My, but yesterday’s entry was somber. I’m a bit sorry about that. I have that tendency in January. It’s a winter thing. As a bit of relief for both you and me, today is going to be a list day. No heavy stories about a past long receded. No icky nostalgia residue mucking up the works. Just a nice simple list of whatever pops into my head:
1. Oh man, but the bloat is upon me. And the adolescent acne. I am quite a sight. I’ve been getting those deep, boil-like, blistery zits that fester and never properly scab. I can’t even cover them properly for work, because make-up just simply will not stick to the surfaces of these mofos. If forty is the new thirty, then the early thirties is the new late adolescence. I was going to cut eyeholes out of a pillowcase and wear that as zit camouflage this morning, but then I realized that I would be giving the absolutely wrong impression to the general public. Outside the house, bed sheets are for white supremacists, toga parties, and the odd Hallowe’en constume but not for the covering up of massive break-outs. The bloat is fairly evil, too. I’m filling up a pair of pants I was hoping never to fill again. I feel like I’m wearing a layer of water-logged foam rubber around my body.
2. But I was going to be more positive, right? Well, I do have something to be excited about. A button offering you direct access to Radio Schmutzie will soon be coming to a sidebar near you. Although Last.fm is still occasionally having streaming problems and is still in its beta version, I am extremely pleased with it. I listen to it all day at work and then at home when I’m on the computer.
3. This morning when I arrived at work, I went into our little kitchenette to start the coffee machines. I’m usually the first to arrive at work, because my bus drops me off early, so I am the morning coffeemaker by default. People in my office are diehard caffeine addicts. We always have two full pots going, one for weaker and one for stronger coffee. As it so happened this morning, we were completely out of grounds, so there was no coffee for my co-workers. It was hilarious when everyone arrived, because whole herds of them kept standing around the kitchen in shifts, looking heavy-lidded while holding a low-grumbling conference about whose responsibility it should be to look after this sort of thing. Finally, my supervisor made a trip to a local mall and brought back enough coffee to last us a month, but not before having two carafes of java delivered to us from the convenience store downstairs to tide us over during the interim. We are a pathetic bunch but oh-so grateful.
4. I have run to the bathroom at least five or six times since arriving at work, and it is only 12:15 pm, so I think the bloat is disappearing. Maybe my boobs will fit properly into my brassiere now. They’re being quite constricted at the moment, and my nipples don’t like it.
5. I’m figuring that since Christmas, my birthday, and New Year’s happen altogether, and also because this year feels much more like I’m in my thirties than before because of the size of the number, I should try on being an old lady for size. It will be here soon enough, and I don’t want to it to catch me unawares. I don’t know much about being one, so don’t get too offended if I riff on a stereotype here. Neither of my grandmothers are all of these things, so don’t worry, I don’t believe the hype, either. Yes, I could make this year the year of the old lady… I’m thinking along the lines of hot water with two crumbs of instant tea dropped in for colour, a crocheted toilet paper roll cover with a doll’s torso sprouting out the top, Aquanet hairspray, gauzy scarves tied over orange plastic curlers, orthopedic shoes made with breathable faux leather, pink lipstick, lilac eau de toilette, tissues stored in the sleeve of my sweater, a walrussy voice from forty years of smoking, a chequebook by the telephone with its own special pen, knee-high nylon stockings, church potluck dinners, oohing over little girls in wedding parties, etcetera. I could start making buns for other old people whose arthritis prevents them from baking and asking people to drive me places while insisting that I don’t wan to be a bother.
6. What is it with those skinny, brown plastic stirsticks? They suck, that’s what. Couldn’t they make them so that they are at least a touch spatulate at one end for better mixing power? I just reached the end of my coffee, and the last few swallows were sickly sweet due to ineffective stirring with the provided stirstick. Technologically, I am sure that we have excelled far beyond the little, brown stick implement.
7. Mr. Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” is stuck in my head. This is one of those very rare occasions when I actually don’t mind having a tune volley around in my brain.
Read Mr. Sun for fun.