1. I finally cleaned out my car this weekend. One full trash bag later, and you can actually see the floorboard in my passenger side.
2. It's crazy, though, the things I'm unwilling to remove from the confines of my car, just in case. I have a bag with three notebooks in it, all empty for the most part, just in case I'm driving down the road and the urge to write strikes. I have a broken tire jack, and old lug nuts also in my car. And, for some reason, I think it's wisest to save them there in my backseat. In case I need them? That doesn't even make sense, yet I refuse to throw them out or even take them inside.
3. BUT. I did take out all of my CDs and pile them on my bed for organization purposes. It's amazing how much space there is in my four-door 4Runner with just those CDs gone.
4. Damn, I have a lot of music.
5. I downloaded iTunes and set to the task of putting some of my music onto my computer. But, um, apparently, computers are a little more overwhelming and scary when it's your computer (that you love and cherish) than they are when they're your boss's computers. Because I was terrified to do anything. Instead, I went ahead and very carefully fiddled around with the music Billy had put on there when he gave it to me. For at least an hour, I played with the stupid thing, trying to figure out how to import music into iTunes and load said music into my Nano. How many songs are on my iPod now, you ask? Three. I know, it's impressive. Don't be jealous of my computer prowess.
6. Yesterday, I went into New York City with Billy and some of his family and saw this exhibit. It was incredible. (Please, click the link.)
7. What was not incredible is that it seemed, no matter where I went in the exhibit, I was confronted by some know-it-all. One guy was either a doctor, or had just been to the exhibit about a thousand times. Because, at every turn, he was explaining to his lady friend each and every display. "This is the only pair of real eyes here," "That's the kidney," "That's the spleen. Most people don't even know what a spleen is, or that they have one, but it's such an important organ..." He never stopped. The thing was, all of that information was contained on the little placards by every item. And his announcing everything made it hard for me to read. He clearly thought he was the awesomest.
I have this thing, at any museum or exhibit, or even with plain ol' TV: I don't want to talk. And I don't want to be talked to. I hate it. I just like to look, or watch, or admire, in silence. I don't want to hear your commentary, or your insight, or even your opinion. I just want to look. I even broke away from Billy somewhere in the first twenty minutes, because I didn't want to hear anything. I just wanted to take it in. But I couldn't get away from this guy. He was everywhere.
8. Other than that, it was pretty fucking awesome. There was all of this information to take in, and all of these neat little facts to learn. (Did you know that a woman is born with all of the eggs she will ever have in her life?) The bodies were mostly male, except toward the end, where they showed a dissected fat woman (Of course, the first woman we see in the exhibit is an example of obesity. Thanks.), and then in the reproductive room. I was especially infatuated with that part of the exhibit, with the ovaries and the cervix and the uterus, in light of my recent drama with all of those parts. I couldn't believe how small the ovaries were, and I couldn't believe how big my cyst had to have been in comparison to the uterus (They actually had a huge ovarian cyst on display. It totally trumped mine.). It was really amazing. Wonderful.
9. And what not wonderful was my decision to wear my highest pair of stilettos. I was fine through the exhibit, but the balls of my feet started to ache a little just as we exited, a full three hours after we got there. That's three hours of standing, people. That's torture. So, after the exhibit, we went to lunch. And to help soothe my savage feet, I indulged in a little Sangria. Okay, a lot. "Feet? What feet?"
10. I knew we'd be walking through the museum, but since that was already behind me, I was sure I was in the clear. I did not know that we'd be walking the, oh, million blocks to Canal Street to shop for fake purses. All was well until the buzz wore off, and suddenly, my feet burned with the force of a thousand angry bees. And then I realized we'd have to walk back. I wanted to cry, but didn't.
11. Walking through Chinatown, down Mott Street toward Canal (where all the good fakes are), a tall, slim Asian man approached us. He wasn't a vendor, just a man on the street. And, in a hushed voice, he leaned into me and said, "You want bags? Gucci, Fendi, Prada? We have all of them." Relying on my savvy street smarts, I ignored him and looked worriedly at Billy, hoping that he would protect me, lest the street peddler try to snatch my (actually real) purse. Of course I wanted a fake bag, but I figured I'd just bargain with a vendor on the street.
Billy heard the man's whispered announcement and asked where these fakes were. The man got an excited look on his face, tucked the photo of purses he was extending into his pocket, and told us to follow him. And we did. Down two blocks, and into a building. Billy stopped at the door, and shook his head. "I don't know about this," he said. "C'mon," urged one of his kin. There were seven of us. Strength in numbers.
So we climbed three flights of stairs behind the guy, who led us to a door that announced another kind of business entirely. He buzzed, and when the door opened, it was like heaven.
Bags and bags and bags. Of every designer. Every color. Every design. Oh, it was marvelous. Coach, and Gucci, Prada and Fendi...They hung from the wall, begging to be bought. And then, I saw it. Chanel.
Oh, the love I have for the house of Chanel. So classic. So beautiful. So very elite. I fingered the leather of the purses, bypassing the gaudy bright blue bags, their signature interlocking Cs visible for miles. I like something a little less obnoxious, a little more subtle.
And there it was, hanging on the wall, behind a garish baby pink number with a fat CHANEL embroidered on it. It was a black, a soft leather with thick braided straps. Its insides were suede, a quiet "chanel" logo on the inside pocket. The front of the bag was demure, the signature quilting was soft, quiet, in gray stitching. The large interlocking Cs weren't loud or obnoxious. They were soft, too. It was perfect. The zipper was smooth. It smelled good. It fit over my shoulder perfectly, with enough space to fit comfortably even when wearing a coat. It was perfect.
One hundred and forty five dollars.
For a fake bag? Are they kidding? I couldn't believe it. And everywhere we went: Same thing.
"Your gilfrind," they said to Billy, "she have good taste. That new Chanel. From Japan. Good quality. One hundred forty five dolla."
Billy asked for a better deal.
"For you? One thirty."
I expected to spend $40, total.
Needless to say, I left emptyhanded.
12. This morning, not only did I get to work on time, but I managed to remember my gym bag! Which, to some, may not be so awesome, but I made a promise to myself this weekend to get to work on time and to start going to the gym regularly again.
13. HOWEVER, my gym bag is useless now, because I just ripped the toenail off of my big toe.
You know how you should be careful on stairs? Especially when you're wearing your little flip-flop type shoes, with the three-and-a-half inch heel? Especially when there's a little lip on the shoe that extends beyond your toes? A lip that is prone to get caught on things like, oh, say, stairs? Yeah, I forgot about that. So I ran up the stairs here at work to answer the phone, the lip on my shoe caught the step, and down I went. Only, I thought I'd broken a fingernail. I inspected my hand as I reached for the phone, and saw it was fine.
It was only after I'd answered that I noticed the throbbing coming from my toe.
Shock is a wonderful thing. Because I didn't feel the toenail being ripped from its bed, and I didn't even really notice the pain until I saw the blood. It was at that point that I started shaking involuntarily, my face contorting because of a pain so great that I thought I may pass out. But I held through the conversation I was having with a customer, waiting until I hung up to scream "FUUUUUUCK," rip off my shoe, and hobble over to the bathroom. My coworker got me ice as we wondered what the hell I would do to my toe. We decided that the best course of action would be to glue the nail (that ripped and uprooted down the middle, but is still inexplicably attached on both sides. I don't fuck around when I'm going to hurt myself. I do it right.) back together and just let it grow out. Which I will do later. But for now, I'm just sitting at my desk with a bag of ice on my toe, letting it go numb. As I have been doing for the last hour.
14. Thirty minutes later, my coworker caught her fingernail on a box and broke it about halfway down the bed. Awesome.
15. It's a bad day for nails of any variety here at the office.
16. My ankle hurts.
17. I think I'm going to go home, curl up with my laptop and a bottle of wine and call it a day.