But she was sleeping with four other guys, too. And never told me.

The office I work in has a lobby that is open to the top floor. I opened the door onto the third floor hallway to take the elevator (because I had a teapot of hot tea, coupled with the inability to walk down stairs without spilling/scalding/screaming when I have a pot of tea with me) and the guy talking on his cell phone in the hall quickly stopped talking, just giving himself time to say "just a sec. Someone's here". I get in elevator, doors close. You know, the way they do.

I get off in the lobby. Which has FIVE people listening to the guy. Because the place is not only open, but it is almost accoustically perfect. I'm not one to spoil a party, and yes, given his end of the conversation the woman who dumped him is a bitch but still...the poor man thought he was keeping things secret, talking furtively in a hallway on the third floor. So I shouted "honey, we can hear EVERYTHING".

Yeah, the smoking women glared at me. Probably the most exciting thing they've had happen for ages.

Life over Death

I've been biking to work. And some days, like yesterday, the trip is so beautiful that one almost can't stand it. Just beautiful. The light was incredible, the air was clean and invigorating, the wind was whispering in the trees and the birds were singing. It was great. You didn't even have to be crazy-happy like I am to enjoy it all.

Being crazy happy though, I waxed poetic (poetic in my mind, at any rate) to a co-worker about how much I was enjoying biking to work. Which he, sometimes, does too. His take on the ride?

"Yeah, I guess. What I really notice more when I'm riding intead of driving is all the dead stuff. Road kill like everywhere. Flat dried out birds and gophers, and rabbits too. And sometimes when you first see it, if the rabbit is big enough, the first thing you think is that maybe it's like, a body part or something. From a dead person*".

Wow. And I used to think he was just a bit of a "always sees the glass as half empty" kind of person. I guess what he really is is a "sees the glass as having dead things in it" kind of person. Not that I haven't had my own dead person ponderings, but still: how do you bike to work on a gorgeous summer's day and only see what's down and dead?

*Like there would be body parts from the living. No more shoes on the side of the road, but arms and legs and heads.

The downside of having two brains

So here's the thing: I have two brains. One is smart and plans things out and thinks things through. It's very concientious, and remembers to pause before acting.

The other brain...well, that's the one that I listen to more than I should. The brain that said buy that outfit, ask that guy out, send that snarky email. All of which, by the by, I've lived to regret. Which is better than being dead an unable to regret, I guess. Oops, side-tracked. Must be brain # 2 writing this post.

Today I decided to walk next door to get some plums. There is a street and a sidewalk to take in one direction, and a circuitous path in the other. If you take the latter, it is possible to cut across the gravel-less unpaved field. Normally a good choice, but it rained buckets yesterday. Great deluges of water poured out of the sky, so the field was an odd clay-like shade of gray and brown.

Now, I started out on the path, and then thought "I should cut across". To which the good brain said "but...you're wearing white sandals. And it looks like a quagmire. Not a good plan". I, however, chose not to listen to the smart brain. So I cut across said quaqmire. And arrived looking like I'd decided to wear heavy gray and brown boots to the store. Not one snippet of white showed. Not one bit of flesh, either. Foot flesh, that is.

There being a convenient puddle outside the store (pointed out to me by an employee trying very gallantly to not laugh his head off) I thought I'd wash the boots/sandals/feet. Yet another mistake. I ended up shopping in bare muddy feet (not to mention filthy hands as I'd tried to pull some of the gumbo off the sandals), walking back barefoot using the paved route and being totally disgusted with myself.

My sandals are drying on the table behind me, my feet are cleanish and my hands are fine. My dignity is cowering beneath my desk. All I need now is to discover that the guy that told me about the puddle has a blog too, and that he is blogging about this idiot woman and her gumbo-feet.

The robe which curious Nature weaves to hang upon the head.

Why do I have all of this stupid irritating hair?
Is it because it grows faster than chives in spring? Yes, partly.
Is it because it costs too much to keep cut in style? Yes, although given the $ I spend on detangler when I wash it, that may be an incorrect assumption.
Is it because some guy I used to date loved brushing long hair? Ok, I'll cop to that, a bit. Just a bit.
Is it because I wish I was in some movie where I have long hair a la First Night? Yes, but I'll kill you if you tell anyone. Not that I mind the killing, it's all the attendant body-hiding that comes with it that I don't like.

Maybe it is time to get my head just...shaved. Bald bald bald. Which should last a week before it's shoulder length again.

The header is from Thomas Dekker. Or maybe Decker.

Vacation

I was going to post more about my vacation. Decided not too. It was wonderful, and somewhat unreal. Which is I guess what all vacations are. A break from work-going bill-paying house cleaning reality. All I can say is that if you have no kids, no pets, a cleaning lady and a house so big that there is more than enough space for absolutely everything then said house remains remarkably tidy. Tidier, certainly than a small house with children, pets and no cleaning lady. Ah well, it was nice living in dreamland for a little bit!

I give up - you try.

So I'm off on vacation. I managed to get away without any mad dashing around town and having a knife in my purse when I attempted to go through security you'll be happy to know.

However, there was one thing (what, like you're surprised?) You know how your stuff goes on the conveyor belt at the security and gets x-rayed? Well, my purse went through, and then my carry-on. And the guy stopped the belt. And started giggling. And then he called the other two people over and pointed at the screen and they started giggling. Being mystified I said "uhhh, excuse me. Is there a problem with my carry-on bag?"

An instant triple "no, it's fine" and the belt gets going again. What was so funny? I don't know. I can tell you what was in the bag and you tell me what you think it was:

Sunglasses in a case
Three books
Bathing Suit
Ipod recharging thingy
Ipod car cord
Hair Brush

C'est tout. My sister thinks the cord looked like it was spelling something obscene. I don't think it has the smarts for that. I'd be interested in your theories.

No sleep on the plane, so from about six am on Friday Morning until eleven (Regina time) I had one hour of sleep. On the couch (I was sorting laundry) from one-ish until two in the morning when I had to start baking. Good thing the boy was there to make sure the baking started on time.

More later. Suffice it to say I'm having a great time, doing things and buying things. I've even bought myself something - a whole nitrite-free ham big enough to count as a third child.

Hooray for good bun.

No, not good buns. Good bun, singular. A good, well cushioned bun that saved me from serious injury today. Cushioned the blow when a box fell on me (for the second time in my career). I swear, one more time and I quit. Three attacks by non-sentient* things is sufficient. More than, actually.

*as far as I know.

Facts.

Partially frozen meal replacement drinks look like a science experiment gone wrong. A disgusting experiment.

A half hour isn't long enough to eat a proper lunch and deliver a cake. Hence the need for liquid lunch Which always sounds yummy in a girlie-drink with mini-umbrella and fruit kind of a way, yet is disappointly no such thing.

Elevators may be publice places - ok, ok. ARE public places. But when you're in one on your own your entitled to do/sing/say whatever you want.

Morning in la-la land.

I am generally a morning person. Awake, cheerful, happy. I would have thought that I wouldn't be snarky in the morning but apparently with my brain fully functioning I can't resist responding to crazy people. Normally I'd just keep my thoughts in my head, and normally they're not terribly clever. But today...well today the blondes struck again.

I don't normally talk in the bathroom. Icks me out. Let me do what on normally does and keep your chit chat to yourself. But clearly not everyone feels this way. Also, people have different ideas of what is normal in a bathroom. The woman from the floor above (who must believe that the stall is a cone of silence) has torrid cell phone conversations in the bathroom. And the curly hair pretty woman goes in to check the mirror (because there is a break between looking in the reflective window and entering the building during which a hair might have moved) often. Very very often indeed. Anyway:

There I am, minding my own business when the smoking blondes* arrive. They are talking about movies. No problem. And the fact that there aren't healthy snack choices at theatres. Understoon. I recently learned that one basic thing of nachos and cheese is the fat swallowing equivalent of three quarter pounders with cheese. THREE! And those puppies aren't low on the list of incredibly bad fast foods that will kill you. So I get it. But:

Blonde #1 (hereafter known as B1)
What they need is to have like whole wheat popcorn.
Blonde #2 (B2. Duh)
That would be....like...it would be...
Me: Corn. That would be corn.
B2: What?
Me: whole wheat comes from wheat. Pop corn is corn.
B1: so they should make whole wheat popcorn.
Me: Except that corn is corn and wheat is wheat. So to get whole wheat popcorn you'd have to have popcorn in a sandwich made with wholeweat bread.
B1: All I'm saying is that they should make popcorn from corn that doesn't have all the bran taken away.
Me: Yeah....I guess you could just work out how to do that and make a million inventing whole wheat corn.
B1: Huh.


I left. Washed my hands, shook my head and left. Because really, does it make a difference? Will her life be any better - or for that matter, any worse - if she doesn't understand basic grains?

*as in cigarette smoking.

Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying

Apparently the extra panels in the skirt I'm wearing aren't there to make the skirt look all frilly and girly. They're there to allow the wind to whip the skirt up to my shoulders. It should have said so on the tag.

Oh yeah - R.L. Stevenson gave me my title. Not personally (spiritually? Ghostly?)