I am so sorry for this.

Now would probably be a good time to post and say something like, “Hey, look, I’m not dead!”  Except, guys?  I think I am.  1-credit winter term classes are the work of the DEVIL.  Also, not terribly compatible with DC Restaurant Week.  Stupid school, leaving me with not enough time or money to stuff myself quite as I would like to..

So when I resurface, possibly in a few weeks, I’ll give you a book report on a book that you should probably NOT READ (but if you want to read it anyways, I’ll send you my copy.  I don’t want it in my house any more!), some reports on foods I have eaten, and maybe a funny story…  or maybe just a Captivate demo, if they learn me good this week.

Back to Reality

Wow, the last week has been a blur.  My best friend was in town Tuesday through yesterday, I haven’t been at work since last Wednesday, and I have consumed an unholy amount of alcohol and rich food. 

Lest you think I’m a total waste, I do have the Four Accomplishments of the Wasteful Time:

1. I took my friend, the Boy, and the Boy’s little brother to most amazing place on the Mall,  the Freer-Sackler Gallery.  Hooray for DC’s free culture!  The Freer is my favorite Smithsonian and home to the Peacock Room.  I recommend it if you’re ever in town.
2. I finally got rid of my hateful T-mobile phone (by accidentally hurling it to the ground.  dead sober.  yeah, there were two pitchers of margaritas shortly thereafter, but the phone died whilst I was sober.) and T-mobile plan.  Now I have Verizon*, and I can talk in the metro like all the cool kids!
3. I started knitting “Heart” from page 7 of the Knitty Special Fall Breast Cancer Edition.  I am wildly impressed with my skillz**.
4. I made and froze 10 cups of chicken stock. Making chicken stock is the most ingenious thing ever. You just boil it all day long and clearly you cannot leave the house, because Hello! The stove is on! So you have no choice but to sit on the couch all day, and yet, you are productive. Making chicken stock might be my new hobby.

I hope everyone had a happy and safe New Year’s.  I had a tame one, but yet still managed to be drunk enough to fall asleep on the metro.  Luckily, the Boy stayed awake and got me up for our stop.  We make a good team.

*This new plan is a joint plan, with the Boy.  For two years.  I don’t know what terrifies me more, a 2-year commitment to the Boy or the 2-year commitment to Verizon.  But here I am.

**It took me two false starts and to be honest it’s not as pretty as the one in the picture, but my skillz are increasing with practice.  I’m sending it to an orphan, anyways, she better be grateful!

Beauty, Bitter, Bother

What with all the rest and relaxation and not having to go to work, I’ve torn through a couple books in the past week or so.

On Beauty, by Zadie Smith
I’d been wandering through this book since mid-November, but right before Christmas I realized that if I wanted to lend it to my friend visiting after Christmas, I needed to knuckle down.  So knuckle down I did, leaving the Boy in bed alone one night while I stayed up reading.

I haven’t read anything else by Smith, but I was anxious to read this one first, having heard some criticism of White Teeth being “too postmodern.”  Not that I have a problem with postmodernism, but it’s doesn’t generally lead to effective elliptical reading. 

On Beauty was much more accessible.  It’s the story of a family over the course of about a year.  The children are in the teenage to college range of age, and the father recently had an affair.  They interact with one another and fight and love and have problems and have epiphanies.  But in the end there is no actual resolution spelled out for the reader, one has to assume that the fighting and loving and problems and epiphanies lead to a solution beyond the pages of the book.  (Or if you’re me, you don’t have to assume that, as I very firmly believe that fictional characters are done when the book is done.  I have little imagination beyond what the author spells out for me.  And this has caused many an argument with my friend who would like very much to belive Chandler and Monica have a child by now, but anyhow…)

Smith writing is beautiful, her treatment of her characters is a fair balance of flaws and virtues.  I have no complaints.

Bitter is the New Black, by Jen Lancaster
After Zadie Smith, I wanted something a little lighter, something that would not take a month to read.  Bitter took about 3 days, one of which didn’t really involve reading.

Initially I was turned off by the writing style.  As a memoir, the main character and the author are one and the same, and this one was shallow and irritating.  However, having read the back of the book (and Jen’s blog) and knowing the general path the book would take, I suspected the tone would change as the character did. 

It didn’t really.  There was brandname dropping throughout.  There was self-centeredness throughout.  There was a general lack of substance throughout.
I maybe should have suspected this when I read Jessica Cutler’s glowing accolades on the back cover.  I felt very similarly about this book as I did about Cutler’s…  so much potential, so little substance. 

Through the fluff and insubstantiality, there was a story of someone who worked very hard to save her lifestyle, as well as that of her husband (whom she obviously cares about greatly and in a self-sacrificing way) and two dogs, and learned something along the way.  However, I must say, I have nothing but the greatest admiration for someone who takes on responsibility for two canine lives when it fully represents a large blow to their own lifestyle. 

Like Cutler’s book, I guess it just wasn’t my style.

A Spot of Bother, by Mark Haddon
The Boy bought me this book shortly before my birthday simply because he was in Borders, saw it, and thought it would appeal to me.  And that is so terribly sweet.  I tried to pick it up when I was still plodding through On Beauty, but saw immediatly what a mental disaster that would be, as they are very similar books.  This is also a snapshot glimpse into the life of a single family.  The children are older and the wife is having the affair, but it all breaks down to the same style of story.

However, where On Beauty focused on the relationship of the family members, Bother took a broader stance and examined more types of relationships.  Haddon’s scope covered (and well) every possible permutation of husband/wife/lover/single-mother daughter/gay son/significant others of son and daughter.  Additionally, the husband and son characters spent a lot of time examining their relationships with themselves and who they wanted to be.  It was complex. 

Haddon’s writing, though, is so straightfoward and the plot was actual quite simple.  Each short chapter moved to a different character’s perspective, although all in the third person.  Sometimes the characters did rather unbelievable things, but since you were pretty much in their head, nothing ever felt implausible or unexplained.

Again, I have no complaints.  I really enjoyed this book.

Merry Fucking Christmas

This may be too much information, but I need to WHINE.

Christmas Eve I woke up with a mild bladder infection.

Today I woke up with persistent diarrhea. 

Seriously?  Seriously? 

Obviously, there were lovely times in between as well.  And I hope everyone else had a more lovely Christmas than I.  (I also hope I don’t wake up New Year’s Day covered in boils…  I have many a high hope.)

Spreading holiday cheer.. and snack crackers

The other day I left work just after 5:00, the sun had just set, but the parking lot lights did their part to illuminate the package someone had left on my windshield.

I use the term “package” loosely, as it was really just a balled up Giant grocery store bag, loose ends flapping in the light breeze.

A gift?  For me?  You shouldn’t have…

Inside the bag was two small bags of plain potato chips, a couple Milky Way fun size bars, and many, many packages of peanut butter snack crackers. 

Oh, and a card, so as to provide a clue as to who at work apparently thinks I need a sandwich (obviously not anyone who knows me!).

The card is signed, “Have a very merry Christmas, Marcia and the furry kids.  ENJOY!”

I don’t know anyone named Marcia.  And furry kids?  I hope this is refering to animals, because I don’t know anyone with super hairy children, thank God.

But enjoy I shall.  Anyone want a Milky Way?  ‘Cause I’m not sharing my snack crackers.

Missing: One unicorn. Answers to Bill. Hates confrontation.

Saturday night I went to a Christmas party hosted by a woman in my bookclub.  It’s a fun annual party.  There are finger foods, cocktails, and a girls-only gift exchange. 

There are small children.  There are lovely, lovely people.

There is also the snarky corner.  I sit in the snarky corner.

Also sitting in the snarky corner is one of my favorite bookclubbers, J.  J is a a super sweet girl who used to live in the area, but moved out to the exburbs a couple years ago to live with her boyfriend (which is quite an act of love, in my opinion).  They just got engaged, and she is just off-the-wall excited.

At one point I accidentally got caught up in a conversation about boudoir photos, something that has just never occurred to me, but man is she excited…

Other things that came out of J’s mouth Saturday night include:

Someone:  OK, sit down, I want to hear all about Africa!
J:  Forget Africa, I want to hear about living with the boyfriend!

I, uh, what?

Then later, she cornered me  by the cheese tray (where I am my most vulnerable and distracted) and said, “So really, tell me about living with the boyfriend.  Isn’t it just MAGIC?!”

Yeah, sure, take a minute to recover from that one.  I needed it. 

Finally I managed to squeak out, “It is really great.  He cleans the litter box!”  And then I shoved a lot of cheese in my mouth so I could get away with not speaking anymore.

I grew concerned, though.  Is there something wrong with me that I am not so enamoured of my boyfriend?  I love, LOVE living with him, and my life is so much happier and easier because of it.  But it’s not magic.  It’s hard work.  And it’s sure as hell not magic when we’re both dragging around at 8 in the morning getting ready for our sixth day of work in a row and I’m pissy and he’s pissy and the cats are screaming and seriously, the coffee grinder just broke so now we have to rush to make extra time for Starbucks.

When I got home around 11:00 completely slap-happy off champagne cocktails, I asked the Boy.  “Honey, is living with me magic?”

He also needed a moment.

“Um, if your idea of magic involves petty arguments and a thickly-laid covering of cat hair, it sure is, dear!”

After I explained where I was coming from, he asked if I told J about our unicorn, Bill, because he is true magic.

“But honey, don’t you remember?  Bill ran away because he doesn’t like petty arguments!”

Last night we got together with some friends of mine from college, two couples of whom live together.  I asked them about the magic. 

They laughed their damn asses off.  Which made me feel much better.

So I ask you, gentle reader, am I a hopeless unromantic?  Is it bad that I laugh at people like J? 

Crazy Aunt Purl wrote this post the other day including an adorable story about her mother.  I don’t even feel like that everyday, although I think I do most.  And I think that’s a pretty functional relationship.  I’m not deluding myself, am I?

Because if I am, I’d rather it be with unicorns and champagne cocktails than just rational thought.

Cat Food, Lean Pockets

My grocery list from last night, of course. 

I am having the most wretched morning ever at work.  A program on my computer that I need simply won’t work properly.  The IT guy has spent all morning trying to fix it, bless his heart, but I really need to get on with the whole Working thing here.  So while I wait for him to get a laptop ready for me, I present you a book meme I took from Claire.  This is the Work Edition.

Directions:
1. Grab the book closest to you.
2. Open to page 123, go down to the fifth sentence.
3. Post the text of next 3 sentences on your blog.
4. Name of the book and the author.
5. Tag three people. 

So, my book is the 1999 CIRM Exam Content Manual (Certified in Integrated Resource Management–you could google that and find out where I work, even find out my last name, but why they would put my full name on the Internet without at least notifying me is another Bad Work Day Story altogether..).  It doesn’t have 123 pages, so you’re off the hook there.

The next closest book is the Basics of Supply Chain Managent Instructor Guide.  Luckily, it’s divided into sections with pagination restarting for each.  No 123 there, either.

Trust me, I’ve read these babies, you are lucky to be spared even the fifth sentence of the 123rd page. 

So..  next closest is The Chicago Manual of Style, 15th edition.

“Journal publishers who wish to put their publications on their Web sites, or license them to database publishers, need to ensure that their contracts give them that right.”

And with that, I need to go finish entering the year-end articles and Conference Proceedings into our publications database.  Ironic, is it not?

My Brain on Drugs

The downside of doing all one’s Christmas shopping online is, of course, the nervewracking anxiety of the online tracking phenomenon.  I may have completed my shopping, but who knows if it will arrive on time…

Someone visited my site today based on the search term “stylized pegasus.”  That is outstanding.

I hope you all appreciate my new plan of just posting whatever I’m thinking and pretending its worth your time.   At the rate I’m going, tomorrow perhaps I will grace you with my grocery list…