It's A Near Standstill At Work, Three Bad Things Happened Before 8:00 AM, And The Joy Nerve Ticklers

Where I work, we have markedly different busy periods throughout the year. I have been told that this is the slowest. I was told that this was the slowest a few weeks ago when I asked about it. I asked about it because I thought that I we had descended into one of the slowest and least work intensive job environments I have ever experienced. I was wrong. It has steadily gotten slower and slower and slower and slower and slower. Get my point? It's slow. And it's not slow like that slightly wall-eyed kid in the fifth grade who thought that picking boogers out of his nose and then chasing you with them was still a fun activity held over from kindergarten. No. That kid had something going on, be it gross or not. This is the kind of slow where even balls of snot could entertain the least of us.

Today did not start out well at all. At 2:00 am, a loud and panicked-sounding banging woke the Fiery One and I up. My first thought was FIRE!, because this sort of false alarm used to happen much too frequently in our apartment building. Then I realized that it was a woman's voice yelling on the other side of the door. The Fiery One is much more intelligent upon waking at 2:00 am than I am, so he wisely told me not to open the door. He explained that she hadn't been banging on all the other doors that she had been running by in the hall and that there were no other sounds of commotion aside from her yelling. By this point, I had leapt from the bed and into the closet where I was trying to fumble my way into the Fiery One's housecoat. I'm not sure why, but every time we are woken up in the middle of the night by some possible calamity, my first instinct is to get dressed inside the closet. Our closet is small, and I never normally try to get dressed in there, but in case of fire, jump-in-the-closet is my first order of duty. Back to the yelling and banging girl . . . No sooner had it started than it stopped, so I stood by the window naked, looking down at the front steps of the building to see if anyone suspicious was going to run out. There was no fire, no bloody girl in a t-shirt screaming in the crusted remnants of front-yard snow, no man obviously suffering from some psychosis fleeing the building with a glinting weapon. There was just some chubby guy walking by on the sidewalk with a big slurpee cup and me standing cold and nippley by the window and knowing that my night of decent sleep was officially over.
At least the dreams Yelling-and-Banging Bitch woke me out of were boring ones best cut off at the root. When she woke me up, I was in the middle of a dream in which some guy, I think it was my Uncle Puck, had given me his debit card to pay for something, and I wouldn't take it. "No, you see, it's not signed. You have to put your signature there," I explained. He asked for a pen, and I said that that didn't work, he couldn't sign it now, because anyone could sign a blank debit card in front of me, but that wouldn't make it theirs. He seemed annoyed, so I explained that it didn't matter that we knew each other. The rules had to be the same for everyone. BANG! BANG! See? That was a horribly boring dream. And what was I doing being such a little rule-follower? Suddenly in my dreams I'm like those ladies at church with the A-line skirts who never say what they mean in case someone might disagree or never bother meaning anything at all.
There are actually three things that got today off to a bad start. I got so caught up in that part about the boring dream that I nearly forgot what is even worse than the first thing: bad thing number two. Bad thing number two happened when I went through the basket of laundry that I had brought up from the building's laundry room yesterday or the day before. I knew that I had washed my favourite pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with that load, but they weren't in the basket, so I ran down to the laundry room to check if they had been left in the dryer or something, but they weren't there either. I even checked the obscenely large pile of laundry on the floor of the bedroom. Nothing. They have been stolen! I was so angry at first, because I am really starting to get a hate-on for the people who live in that building with me, but then I just felt kind of sorry for myself. I liked those jeans and that t-shirt. They were bought with money I got for Christmas or my birthday, and they are items I can't really afford to replace. Also, I've lost a bunch of weight, and those were two of only a few items I have left that fit me flatteringly. Before I left for work, I taped up a note in the laundry room that asked the perpetrator to please leave the items in the laundry room when they were done using them. It also has illustrations of said articles with arrows pointing to my home-done alterations to the jeans that are easily identifiable. My co-tenants are an evil, awful lot.
The third thing that was bad was that my bus was several minutes late. It's too warm during the day to wear my heavier winter coat, so I wear my yellow, spring coat to the bus in the morning. It is still a bit on the chilly side at 7:30 am, but it only takes a few minutes for me to walk to my stop and wait. Today, though, the bus was quite a few minutes late. It was so late that I was able to not only smoke my usual cigarette but a second one and wonder about grabbing coffee at hole-in-the-wall across the street and wallow in my laundry theft. And then I got really cold and had to curse the hole in my left glove.
I suffered three evils today before it was even 7:45 am, so I took that as a guarantee that the rest of today would be great. Maybe I will find a $100 bill, or maybe when I get home the bathroom walls will magically be all fixed and I can have a decent shower. If karma renewed itself on a daily basis, days like today would be godsends, because I would totally win the lottery after a morning like mine if that were the case.

A lady just came up through the place where I work, and she had the most amazing clothing sense. She wore scarlet red and black plaid pants, a soft yellow mohair turtleneck, and a bright baby pink cardigan. She is the sweetest person I have had to joy to talk to all month, and I'm sure it's her sweetness that stops anyone from confronting her about lack of colour co-ordination. Also, just a second ago, this tiny little foreign student came to return a pencil grip that she had bought. She said the pencil grip was too big for her (the only words she managed to say were "too big", but I knew what she meant), so I couldn't help but glance at her hands. They were the hands of a small child. That was just simply ticklish to my joy nerve. (That sounded dirtier than I thought it would. If I ever accuse someone to their face of "tickling my joy nerve" here, I might get into trouble).

Bush is allowing gays to be fired for being gay now. This article incorrectly states that Bush is contradicting his own statements, but he is not. Bush said that he would “... [protect] federal employees against unlawful discrimination related to their sexual orientation.” If he changes the laws, then the discrimination is no longer unlawful, is it?

This made me laugh uproariously. I hope my neighbours aren’t home. “Savage Love”, thank you.

Edward Zubler, the inventor of the halogen lamp, has died at the age of 79.

Saskatchewan has almost stemmed its population loss problem. Give us a reason to stay other than that we know people here, and we will.

Are you going to kick the bucket anytime soon? Yes? Because there are two performance artists who need your corpse while it’s fresh.

Rooms full of impassioned Russian poets sounds dreamy to me. Imagining such a thing in Canada just seems funny.

This story is interesting to me because of the bizarre experiences I had a few years ago while taking Paxil. I would be going about my day, feeling pretty good, and then, while still feeling pretty good, WHAM!, I would suddenly think to myself “I should kill myself”. The Paxil kept me in a decent state, and I liked it at the time, but these thought were unnerving. There were no warning emotions like sadness to make sense of it. For most of the time that I was on the drug, this thought occurred on about a twice-weekly basis. Luckily, I had it together enough to shrug it off.

I have never before heard of quolls. They're kind of cute. And awfully endangered.

The world’s tiniest elevator has been created. It is only two-and-a-half nanometers high.

AIDS rates in Swaziland are the highest in the world – infection in adults is at 38.6%, and in some areas the infection rate for women ages 19 to 30 is as high as 49.5%.