From his blog:

My inner child is sixteen years old!

Life's not fair! It's never been fair, but while
adults might just accept that, I know
something's gotta change. And it's gonna
change, just as soon as I become an adult and
get some power of my own.


How Old is Your Inner Child?
brought to you by Quizilla

Poem of the day on Poetry.Com

Event on Mauna Loa
A fallen seed
from yesternight's bright flower
tumbles amid discarded husks
and humbled trees before
the crimson river's splayed
and crackling knees.
The red flood drags its dense
demented wake--seething,
heaving, blacktopping
root and reed.
Bedfellows strange beneath
the field--cinder and seed.
However deep the bed,
at some appointed hour,
with waft of dew and brush of light
fanning desire,
the seed commands its pavement dome.
It gives.
And, as all hope by hope is healed,
the flower lives.

Jimi Miller

Copyright ©2004 Jimi Miller

Today in the city, it is warm, sunny, and beautiful. Happy spring, everyone.

I will be on a business trip Monday through Thursday of next week. Hopefully I will have nothing to blog about. {wink}

Symbols

In case you couldn't tell, yesterday's rant was motivated partly by floral deprivation. However, this is a symbol for something else.

I found out about the ACS Daffodil Drive when I arrived at work, and noticed that most of the women had bouquets of flowers on their desks. How sweet! They had received them from their bosses, co-workers, significant others, etc. At the time, I thought nothing of it.

Then I learned through a friend over my lunch hour that my bf had been spotted at a nearby daffodil kiosk, chose to donate the money, and left the flowers there.

Naturally, I emailed him. "Where's my daffodils, you jerk?" (Honestly, I thought it sounded playful.)

He wasn't mad. He bragged about making a donation. Then he said

>> What was I going to do with a bunch of flowers & no water-filled vase? :-)

Doesn't he have a cute smile...

At some point, he mentioned that he personally found the unopened daffodil buds to be unattractive, and went so far as to say he thought I wouldn't like them. (Which is a classic line of BS, as I will address in a moment.) It is true that unopened Daffodil buds atop thick green stalks resemble, as several of my co-workers pointed out, asparagus. A bouquet of asparagus.

All about how HE felt about it. At no point did I enter his mind.

I didn't feel playful anymore.

I will admit that the fact that I received no flowers on Valentine's Day either contributed to this. He made lots of other beautiful, expansive gestures. It was a lovely weekend. But no roses. At that time, I felt horribly guilty about feeling disappointed in a lack of roses.

This time, the words "thoughtlessness" and "insensitivity" floated through my brain and plagued me for the rest of the day.

Now, this man is not thoughtless or insensitive. He is in general a generous, giving man. He has spent a great deal of money, time, and effort on me in many other ways - dinners out, movies, even a vacation. I am generally treated wonderfully - like every person ought to be treated by their beloved - and I try to be good to him in return. It was a sin of omission... he didn't REALLY do anything wrong...

In spite of every excuse I could make for him, I was very upset for hours.

This is not really about flowers. This is about the fact that I never entered his mind.

We have been dating for 4 and a half months. I think everyone who knows me for two weeks knows that I'm a neo-hippie pagan earth-worshipping lover of all things green. I don't think it's a huge mental leap from there to "likes flowers."

I don't just like them. I am obsessed.

If I could afford it, I would have fresh flowers in every room, year round. Little bouquets in the bathroom. Big ones in the living room. A vase of seasonal blooms on both sides of the bed. I'd like a tall, flowering tree standing in the corner of my living room, next to the window. When I was living alone, I fantasized about painting one on the wall, but my lease didn't really allow it, and I'm a pretty lousy painter. One gift I have always dreamed of receiving is the "Flowers by the Month" deal from Martha's Flowers.com.

Not diamonds. Flowers. I honestly would rather go to a local Italian restaurant and be given flowers and some cheap jewelry than flown to the Riviera and presented with diamonds, caviar, champagne, opera tickets, and no flowers.

Ok, I'll take the opera tickets. But you see my point.

Below are several excuses reasons why flowers aren't given. Believe me, over the years I have gotten every excuse in the book, but here are the most common ones:

1. "Aren't you allergic to them?"

2. "They just die anyway."

3. "I never know what kind to get, and I'm afraid of getting something you won't like."

4. "Those cheap half-dead things at the bodega on the corner? Don't women resent cheap gifts even more than no gifts at all?"

5. "You're such a modern, feminist gal, I thought you'd be insulted by such a traditional gift."

6. "Wouldn't you prefer something more practical?"

7. "They're so expensive! I'd rather spend the money on a nice dinner out."

8. "They're so cliche!"

9. "You're just buying into the Hallmark marketing scam."


Here and now, for posterity, are my answers:

1. I am NOT allergic to flowers. I have a SLIGHT allergy to pollen. The only flowers with problematic pollen are lilies, and it is very easy to remove the pollen from the lilies once they are in a vase. I do it every year.

2. Even if they only last one day, I have a day of joy!

3. There has never been a flower I haven't liked. If it's blooming, I'll love it. Any color. Any variety. Roses are my favorite. But I love them all.

4. Nice try. Are you accusing me of being superficial and pretentious? Do you think I'm too proud to love a $5 daisy bouquet? Then what are you doing dating me?

5. Ah yes, the backlash argument. Feminism is about not being discriminated against, it is not about the rejection of expressions of love. Statements like this usually indicate a much deeper issue than flowers and will spark such a conversation, you'll wish you'd never brought it up.

6. I buy myself all the practical things I need. I like flowers.

7. First of all, I can tell you where to get them cheap, and so could any random lady on the streets of New York. But clearly finance isn't really the issue: YOU'D rather spend the money some other way. Who is that really a gift for? Oh... you don't really want to give me a gift unless it's something for you too. Thanks.

8. So what?

9. Fuck off. I'm not trying to make a socio-economic statement, I don't give a rats ass about Hallmark or Martha Stewart or fucking FTD. Buy them at the bodega on the corner for $10 if you're so anti-establishment. If my happiness isn't as important to you as your anger against corporate marketing strategies, then don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out of my apartment. Creep.

Bottom line: I love flowers. That should be enough.

And Another Thing

Every man I've dated who's been a great flower-giver has also been over-compensating for some huge personal flaws in other areas. He can't hold down a job, remember to shave or speak to his mother without screaming, but he'll bring me flowers and candy and thoughtful gifts in an attempt to charm me into staying in his life.

Every man I've dated who I think I might like to see across the dining room table for the rest of my life thinks flowers are stupid, or too expensive (they're $10 a dozen on the streets of New York, losers), or useless, or whatever. Who cares if I love them and they make me happy.

A girl shouldn't have to buy her own fucking flowers.

This rant brought to you by the American Cancer Society. Buy some daffodils for someone. It's a good cause, and it might keep you from getting dumped.

You are 32% geek

You are a geek liaison, which means you go both ways. You can hang out with normal people or you can hang out with geeks which means you often have geeks as friends and/or have a job where you have to mediate between geeks and normal people. This is an important role and one of which you should be proud. In fact, you can make a good deal of money as a translator. Normal: Tell our geek we need him to work this weekend. You [to Geek]: We need more than that, Scotty. You'll have to stay until you can squeeze more outta them engines! Geek [to You]: I'm givin' her all she's got, Captain, but we need more dilithium crystals! You [to Normal]: He wants to know if he gets overtime.

Take the Polygeek Quiz at Thudfactor.com

HOLY CRAP

No Deposit, No Return (2000)

This is the one movie I ever made. I did it for free. I had a non-speaking role with some fun comic moments. I filmed for 3 overnights, didn't sleep for 72 hours, and generally had a good time. When it premiered, someone from the production crew called me to say that I had a close-up in the film. My face was about 20 feet tall at the Angelica.

So I heard. I never saw the film. And I never saw anyone that worked on it ever again.

I also heard that it got some recognition at some Film Festivals for the cinematography. I also heard that it was only shown at the Angelica one night, then disappeared.

I have never even bothered trying to find it in video stores. I highly doubt anyone who wasn't involved in the show has ever seen it.

The only reason I even saw it on IMDB is I was reading this chick's bio. Not only did she star in the film, but she lived in my home town for a couple of years, and went to high school with my best friend. They did a community theatre production of West Side Story together. She's a nice gal, so I follow her career. It's been impressive.

But I sure would like to see that film someday.

Wonderful stories from People Everywhere

Listen - StoryCorps

I visit this page often. The stories sometimes make me cry, sometimes laugh out loud... but they always make me feel a part of humanity, and make me feel more at home here in New York.

This is the coolest project ever created. I want to interview someone, and I hope someone will want to interview me. Any volunteers?

Real people, real stories. History.

I can't get enough.

St Patrick Day

From the article:

(Although there were a small number of Christians on the island when Patrick arrived, most Irish practiced a nature-based pagan religion. The Irish culture centered around a rich tradition of oral legend and myth. When this is considered, it is no surprise that the story of Patrick life became exaggerated over the centuries—spinning exciting tales to remember history has always been a part of the Irish way of life. )

For myself, whose spirituality is practiced in accordance with those ancient earth-centered traditions, my family's favorite holiday takes on an aspect of mourning. It wasn't until recent years that I learned that the snake is one of the oldest symbols of the Goddess. The legend of St. Patrick driving the snakes from Ireland is a myth which illustrates the destruction of Goddess worship, including druidry.

It is a testament to the nature of the celts that the Christians "gave" them St. Bridget. There was no defeating the passionate following of the Goddess Brigit. Her shrine is tended still today.

All my life, St. Pat's has never been about religion. It was about visiting family, hanging with friends at pubs, and wondering who'd get to dance with who. My Grandpa Barney was a musician, so are both my parents, and so am I - lots of Irish music on this day. We love to dance! Also an excuse to damn everyone's diet and eat corned beef.

My parents never really discussed the religious or political conflicts in Ireland with me in depth. They focused on the fun stuff - the music, the whiskey, the intense love of land and respect for nature instilled by centuries of pagan beliefs that Christianity could never destroy. I learned about the Civil war and the terrorism from my great aunt, who emigrated here during the 1920's, but only from her personal experiences, which were terrifying enough that I didn't ask too many questions. But it wasn't until recent years that I learned the details of the Easter Rebellion, the political events leading up to the partition of Ireland into Northern Ireland and the Republic of Eire, and the sheer intensity of the animosity between Protestantism and Catholicism. My family were all Catholic. There was no need to mention protestants.

I spent all of last year participating in a Spirituality program that centered on earth-centered, goddess worshipping systems of belief from all over the world. It validated the feelings I had secretly nurtured all my life. I grew up in a very conservative Christian part of the country. Those people would call me a witch. I'm not one - but they don't know any better. Out here, I am simply a Pagan Unitarian Universalist of Irish-Italian-German descent.

I did not plan to wear a black sweater over my white shirt and green pants today, but I find it appropriate that I am. There is an aspect of discomfort this year that I have never felt before, due to my studies. It is appropriate to mourn a bit. Sort of like dressing in Native American garb on Columbus Day. Which, having as much Italian blood in me as Irish, could be another whole post.

However, those rich pagan earth-loving and woman-revering traditions are still alive and well. I will be meeting this Sunday evening to celebrate the Spring Full Moon with a group of women, thanking the Goddess for guiding us through another winter, looking forward to a spring of hopeful plantings and a year of bountiful spiritual and material harvest.

Cead Mile Failte, and Blessed Be.

My heart fluttered when I read this.

I have wanted grad school for years, but have found every excuse in the world not to apply. This year, I finally was ready to apply, but as is my fashion, by the time I was psychologically and emotionally ready to put myself out there, I realized I had missed the application deadline for every school I was interested in, and several others to boot. I must now wait an additional year to apply.

I'm already working on my portfolio, tinkering around with essays. What scares me the most is that by fall I may talk myself out of applying again. Finances I can face. My own feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness... damn.

For awhile, because of the perfect job (the one I lost 2 years ago), I was hot to trot into an MBA program. I think I may be over that. My humiliating experience with the GMAT certainly helped. I can't escape the feeling that is wasn't the buisness that I loved - it was that company, because of those people. It is gone. They are gone. And everyone who knew that company knows that as the business world goes, it was Shangri-La. I am not exageratting or being depressive by saying that I will never have a job like that again. It's just the truth. No company will ever be like that one was. And if that's the case, there is a real possibility that the corporate stage, for all I've gained from it, is not where I belong.

Several people who know me intimately for years have asked when I'm going to get off my duff and get back to writing. I tell them I already have: mzouiser.blogspot.com. Yuk-yuk-yuk. But I know what they mean. I just have been so uninspired for so long.

But I have been writing again. And lately, the novel I abandoned has been gently knocking on the inside of my skull.

I don't know.

When you refuse a gift, it's very hard to ask for it back.

Like so many other things going on with me these days, I just don't know.

It is true that after working with numbers for 4 years, I will clearly die young if I don't find a way to blend my (talent? passion?) with my income.

Moments of Joy

This morning, I emerged from a long hot shower to discover a wonderful young man snoozing in my bed with my Lovey Kitty Girl wrapped in his arms. She peekd at me through slitted eyes and purred.

For a few moments, my world was perfect.

I think I'll keep him.

My Favorite Cole Porter Song

I sang this song as a project at SCAMDA. It was one of the many wonderful, obscure pieces of musical theatre that I found there, in a desperate search to avoid singing the same old crap everyone else does.

It's called "The Physician". Published September 1933. According to The Peaches,

Originally titled, "But He Never Says He Loves Me," it was first presented in the pre-New York performances of The New Yorkers (1930). Subsequently, it was earmarked for the unproduced show "Star Dust" (1931). The title change to "The Physician" and a few lyric changes occurred during rehearsals for "Nymph Errant."

According to my own research, "Nymph Errant" was a big enough hit to turn its songs into popular tunes. This was one of them. Originally sung and popularized by one of my all-time fave sopranos, Gertrude Lawrence, recorded it on October 18, 1933. The lyrics are:


Intro:

Once I loved such a shattering physician,
Quite the best-looking doctor in the state.
He looked after my physical condition,
And his bedside manner was great.
When I'd gaze up and see him there above me,
Looking less like a doctor than a Turk,
I was tempted to whisper, "Do you love me,
Or do you merely love your work?"

"A" Section:

He said my bronchial tubes were entrancing,
My epiglottis filled him with glee,
He simply loved my larynx
And went wild about my pharynx,
But he never said he loved me.

He said my epidermis was darling,
And found my blood as blue as could be,
We went through wild ecstatics,
When I showed him my lymphatics,
But he never said he loved me.

"B" Section:

And though, no doubt,
It was not very smart of me,
I kept on a-wracking my soul
To figure out
Why he loved ev'ry part of me,
And yet not me as a whole.

"A" again:

With my esophagus he was ravished,
Enthusiastic to a degree,
He said 'twas just enormous,
My appendix vermiformis,
But he never said he loved me.

He said my cerebellum was brilliant,
And my cerebrum far from N.G.,
I know he though a lotta
My medulla oblongata,
But he never said he loved me.

He said my maxillaries were marvels,
And found my sternum stunning to see,
He did a double hurdle
When I shook my pelvic girdle,
But he never said he loved me.

"B" Again:

He seemed amused
When he first made a test of me
To further his medical art,
Yet he refused
When he'd fix up the rest of me,
To cure that ache in my heart.

"A" Again:

I know he thought my pancreas perfect,
And for my spleen was keen as could be,
He said of all his sweeties,
I'd the sweetest diabetes,
But he never said he loved me.

HOWEVER!

I discovered on the website that there is another verse - which was NOT on the Lawrence recording I culled much of my performance from - which is even more... shall we say, borderline.

He said my vertebrae were "sehr schone,"
And called my coccyx "plus que gentil,"
He murmured "molto bella,"
When I sat on his patella,
But he never said he loved me.

He took a fleeting look at my thorax,
And started singing slightly off key,
He cried, "May Heaven strike us,"
When I played my umbilicus,
But he never said he loved me.

As it was dark,
I suggested we walk about
Before he returned to his post.
Once in the park,
I induced him to talk about
The thing I wanted the most.

He lingered on with me until morning,
Yet when I tried to pay him his fee,
He said, "Why, don't be funny,
It is I who owe you money,"
But he never said he loved me.


Not just sexual freedom - implied prostitution!!

The sexual revolution was a long way off...

If you ever get a chance to hear it sung, it's adorable, and hilarious in that Porteresque way.

If you see me in a bar, I'll probably sing it for you.

Made Me Cry

Right Now

18.75 %

My weblog owns 18.75 % of me.
Does your weblog own you?

Saw this on his blog and couldn't resist...
Of course, my job owns me, so this wasn't a surprise. But 18% still seems like a lot! Gee, and I think I'm such a newbie...

Some people have been trying to get ahold of me via phone and email, and I have just been too busy and tired to reply.

I literally have 3 free hours each weeknight, and I spend them cooking, eating, cleaning, or occasionally talking on the phone to someone who is clever enough to figure out when I'm home and call me then. Weekends I am usually out of town, doing church stuff, rehearsing my music, or running errands that can only be run during Saturday business hours. This is my life for the past year.

Add to this the things that you wouldn't know if you hadn't read the first postings of my blog (pending divorce, sick grandma, sick me, hellish job, etc.) I manage to keep a pretty happy face on for the sake of people who have to see me regularly, but it's very tiring at times. There are days it takes all my strength to move through the challenges and issues that I'm already entrenched in. Picking up something new, dealing with a new development... I can't. Not now. Not for a while yet. I have to straighten out my filing cabinets and shampoo the carpet stains away before I think about decorating my office and showing people around. Spiritually speaking.

So.. I apologize for locking myself in here... I promise I will come out soon. It's not spring yet. I'm still hibernating. I'm glad you're all out there. I'll be out in a month or so. Thanks for reaching out for me. I appreciate that, and it gives me encouragement that when I do emerge, there will be someone to welcome me.

Smooches,
Me

Damn Straight




You are a PHOENIX in your soul and your wings make a statement.

Huge and born of flame, they burn with light and power and rebirth. Ashes fall from your wingtips. You are an amazingly strong person. You survive, even flourish in adversity and hardship. A firm believer in the phrase, 'Whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger,' you rarely fear failure. You know that any mistake you make will teach you more about yourself and allow you to 'rise from the ashes' as a still greater being. Because of this, you rarely make the same mistake twice, and are not among the most forgiving people. You're extremely powerful and wise, and are capable of fierce pride, passion, and anger. Perhaps you're this way because you were forced to survive a rough childhood. Or maybe you just have a strong grasp on reality and know that life is tough and the world is cruel, and it takes strength and independence to survive it. And independence is your strongest point - you may care for others, and even depend on them... but when it comes right down to it, the only one you need is yourself. Thus you trust your own intuition, and rely on a mind almost as brilliant as the fire of your wings to guide you.

You are eternal and because you have a strong sense of who and what you are, no one can control your heart or mind, or even really influence your thinking. A symbol of rebirth and renewal, you tend to be a very spiritual person with a serious mind - never acting immature and harboring a superior disgust of those who do. Likewise, humanity's stupidity and tendency to want others to solve their problems for them frustrates you endlessly. Though you can be stubborn, outspoken, and haughty, I admire you greatly.




*~*~*Claim Your Wings - Pics and Long Answers*~*~*
brought to you by Quizilla

By the way

I just put my socks on backwards. Not inside out. On the wrong feet. They have a piglet applique on the side. You're supposed to see it on the outside of my ankles. I have them on the wrong feet though, so the piglets are on the insides of my ankles. Byt the time I notices this, I was in the middle of donning my sneakers.

Rather than change them, I'm writing this, and heading to the grocery store. Nobody's looking at my piglets anyway. I'm grocery shopping for God's Sakes.

Yet it still niggles at me.

There is a deeper meaning here.

Kids

This weekend I had the pleasure of hanging out with this chick and this darling man.

So, since this It's My Blog and I'll Cry if I Want To, I shall select the neurosis of choice and blog about that, rather then tell you the delightful details of my visit with them. Besides, I have a feeling they've both already talked about all the very cool New Yorky things we did.

Zenchick and I have been friends for a few years. As she is fond of pointing out, I began blogging at her suggestion. I always enjoy spending time with her, because she is one of the few people that actually talks more than I do, and says things worth listening to. We had a jolly old time.

One thing I never really knew about her is how great she is with kids. We were having coffee in the Village, and there was a lady with a toddler in a stroller. This child was munching half-heartedly on a muffin of some sort. Not only did Zenchick engage in a game of peekabo with this child, she spoke intelligently with its mother.

Now, kids intimidate the hell out of me. I feel like an idiot trying to talk to them. They have a limited vocabulary, and I never know which words they are likely to know and which they aren't. So I tend to just say things like "Hi, there! What have you got there?" Or some other inane thing. Usually they look at me like "Why the hell should I talk to you?" If I was a toddler, I wouldn't talk to someone who looked like me. I have weird hair. Kids can tell when you're uncomfortable around them, and I'm sure I radiate discomfort. Also I usually look like I'm not in the best of moods. I could snap and start yelling for no reason, like the teachers in the lunchroom. And if the parents are nearby, I stay the hell away. I figure it's only a matter of time before some profanity escapes my lips, and the parents will give me a look of angry disgust, thinking it's people like me who make it so hard to raise kids in New York City. I'm sure therre have already be some incidents of nearby kids who have heard me swear and repeated it gleefully back home in front of the grandparents. Which I suppose, it an argument against wheeling toddlers through the streets of New York. But still. I don't want to be the source.

And then, it might not be me. I might decide to try saying "Hi there, aren't you pretty" to some angelic-looking child, who might react to it by suddenly spinning their head around and screaming as though I were in the process of stuffing her into a gym bag. Or, she might decide she likes me and cling to my pant leg, or throw up on me or some other random inexplicable child-like behavior.

I stay away.

Not Zenchick. She talks to them. She deliberately engages them in conversation. She was playing peek-a-boo with a random strange child! And the Mom was totally ok with it. Not only that, they got into some kind of conversation about how large children ought to be at certain ages.

Now Zenchick has an MSW. She knows people. Communication is a thing. Maybe she has learned some special kid-friendly, no-profanity, innocent, safe dialogue or something. She intimated that it might have something to do with a ticking biological clock, but I don't think so. My clock is ticking like Big Ben and I sure as hell ain't learning any new words. Also she has a sibling who has kids. She has direct aunt experience, where I have only friends with kids. Make that one friend with kids. In Chicago. I've seen them 2 or 3 times in their lives. Oh, wait, I do have one New York friend with a six-year-old, but that child is SO ENERGETIC I cannot handle it at all. I get tired just watching his Mom parent him. Man.

I always figured when I have a kid of my own, I'm going to be one of those annoying Moms that thinks my own kids are great, but everyone else's are brats who should be locked in closets until they're 18. I hope I'm not like that, but I see it happening. I'm very intolerant. I also see my own kids growing up repressed and scared and then rebelling outrageously at 14 because they grew up in fear of my intolerant, judgemental attitude. Oh, wait, no, that was my youth.

AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHHH!

This is all very silly. I'm in my early 30s and have time. I'm not even overly anxious to get married again right away, though I am thinking about it from a whole-life perspective.

I'll post more about the weekend later. I just needed to get this off my chest.

OMIGOD!!!

The St. James Experience.

This girl was one of my favorite people at SCAMDA. An actual friend! I am so proud right now. A mutual old friend and classmate gave me her web address.

I emailed her a short congratulations, and how's your life, and here's a bit about mine, etc etc. She wrote me back a beautiful, life-filled email. SO GREAT to see that an old friend is doing so well.

She's incredibly talented. I know. I took many classes with her. She used to ask my opinion of the work she did on stage, saying she knew I'd be honest about it. ;) She was so refreshing to have around. A real person in the midst of all those attention-starved drama queens.

I hope she still remembers me when Alicia Keys is opening for her!

This morning I left my purse (!?) at my bf's house.

This is the second time I have done this.

I would say I cannot believe what a dingbat I am, but in truth, I am very aware of my dingbattiness. This is pretty much a famiily trait on my father's side. And, really, bf should consider it a compliment. If I hadn't been so filled with bliss, utterly relaxed, feeling as though I hadn't a care in the world, I might have been paying closer attention.

Like most women, I cannot survive much longer than a few minutes or so without my purse. Since the darling drove me to work, I had no need for anything in my purse until I arrived at my desk. At which time I discovered the situation.

I have wanted many times over the years to learn to carry things in pockets, like men do, to be free of this daily level of risk. What do I really need besides my wallet? My phone I can attach to a belt clip? Metrocard goes in the wallet. MetroNorth pass and work ID too. My sunglasses can ride atop my head. Kleenexes can go in another pocket. (Due to the curse of allergies, I can't go anywhere without Kleenex.) Keys can go in... pockets are getting full. Glasses - I can't look at a monitor without them - they're in a small case... they could go...

Uh-oh.

Never mind such ecoutrements as chapstick, a pen, pocket change, and female items... damn.

This sucks!

So. I'm still carrying purses. Really cute ones too. There is an upside to this after all. "The only thing that seperates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize."

Anyway, he will drive me back to his place after work to retrieve it. This means I will go without luch today. Thank God for the free oatmeal, orange juice, milk, coffee, and tea in the breakroom. I'm dieting anyway. This should be a VERY low point day.

And this is NOT the most exciting thing that has happened to me today. I'm working on a post about the most exciting thing to happen today. Which is kind of big. In a sense.

Do any straight males blog?

I'm just curious.

Today, I am sick.

It was 55 degrees and bright sunshiney over the weekend. I have spring fever. I AM SO SICK of wearing turtlenecks, thermal underwear, heavy coats, gloves, scarves and hats. All of which I never leave the house without once the temp drops below 50F. Some people are tougher than I. Not me. Less than 50 degrees? Fashion is out the door, I'm dressing Canuck. I feel the cold like an 80-year-old.

It has been FREEZING here for too long. The rest of the country has been freezing too, but this is New York, and everything seems worse here. And I hate the winter anyway. I have mild Seasonal Affective Disorder. I am perfectly happy not leaving the house for days at a time in the winter. I hibernate.

Unfortunately, my friends ain't havin' dat. They manage to drag me out of my house semi-regularly all winter long. They think fresh air is good for me. I can't get them to understand that it's WINTER AND MAMMALS SHOULD BE SLEEPING. Squirrels! Bears! Not to mention that one breeze hits my throat and it's bronchitis city.

Anyway. Last weekend, temperatures rose above 50, and in my glee, I forewent the turtleneck in favor of a funky green Banana Republic T-shirt, a linen hoodie with a crocheted neckline and leather drawstring hem (God I love that shirt), and my comfy jeans. No thermal tights. Just jeans and skivvies and socks and my uber-comfy New Balances. The most scantily-clad I have been in 5 or 6 months.

Walking down a windy street on Saturday, my jean jacket buttoned (ruining the effect), I remember saying "I'm not dressed warmly enough for this." Sure, there were folks running around without jackets on, in sweatpants, in T-shirts withour hoodies, etc. But I am a delicate flower, and my resistance is very, very low. BAM. Sick. That very night the dripping down my throat started. All the next day I was tired and runny-nosed. Sunday night I took Nyquil. Today I had to work. GOD. I nodded off several times out of sheer fatigue. I AM SICK. DAMMIT.

My mother always wants to know the color of my sputum. I won't go into the details of that here. I will leave you with a different delightful image. It feels as though someone has reached down my throat with a short sewing needle and etched a long line from my left inner ear to the back of my throat. Cough Drops and Nyquil help, but this is a full-fledged head cold, Upper respiratory distress and post-nasal drip. Oh, and the achy-shakys.

I'm going to take my Nyquil and go to bed now. It's 9:10PM. Wish me well. This really sucks.