I need to brush up on my U.S. History

I was at the gym the other day, mentally cursing the person who’d decided to use the elliptical placed just a hair too close to mine, despite the existence of many other free ellipticals in the room.  Trying to find something to take my mind off of the grouchiness that seems to take over my brain midweek, I settled on the flatscreen suspended in front of the machines, tuned to some news channel.  They asked the question,  ”How many signers of the Declaration of Independence went on to become President?”

I picked the wrong answer, having conflated signers of the Declaration with framers of the Constitution.  It’s been a while.

Not that I’m going to spend the weekend studying, or anything, but I think I might use one or two of those coupons that various online booksellers have been desperately emailing me in an attempt to get someone to buy something, ANYTHING, to pick up a biography or two.  As I recall, Benjamin Franklin was an interesting fellow who once said something along the lines of,

“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

That definitely sounds like someone I’d like to know a little more about.  And I bet a book about him would go quite nicely with a bottle or two of Dogfish Head’s 60 minute IPA.  Or maybe 90 minute, if I’m feeling adventurous.

 

Have a happy and safe 4th, everyone!  And if you think of it, think cool and MSG-free thoughts for Mr. and Dr. Taggart, who are currently sweltering somewhere in China…

Let me get you… a copy… of that

…memo.

In all seriousness, what’s up with the high-volume metro commute today, people?  Did you miss out on the fact that a huge chunk of us have tomorrow off, which means that you should have taken today off, so as to get a head start on the mass exodus to various mid-Atlantic beaches?

Since you didn’t get the memo, and I’m really grouchy when I get less than 5 hours’ sleep, let me give you a tip or two.

1)  Don’t step on my feet.  Definitely don’t do it 3 times.  It’s not that difficult – I’m seated, and my feet are stationary and as tucked under the seat as I can get them.  My feet?  Not moving.  So avoiding them should be simple.

2)  If you must step on my feet, please take note of the headphones I’m sporting (a very fasionable purple set) and realize that your apology will not be heard, and is probably not necessary. 

3)  If you must apologize, based on compulsory points of etiquette drilled into you by a parent or other delightfully old-fashioned figure, do not – I repeat, do NOT – touch my leg to make sure I’ve heard you, thus forcing me to give up the slim comfort of the slight doze I’ve managed to achieve in this, the fifth circle of hell. 

I understand that there’s a generally accepted dearth of personal space on public transportation, but let’s not go out of our way to make that worse, shall we?

Ugh.  Anyone have a RedBull?

No, really.

It’s funny ’cause it’s true.  And has probably been applicable to 95% of humanity (myself included) at one time or another (probably several times, in my case). 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the gym.  There’s an imbalance in the universe, and I’m not about to get less crazy anytime soon.

Was it a dream

Where  you’re stading on a pyramid in sort of sun-god robes, while thousands of naked women are screaming and throwing little pickles at you?  Why am I the only person who has that dream?

Speaking of pickles and other Eastern European tastiness… get thee to Chutzpah.  I tried the kugel (sweet, but not overpoweringly so), the latkes (unusually thick, but nice and fluffy, and perfectly crispy on the outside), and half of a patty melt.  And that patty melt?  Despite the ground beef, and the cheese, and the sautéed onions, I could still taste the rye bread.  I’m contemplating holding them hostage until they’ll either tell me where they got it or give me the recipe, because toasted rye bread with butter is possibly the only thing I might choose over nutella, if I had to choose between two things for the rest of my life.

Okay, okay.  Maaayyyybe macaroni and cheese.  But it’s close, is what I’m saying.

Anyway, this was supposed to be about dreams.  Lately, I haven’t been getting enough sleep to really remember mine, if I have them, but today I overslept.  And in oversleeping, I got to learn about what’s been bothering me lately.

See, in my dream, I’d just bought a new place, but the condo management people kept letting themselves in all the time, without letting me know or even knocking first.  They’d bring furniture in, or mess around with the utilities to make sure they were set up properly.  Of course, they’d do this early in the morning, so that I’d wake up and there would be a strange man in my room, messing with a cable jack.  Disconcerting, to say the least, and pretty clearly related to the fact that my place has lots of windows and no window treatments*, yet.

You know, I’ve generally considered myself a reasonably creative person.  And these dreams?  Are so literal.  I’m BORING myself.  I need more of a challenge!

Anyone have some really bizarre dreams for me to armchair analyze?

*Also, who invented THAT phrase?  Window treatments?  How I treat my windows? Interior designers scare me a little**, with how seriously they take this stuff.
**Obviously, I’m jealous, because I know that I have absolutely no talent in this arena and my place is undoubtedly going to look like it was decorated by a five-year-old.

Stet

It’s Monday, and my day thus far has involved some excellent music, followed by headache-inducing questions of grammar that may involve me telling my (several pay scale grades removed) superiors that they are, in fact, wrong.

Then again, it might not.  Because if they want to edit my documents in such a way that the documents are less correct than they were when I last saw them, that’s their prerogative and I’m not one to stand in the way of my betters’ prerogative.

Instead, I’m going to perform our generation’s equivalent of sticking my head in the sand, and rejoin Mr. Schnauss in the land of iPodia.

Stet.  It’s like “om”, but for editors.

Things I’m glad I know

(1)  How to make beetle-like creatures go “squunch”.

(2)  How to take care of myself by eating well and exercising.

(3)  How to truly savor the last molecule of heavenly chocolate-hazelnut goodness.

(4)  How much better I am now, than I was before.

(5)  How to know amazing people who will always be there and will always be awesome, no matter what.

(6)  How to let myself let go a little, sometimes.

(7)  That no matter what that is, I’m going to be more than okay.

(8)  The lyrics to “Ice Ice Baby”.

(9)  How to enjoy what’s yet to come.

Things I wish I didn’t know

(1)  I wish I didn’t know that there was a very large beetle-like creature roaming around the condo.

(2)  I wish I didn’t know what my scale said this morning.

(3)  I wish I didn’t know how many calories are in a spoonful of Nutella.

(4)  I wish I didn’t know that I could do better.

(5)  I wish I didn’t know how to not know someone at all.

(6)  I wish I didn’t know better, sometimes.

(7)  I wish I didn’t know … that.

(8)  I wish I didn’t know that my love for Lady Gaga is not something I should advertise publicly.

(9)  Or that those boxes?  The ones in my closet?  Are definitely not going to unpack themselves.

For serious?

“While you think quite highly of yourself, you may well have reason to believe the criticism offered by another.” ~ Express horoscopes.

Alrighty then.  Who let Dr. Taggart write the horoscopes?  Perhaps the universe is telling me that I have better things to do than read the horoscopes?

I’m just going to sit tight and think about this.  Should I ever own one, it will most assuredly be named My Preciousssss.

Though, since I’m thinking about what I should be reading instead, if anyone has good book recommendations, that’d be much appreciated.  Since it’s summer, any and all fiction is welcome, but I’d love to hear about some sci-fi/fantasy authors that are not named Terry Goodkind, Robert Jordan, David/Leigh Eddings, Joel Rosenberg, Melanie Rawn, or Weis/Hickman.  Of those, the last three are among my favorites.

Thanks!

“Oh! Check the pillowcase!”

Before I get started, I’d like to extend my condolences and sympathy to those affected by yesterday’s accident.  You are in my thoughts.

*Thunk*

“What was that?”

“I don’t know – oh, a pillow fell.”

“Hmph.  ssnnnrrrkkkkzzzz“

<several hours later>

“I can’t find my phone – I’ve looked everywhere.  It’s not by my bed, not in my office, not anywhere.”

“Did you check your car?  The bathroom?  The mantel?”

“Yeah, I loo–”

“Oh!  Check the pillowcase!  Pillows don’t thunk!”

The phone was, in fact, in the pillowcase. 

So, when I was meandering through a bit of an existential crisis, I realized that I felt much the same as just a few days after my move, when severe thunderstorms threatened the power supply to the new condo, and I could not for the life of me find my flashlight.  I had packed it, of course.  And I’d meant to pack it someplace easily accessible, just in case.  Where had I put it…  Aha!

Opening the heavy box filled with (mostly full) bottles of adult libation, I found the flashlight wedged between them, having been the perfect size to take up the last remaining bit of horizontal space in the box, and thus keep the bottles from rattling against each other at all.

Applying this methodology, I went through my head, shaking out the dropcloths of insecurity and letting my actual knowledge speak for itself.  And there, under a particuarly paint-splattered specimen, I found my faith.*

And also, a bottle of Southern Comfort.

*And I don’t think I agree with the notion that faith destroys doubt, and that if you have doubt, then the best you can do is have hope.  I think that it’s possible to have faith, and have room for doubt as well.  One premise I’d offer in support is, if faith were an absolute antidote, then why the phrase, “Ye of little faith”? (emphasis added). 

Something I should know?

“You should be able to get through a tough time with your confidence and self-esteem intact — no matter what others may say about you.”

This from this morning’s Express horoscope.  But, um… I thought I was having a good weekend, and a reasonably good morning?   Universe, if you’re trying to tell me something, you could just pass it along to Karma.  She’ll deliver the message with gusto, I’m sure.

I think, just maybe, that I’ve found a couch.  I went to the store, saw it, liked it even more than online, and it seems that I’ll be able to get it at a fairly reasonable price.  But answer me this, people.

How do you know if you want a whole couch covered in a color of which you have a 4″x4″  sample?  And here’s an even better question – how do you know you want a whole WALL, or ROOM even, covered in a color of which you have a 1.25″x2″ sample?

Maybe my horoscope is telling me that the “tough time” is going to be living with whatever chaos I create, while my friends whisper that I’ve got absolutely no taste at all.

*sigh*