one of the single most priceless paragraphs I've ever read, right smack on like the third page. Ready? Okay:

He didn't have a full boner, but rather a semiboner. Though for a man of his endowments, it showed about the same.

I had the distinct pleasure of dropping everything and immediately dialing up Snookie, who had a good shout of laughter before declaring it the best line since "creamy warrior potency."

Anyway, so we get to hear about how really big his dick is. Over and over and over again. And then they have sex. With his big dick. The end.

The second story (by Gemma Bruce) is about everything one could ask for in a Christmas Romance anthology: they're trapped together in a wee cottage in the mountains, snowed in - they screw, they argue, they screw some more, the town locals are very Norman-Rockwellesque and show them the Joy Of Christmas, a couple of kids get trapped in a well (or whatever) and the couple saves the day AND learns how much they love each other. And as a bonus, they later discover that the town has been abandoned… for fifty years! (cue tinkling Christmas angel-type music and chorus of rosy-cheeked choirboys) But somehow… they were all there! The kids! The puppy! The abandoned mine shaft! The big Christmas tree in the center of town! They were all THERE, I tell you!

Yes… they WERE all there. There in your HEART.

Awww, cheesey predictable Christmas miracle! Warms the cockles. (Wait, no - it was the erotic massage oils in one of the last chapters that warmed the cockles. My bad.)

The last story of the book was just meh, when it wasn't downright stoooopid. Another We're Snowed In Together In This Cozy Rustic Cabin Whatever Shall We Do Oh Hey Let's Have Sex And Fall In Love theme. Very popular theme. This one I really disliked, mostly because of one particular scene. I cannot help but sneer viciously at a book when the guy reaches for a condom and the woman says - within a few pages of reiterating how they've known each other for only 48 hours - "It's okay, I'm on the pill." And they go on their merry humping way.

To the author (Janice Maynard), I can only say: Oh honey, please. Can you not pull that shit? I mean really. Way to make me hope your hero has crabs. And to wish a raging case of herpes on your heroine.

But despite that and overall, this whole book wins because it feels very Christmassy. The Italian Billionaire and the other anthology just happen to coincidentally have their final scene (like 2 pages) at Christmas time. But in this one, every story pretty much centers on Christmas. The Lori Foster story is especially cute, with the animal psychic stealing a donkey from a nativity scene, and Mr. SWAT helping her return it to the rightful owners, despite the massive equipment between his legs undoubtedly hindering his every move. What a guy.

And now I gotta sleep okay night.

Here we are, poised on the brink of Yet Another Week. O joy.

Speaking of joy, I have a mug of hot coffee to hand, and pb cookies baking as we speak. If only I didn't have to go chip ice off my car and then head to work, it'd be a very promising day.

But anyhow, it's

Smart Bitches Day

You know what that means. (And if you don't, then just click it and find out.) I will tell you all about The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle - but do feel free to guess what that miracle is in comments, or be Kate and pre-snark all over it without even reading it. That'd be amusing.

Toodle pip.

Unexpected Things That Happened To Me Today

1.
After falling asleep at approx. 9:30pm last night (rare at anytime, but especially strange after having napped and knowing that the next day is Sunday), I slept until like almost 8 a.m. Without waking up. At all. Which is crazy.

But apparently, my body is sleep-starved, even when it doesn't feel like it. It's true that I'm more than averagely stressed out lately, so I spose that accounts for it. But still - that's a lot of sleeping. Sheesh.


2.
I became suddenly incapable of turning out an omelette this afternoon. This is especially unexpected since I am an Omelette-Maker Supreme. I've even turned out a lovely omelette when using my mother's three-sizes-too-big frying pan. It should be way easy when using my tried and true scratched-but-beloved pan and the green plastic spatula. And adequate amounts of butter, too. And yet somehow? The tri-fold refused to happen and I spilled not-quite-set egg and melted cheese innards on my plate.

This was extremely upsetting to me. Okay, it's still extremely upsetting, hours later. For godsakes, I can make an omelette. I swear I can! It was just totally humiliating, even though no one witnessed it but me. Here I've been wanting an omelette pan for ages, but now I think I have to prove myself worthy of it. Gyah.


3.
I broke down in tears while talking to my pet.

I am a firm believer in talking to yourself, see. I am particularly partial to having imaginary arguments with others, entirely in my own head. (This prevents me from saying really awful and stupid things in person, as long as I say them in my own head first.) But aside from spleen-venting, I often find that I want to discuss something with someone and have a ton of jumbled feelings and words banging around in my head. So I go ahead and have a fake convo, and it forces me to articulate more succinctly if/when the real discussion ever comes up.

So I haven't been able to talk to Snooks lately because of this family thing she has going on, and here I was playing the scullery maid around the apartment and wondering if I'd discuss this one thing with Snooks, when next we get to talk. I'm not sure if I even want to talk about it, I thought. But clearly some part of me wanted to talk it out, even if not with her, so I decided to just confide in the cat and sort of test the material, if you will. And suddenly, I was all sobbing and stuff. I had no idea all that was in there. Or I did, but I had no idea there was so much of it.

It was more embarrassing than the omelette episode. And a perfect example of why it's sometimes way better to have fake convos before real ones. Especially since my cat's only reaction was to lick my eyebrow and then make a run for it before I grabbed her and wept earnestly into her fur. She's a class act, that one.


4.
It took me nearly three hours to wash my dishes. And I'm not totally done yet - a couple of mixing bowls to go. See, the stoooopid drain is clogged and I have one sink full of soapy water and dirty dishes, and the other sink empty and used for rinsing. A classic set-up. Except when one sink is plugged (to hold the water), the other refuses to drain properly.

So every time I ran the water to rinse the dishes, the sink would fill up and then not drain. It takes about 15 minutes for the water to all drain out, so my dishwashing was all in fits and starts.

Now - anyone who knows anything about me, knows that even at the best of times and in the most perfect conditions, washing dishes ranks right up there with ... well, jeez I can't even think of a task I hate as much as that. Formally disciplining an employee? That's in the same range of hate. Eating celery, that too. A trip to the grocery store at 10 a.m. on a Saturday now that they've got those goddamn motherfucking I HATE THEM shopping carts with the plastic toy-car shells on them? Yeah, that kinda hate. Dishes: the internationally recognized bane of my existence. Guess what I don't want to spend 4 hours on? That's right: washing dishes.

Arrrrrrgh.


5.
Okay fine, I decided - so I'll go return this really bad movie and pick up some Drano. I'll take the trash out, too. So I walk downstairs. Step outside.

And find that absolutely everything is encased in ice. And I mean everything. And yes, I DO mean encased. The whole world glistens in a deadly ice-rink kinda way. The whole day has been this steady gray bleakness, but I didn't notice any precipitation, really. Clearly, I missed something.

"Stick to the snow! It's easier!" shouted a man gingerly crunching his way past my building , as I hovered in the doorway with no little consternation gracing my features. Which is what I was going to do, but I was first trying to figure a way from the door to the snow-covered grass (which itself was encased in ice, but of the crunchable variety) without breaking carious of mine bones in the attempt. I wound up just taking granny steps across that 2.5 feet of ice, which took me probably 2.5 minutes. Here's how it looks:



It is extra-blurry because I was all wobbly on me pins.

I figured that the main streets have probably been salted, so I'd still go to the store. Besides, I decided - better to thaw the ice off the car now and then I won't have to do it in the morning, right? Right.

So I stepped inside the car.


The wipers will at least move (I hate when they're imbedded in the ice) but after about 4 minutes of sitting there with the defroster on and acknowledging that not a single square inch of the car was not coated in a half-inch of ice, I decided -- well, it went something like Sufficient unto the day is the ice of tomorrow and how's about some hot chocolate, anyway?

And here I am, mug in hand. Which I confess, was not all that unexpected. It's hot chocolate, after all.

So yesterday? I had a really, really good workout.

And today? My muscles still hurt.

Ouch.

Okay, so I hate that one sweater song that keeps getting played. You know "if you are chilly, here take my sweater" by that Ingrid Somebodyorother, which they keep playing on the radio and then is in all these commercials (for Marshall's, maybe? Old Navy?) and I mean sure it's catchy and all, but it Drives Me Crazy.

Why?

Well I dunno, I guess just because it's such bullshit and I want to shake her by the shoulders and scream STOP BEING SUCH A FUCKING GIRL. I mean really, the whole song is "If you're cold, take my sweater. Have a headache? I'll make it better! Going bald? I'll buy you rogaine! Tore something? I'll sew it! Because IIIIIIII looooooove the way you call me bay-beeee. And youuuuuuuuu take me the way I am."

So, to review: I will trip all over myself to cater to you. Why? Because you call me baby. And you magnanimously accept my self-sacrificing, drooling-all-over-you sorry ass self.

God, I know it's just a silly love song, but I mean jesus holy god almighty, it is REALLY irritating. It's like she's the girl from The Sweater song, but still stuck in junior high 20 years later and never discovering the 100% acrylic label.

You remember The Sweater song, right? Maybe not, it was somewhat obscure. In fact, the only good thing about this dumb-ass Ingrid person's song is that it reminds me of The Sweater, of which, my favorite lines were always:
You’re looking for the boy of your dreams who is the same boy in the dreams of all of your friends.
and
Definitely wear lip gloss.

Oh yay, Youtube has it! Here. I think.


hee hee. Screw you, Ingrid sweater girl.

Okay hi hello, here I am, hi.

I wouldn't say that work is exactly grueling (it's actually way much better than past holiday seasons, and sales are wayyy up so I've decided it's my excellent planning that's made things so smooth this year, yay me, rah rah, go team) but pretty much my entire day at work is sitting in front of a computer. It's me and my computer. All day every day. For hours and hours and hours, usually without even a break for lunch. So when I come home, I'm not so big on sitting in front of the computer, see, hence the blog doth suffer and stuff.

I just bought a new pair of gloves. The ones I have got a hole in the thumb on Thursday. It's very sad. But Amazon has an almost identical pair (black leather, cashmere-lined) on sale for $29.99 (originally like $70-something) so I bought myself a Christmas present. I also want to buy other people Christmas presents - especially Bro4, because he's been especially great this year with his very wonderful brotherly gestures which include but are not limited to how he flew down to Louisville when I had emergency drama surgery so he could drive me home, okay. And I usually spend the holiday with him and his fam, so I want to give him something good.

And yet, I despise Christmas shopping. Loathe it like little else. Well really, I think I can find him something good, but then I gotta hunt around for the eye-talian and neffs presents, too. That's always how it is, you can't just but one. It snowballs. Argh.

Further tidbits: Because I had planned to clean the kitchen and bathroom this past Sunday, and then I got sick and just mostly slept and drank water and moaned, my kitchen is now -- well I think the city might condemn it, if they came in. The bathroom's not so bad (I did a quick once-over with the Clorox Clean-up Monday morning on my way into the shower, so it's not REALLY clean, but it's acceptable), but the kitchen is... well let's just say, I clean out my fave mug in the one cleared-out sink, then make my coffee and get out fast without looking around me all that much. I just really haven't had time to even notice it, much less clean it this week. But now, with freshly sleep-replenished Saturday eyes, I see it and despair. Ugh. Shameful. And so I shall have to get all scullery maid about it. Bleh.

Last night I picked up Thai food for my Friday Night Dinner Treat (an urban tradition here in Bethland) because I had this unstoppable-as-a-freight-train craving for red curry. I also got some pad thai, because well you just don't pass up the chance to get pad thai from this place. And I must salute the chef because OMG AWESOME. Seriously it was some of the most perfect food I ever ate. And I have leftovers a-plenty, yay, so that'll be lunch or dinner or proably even both, yay.

My car heater? How it only goes to FULL BLAST or nothing at all? Is really annoying. Really, really, really, really annoying. Especially now that every day starts off at about 9 degrees. And I have an entirely manual car, with no automatic anything (a fact that my neffs find intriguingly Third World of me), and I am very much okay with it - except. The one modern automatic feature that just makes me downright dreamy to think of is the remote ignition. Because I live on the third floor. In Chicago. In winter. And it really is important to let your car warm up. And it would be so awesome to just push a button while brushing my teef and 10 minutes later step into a warm car. Of course, it'd be a little TOO warm inside, with the heater at full blast, but anyway. You get what I mean.

It occurred to me the other day that for the last week or so I am in a pretty good mood more than I am NOT in a pretty good mood. I mean, it's about 49/51 of bad/good, but it's certainly better than the previous proportions. And there are still days when all I want to do is stick my head in an oven, don't get me wrong. But mostly I'm okay. Because I've got a lot of things figured out. Like that my life took a wrong turn a few years ago, and I need to turn it back around. And that I can do that. I'm lucky that I can. Lots of people can't - not because of restrictions placed on them by various responsibilities, but because they don't have the will or imagination to do so. If there's anything I have in spades, it's will and imgination. I just keep reminding myself that no one ever said I have to be any certain person, or that life is supposed to be any one way. That's the mistake that's so easy to make: pushing yourself into a life out of necessity, and then believing that's who you have to be. As I said to Snookie lo these many months ago, Life is too short to be unhappy for so much of it.

As she said to me, No one on this earth is looking out for you except you.

Yeah, I answered. So I should stop blowing it.

In other news, I am still hooked on really bad Christmas-themed Romances. It's awesome and I love every vomitous word of it. (The non-vomitous words, too, but there are far less of them.) I just wish I had more time to read. Although I will lounge about this afternoon - after cleaning the kitchen - with a book. This latest anthology is set at the turn of the 20th century, and everyone is working class. Which is nice and refreshing, as far as that goes, but omg the writing is so awful. I think I have to get one of those Regency anthologies from the swap. That's really what I was going for, but when I couldn't find any at the bookstore, I settled for these others.

Oh crap, I have to make cookies tomorrow. I just know I'll forget. There's a cookie exchange at work. Must make cookies. Don't forget. Don't forget don't forget don't forget.

I am totally going to forget. Oh well. Off to le gym for my dose of rhythmic hyperventilation.

So work has totally kicked in now and I can't tell you about the Italian billionaire's Christmas miracle just now, sorry. Next Monday, I promise.

Drove home in a snowstorm. This is the view from my bedroom. Who wouldn't wanna curl up, huh?

Hi sorry, something came up last night and then my net connect went down (stupid unannounced maintenance, rar) and I totally couldn't SBD. And I have stuff to SBD about!!

I'll try tonight. If I can't manage that, then I guess we'll have to wait for next week to hear all about.... This!:



Oh yes I did. Every last page of it.

Oh hey yeah, almost forgot it's

SBD

Blog one, blog all. Comments open. You know the drill.

I feel ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. Not stomach-flu ugh. Just a different thing that mostly means that instead of being sound asleep - where just about every inch of me longs to be, I am sitting here drinking water. Because my body will not feel better, not even after copious amounts of sleep, until I hydrate myself.

I have a headache. (As usual.) My whole bod aches. My eyes are droopy. I feel ugh. I want sleep. And yet? I must sip water for a while longer.

They really ned to sell home IV kits. Or something.

Oh, and I just finished reading what Snookie describes as "bottom of the barrel romance" and I did it all as a public service for you people. I read it so that you don't have to. And really, I'm not complaining - got a ton of good laughs out of it.

The school across the street from me is selling monthly parking for $40/month. I can't help but think how uncredibly stupid this is. Why? Because I specifically chose this neighborhood to live in because of the abundance of free and available street parking. You don't even need a permit to park on the same street as the school. And aside from the 2 or 3 weekends in a year when some fest or another is going on, there are ALWAYS open spots to park in.

I dunno, every time I see the sign advertising $40 for monthly parking, I am just overwhelmed with how stupid it is. And I see it at least once a day. That's a lot of overwhelming Stupid to put up with.

Maybe I should have tea instead of water. Except I'd have to get up to make it. Bleh.

I think it goes without saying that I don't want to go to work tomorrow. Not that I won't say it anyway.

I have some lingering feelings of guilt for buying waffles today. They are there in my freezer, waiting for me to snack on them. Instead of snacking on the other, healthier snacks I also got (yogurt, fruit), I will undoubtedly reach for the waffle, toast it, smear it with something like butter and cinnamon, or peanut butter, or syrup, or all of the above. It's a stress snack. A very not good-for-me one, seeing as hoiw it's only a vehicle for unnecessary sugars and/or fats. But you know what? A single orange is 77 cents. A thingie of yogurt is about 85 cents. Ten waffles for a buck. As far as stress-snacks go, I feel more fiscally responsible with the waffles.

Speaking of excessive snacking, my cat is eating like twice as much as usual these last few days. Every time I turn around, she's meowing for more food. She is like a small furry bewhiskered cow. Gah.

I dunno where I stumbled on this link, but this person makes homemade soaps and lotions and stuff and I totally want some. I want a sample pack or something. Okay actually I want someone else to buy some and tell me if it's good or not. The lip butter and the soap and the bath treats, specifically. I just feel like smelling good. And not having dry skin. And stuff.

Okay, the water is beginning to make me feel better. I should sleep now. Buh bye.

So I'm reading all these Christmas-themed romance novels (I bought two anthologies and a Harlequin Presents, in addition to the Mary Balogh on its way to me) and am having a grand ole time, which I will discuss in further detail for tomorrow's SBD. But aside from the SBD-ness of it all, I just have to say:

I know I wrote a whole novel once and I don't really talk about it or even think of it much - it seems like a million light-years away. And I know very well that the novel I wrote is not-quite-right. It's mostly okay in itself, I think, but I can see very well why no one wants to publish it because it's a weird pile of pages and just out of step with everything else in the genre. It is very very far from being great, or even close to great. I'd even accept it if someone described it as flat-out bad.

But reading this tripe (there isn't any other word for it, trust me), I am reminded of and comforted by the fact that I at least didn't write anything profoundly dumb. Because even with all the varying levels of prose out there, the plot holes and the cardboard characters and the occassional and all-too-rare moments of truly fantastic writing, books (for me) come down on the side of Really Dumb or Not Really Dumb. And the dumbness, unlike so many writing faults, cannot be fixed.

And I may have written a really awkward and even craptastic book, but at least it's not insufferably dumb.

That is all.

There was all this snowing yesterday. And now today, everything is covered in ice and snow and you know it's just bitterly cold out there. It's supposed to get even icier today, some freezing sleety precipitation coting the windows and the streets and the cars.

I'm in my pyjamas. I am out of milk. There is no point to coffee without milk. Nor is there any way to make hot cocoa without milk. I have to go to the laundromat. I have to. And I'll get milk, and stop for coffee and a bagel or something, sure.

But still. Warm in here. Icy snowy cold out there. Must leave here and go out there.

It makes me very sad.