Damnit.

I have a cold. It started yesterday with a tightness in my throat, then became an inability to clear said throat. Then it became a full-body exhaustion, which rendered me completely useless from two in the afternoon on. I cancelled plans with my little brother so that I could lay in bed and feel sorry for myself and possibly nap. I couldn't sleep, but that didn't keep me from just laying there all night.

Today, I woke up to find someone apparently replaced my esophagus with sandpaper. It feels great. I feel like that kid in the Chloraseptic commercial when I was a wee one: "It'll hurt if I swallow, it'll hurt if I swallow, it'll hurt if I...MOOOOMMMMYYYYY!!!!"

Having a cold has the following effect on my life:

• I stop going to the gym, because I'm always looking for a valid excuse to not go, for some reason. Even though I pay a monthly fee and want to be tight and toned, I'm ecstatic when I think of an actual reason (besides sheer laziness) to not go. The Cold Excuse is brilliant because it works on so many levels. One, the "I can't breathe right *cough cough* and I'm severely uncomfortable working out in this state" angle. Two, the "Coughing and sniffling make me run out of breath faster, so I can't keep up with the class" angle. And the third, but most undisputable, angle: "If I'm sick, and I go to the gym, I could get everyone else sick. And I don't want to do that. I'm really not going for you, my fellow gym patron." See? I'm so altruistic. So there's that.
• But while I'm not going to the gym, I'm busy eating everything in sight. It's easy to convince myself that it's okay to eat those dozen chicken wings, and that tub of Ben & Jerry's when I'm saying, "Feed a cold, starve a fever! I need calories to fight off this sickness! Calories, calories, CALORIES! Hey, are you going to finish that beef jerky? Can I have it? What about that chocolate bar? And, do you know what would be really great? SALSA!" And I can't get full. So I just keep going. And I don't feel guilty until the morning after, when I go to get in the shower and realize that my gut cannot be sucked in. Whoops. So then I vow to go to the gym. And then I realize I don't have to! I have a free pass! I have a cold!
• I can't write. Nothing good, anyway. I spent the better part of yesterday trying to get this intricate web of parallels between Billy and this show we watched into a coherent post, but to no avail. Instead, I wound up with a disjointed three pages of gibberish. My words were flat and boring, my thoughts just jumped around all over the place. There was no unity to the damn thing. Unless you were actually inside of my head and knew what I was going for, there was no way you'd understand it. So I just saved it and I'll go back to it later, when I don't feel like curling up under my desk for a nap.
• I cry. I cried last night because I cancelled plans with my brother. And then I cried while watching Patriot Act: A Jeffrey Ross Movie, because all of those comedians went Iraq to see the troops. And I love the troops.
• I'm irritable. I was grouchy because A) Billy put his cold hand on my bloated belly, B) he wouldn't let me get up to eat and C) he layed almost directly on top of me when we got to bed. Normally, I love all of these things, but my fuse was so short, and my desire to be touched so minimal, that I just sort of panicked and got away from him as quickly as I could. It's a good thing he loves me. A lesser person would get mad at me for it.
• I'm mushy. Because, even though I was irritated, it made me all soft and squishy to think about the fact that, even with puffy eyes, scratchy throat, runny nose and a generally bad attitude, Billy loves me enough to still touch me and take care of me.
• I also revert to childhood. I'm whiny and needy. Luckily, Billy's the same way when he's sick. So we understand each other.
• Where did this become a post about Billy?
• I need to sleep.

So, anyway, yeah. I have a cold. I want to post something worth reading, but I'm just not up to it. As soon as I start writing, my brain just veers off in another direction (see above). So I can't be trusted with a keyboard and blank post page. I just can't. There's no telling what I'll write about.

I'll write something when I can think clearly and stare at a screen without zoning out and coming to five minutes later, wondering what I was doing in the first place.

What Have I Been Doing on my Week off?

Well, how nice of you to ask. Allow me to fill you in.

1) Sleeping in. Except for the fact that I do still get up with Billy to get him his coffee. Because, before Christmas, I'd told him how nice it would be this week to have him bring me my coffee this week, as opposed to the other way around which is how it is the other fifty-one weeks of the year. And he sort of sighed and laughed and suggested that, if I really love what he got me for Christmas, I could maybe find it in my heart to go ahead and still bring him his coffee in the morning. Since, up until that point, he had maintained that I was not, in fact, receiving a Christmas present - that my laptop had served as both a birthday and Christmas gift - I agreed. But then, when I unwrapped the complete surprise in the form of a gorgeous sapphire and diamond ring he gave me, I realized that I would, in fact, be getting him that coffee. Because, for a gift that good, he deserved it. But as soon as I give him that coffee, it's right back to sleep.

2) Watching TV. Lots of it. Too much, possibly. Shows that I wouldn't be able to watch if Billy were home: Shows like Bridezilla, A Wedding Story and Perfect Proposal. Also, I watched episodes one through twelve of Sex and the City OnDemand. In one day. Billy would never go for that.

3) Eating. Cookies. Chase's girlfriend sent Billy and me a box of some of the most delicious, moist, chewy, incredible homemade cookies. And they've been sitting by my bed, the supply dwindling as the days pass. I eat them for breakfast, as snacks, as dessert. I may gain a million pounds by New Year's Day, but it'll be a tasty road down to chunky.

4) Listening to music. My parents got me the iHome, a clock/radio/iPod player, granting me the ability to finally listen to music in my room without turning on my computer. It's absolutely fantastic. I'd forgotten how wonderful it is to blast my music while I clean. I'd forgotten that I love to sing along, and dance my way through my chores. It's been awesome.

5) Admiring my ring. Like, all the time. Just now, I stopped and gazed longingly at it. It's so gorgeous. And it was so unexpected. It's just so pretty. I love it so much. I just can't get over how wonderful it is. Sigh.

6) Cleaning my room. I put away all of the Christmas presents, threw away all of the scraps of paper that wrapping gifts left at the foot of my bed. I hung up clothes and dusted and hefted three bags worth of garbage out of the house. It felt great to walk in my room and see it clean. And then Billy came home last night and threw his pants on the floor. But, it's okay. He gave me this ring, so the least I can do to show my gratitude is to hang up his pants.

7) Trying to savor each second that I'm home that I should be at work. I make sure to take note of the time with each cookie I eat, each TV show I watch and smiling because I should be working right now instead of being ridiculously lazy. It's only Wednesday, but I feel like it's already going too fast. I'm sure I'll be back to work before I know it. So I try not to leave my house before five if I can help it.

8) Wondering how I got so lucky. How did I find a guy who would go against everything he ever told me ("I'm not buying you a ring." "I don't believe in diamonds. You only like them because society tells you you should; because they're expensive.") and give me something purely because it makes me happy. My dad gave my mother a Bose Wave Radio, and she cried, saying "Your father doesn't love music like I do, but he knows how important it is to me, so he got me that radio. I'm so touched. I'm so lucky to have a man like that." And then she got a little more choked up and said, "I'm so glad you have a good man like that, too."

9) Being emotional.

10) Trying to find things to write about. But, sadly, there's nothing that's making me write sprawling posts full of flowery prose. As my mom always says, apparently, I need to get sad again. Because that's the only time I'm a good writer. I don't want to be sad, but I do hope I can come up with some subject matter soon.

Fun Things That Happened This Week

1) On Monday, I mailed out the last check for the credit card debt I've been carrying around on my back since I applied for my first credit card, five years ago. It's not that I had huge debt or anything, just persistent debt. Debt that would be thisclose to being paid off, only to be met with a holiday, a purse that I had to have, or an evening gown for some occasion of some sort. So, I'd etch away at that coupla thousand dollars all year, nearly get it down to nothing, and then - WHAM! - here it is again.

But, see, it's not like I've wasted years paying Discover and Chase and CitiBank and Bank of America interest. No siree. I, my friends, am a devotee of the Rolling Game. You know, the game where you get a credit card because of its "ZERO PERCENT INTEREST!!!!! for six months, maybe, unless you fuck with us, in which case you will rue the day you signed on the dotted line, bitch," proclamation. And you load that card up, paying minimum payments because - hey! - I'm not paying interest, and anyway, I need to build good credit. Thinking, of course, the whole time, that you'll totally have it paid off by the time your six month deadline rolls around. Which you don't, naturally. In fact, you're probably deeper into debt. Which is what they were counting on the whole time.

But, during that time, where you're charging like crazy and paying the minimum, your credit rating starts skyrocketing because you're A) using the card and B) paying early - and sometimes, you even throw the credit card company and extra ten bucks or so. You know, when you're feeling generous. So, suddenly, you start getting "PLATINUM!" and "TITANIUM" credit card apps in the mail, each one boasting a longer "ZERO PERCENT INTEREST" period than that next. So when your first six months are up, you transfer that shit over to the next one. And when that 0% period is up, you transfer that balance to the next one. And the next one, and the next one...Rolling your debt over and over. And the cycle of debt is sustained.

So you wisely allow this cycle to continue for five whole years. It's not horrible or overwhelming; more of a nuisance, really. That stupid bill, every stupid month. And you live that way for a while, until you leave your job with the shitty pay and actually start making enough money to support yourself, and you really buckle down, put that Platinum card away and stop using it. You start using the money you used to use to pay for your now-paid-off car to pay for your credit card....And before you know it, you send in your last hulking check to the big bad credit card companies and - Oh my God - you're debt free.

And that's where I am right now. And for that whole day, I thought, "Wow, I'm debt free. I can't believe it." I even decided to continue paying myself my credit card payment (the OCD way I handle my finances is complicated, and too much to get into here, so just bear with me), so that I'll have enough money to actually take Billy away as his Christmas gift without having to use the ol' credit card. And it made me smile, all day long.

Until, later that night, I went ahead and downloaded a song on iTunes, forgetting that I have the credit card I JUST PAID OFF set as my payment method. Which means I'm going to get a bill for $0.99 next month. That's awesome.

2) My boss emailed me (huh? He works in the next office. I don't get it.) and told me I'll have my yearly review on Tuesday. Which is awesome, except that I'm pretty sure that by "yearly review" he means, "discussion about the fact that I know you're on the internet and/or emailing and/or texting and/or talking on the phone far more than an employee should." So I'm nervous.

3) Holiday season is here! And that means PARTIES!

Unless, that is, you've committed your entire existence to your boyfriend over the past year because you just love to spend each and every second with him. Because, when December rolls around, suddenly you notice that your distinct absence in your social scene has carried over into the holiday season. Because you haven't been around all year, your name is falling off Christmas lists everywhere. You hear that? It's the sound of your popularity waning and your friends getting sick of you never going out anymore.

4) Standing in a restaurant yesterday, I heard one of my favorite Christmas songs in the world. This sparked an interest in me to RUSH home after work, take out my computer, import all of my Christmas music onto iTunes, organize it all, and make a holiday playlist.

'Tis a sad, sad day when I look back and realize that I've chosen to spend my Friday night with my laptop instead of real, live human beings. Very sad, indeed.

5) I went to pick up lunch for my boss and myself today at a local restaurant. Walking through the glass doors to go in, an old-ish woman was walking out. I'm unsure of her age, as it was masked by the distinct grimace of sheer nastiness on her face. Clearly, she was an unhappy woman; just looking at her I formed the opinion that she's a crotchety, rude, mean, nasty, horrible woman. When she started to yell at someone behind her, by just sort of turning her head to the side, it was revealed that a) I was right and b) she had no teeth. That would make me mad too. So I sort of understood her sadness.

ANYWAY, I was walking in, like I said, and she was on her way out. The doors there are set up so that you walk through one, pass through a little breeze-way of sorts, then you go through another door. She was out of the door farthest from me and on her way out of the door I was going into. Being the polite person I am, I held the door for her. She looked at me, paused for a a second, sighed an exasperated sigh for some reason, gave me a dirty look and continued walking.

Nothing irritates me more than forgetting a social pleasantry. If I hold the door open for you, all I ask in return is that you say "Thank you." That's all. And since she didn't, I did what I always do in these situations: I said a syrupy-sweet, and probably louder-than-necessary "You're welcome" and continued walking.

She stopped dead in her tracks. "I said thank you," she hissed.

"And I said 'you're welcome,'" I replied, positively saccharine in my tone.

My thing is this: If she really had said "thank you," as she felt the need to point out to me, why would she have been offended at my "you're welcome" and need to point out her use of "thank you"?

I don't think she said it. In fact, I'm certain of it. But her reaction has me confused. Maybe she said, "I didn't say 'thank you'"? And if that's the case, why would she announce it? I don't get it.

You Say "Weird," I Say "Eccentric"

So, Dale tagged me. (Which a sentence I don't think I'll ever type again, by the way.) And I have to write ten weird things about me. But I'm a little sad that I only have to write a list of ten. Because I'm pretty sure I could fill a list of a hundred things.

1) I'm full of strange little idiosyncrasies. Things like:

• I can't sleep on the open end of the pillowcase. Something about all that fabric just dangling there freaks me out.
• I can't drink water out of a bottle if it's been shaken in my presence. I think it makes it taste different or something. It makes it slimy. BUT! If said bottle is shaken when I can't bear witness to it, I'd probably drink right out of that bottle and never know that it had been shaken.
• I hate taking baths, and I hate hot tubs. Because I feel dirtier after taking baths (what's the point of sitting around in your own dirty water?), and also because I think the feel of my butt on that smooth bathtub is gross. And the hot tubs? It's too hot, first of all, and I feel like I'm being boiled for human stew. I think that one stems back to a Far Side comic that had a few pioneers or jungle explorers or something sitting in a huge, obviously boiling, cauldron of water and the cannibals surrounding them are slicing carrots and potatoes into the water.

2) I have a very detailed routine when it comes to eating my favorite food: Lima Beans. Firstly, they cannot touch any of the other items on my plate, which means they usually wind up in a bowl all of their own. The "not touching" doesn't have anything to do with them being contaminated by my other foods, it's just that I like to preserve the taste/butter/salt on the beans. Then, since they're already buttered, I pour a good helping of salt over them. And then I scan the pile of beans for what looks like a good bean, and it eat it. AFTER I peel the skin off. Depending on how the skin removes, whether it slides of easily or tears off, dictates whether I eat the bean or the skin first. This process is repeated for as long as it takes to eat all of the beans. I just can't eat them by the spoonful/forkful. I don't like to eat them whole. So one-by-one it is.

3) I have full-on concerts in my car. The windshield is where my audience sits, looking on in sheer awe. I imagine the whole "Getting Called to the Stage by Surprise" routine in my head before I launch into song. Certain songs call for certain imaginary settings. But, whatever the venue, the principal is the same: Me, singing heartbreakingly wonderful songs, with ease and perfection while people I know look on in amazement.

4) The alternative to the full concert, however, is the "Music Video" situation. In this, I am in the artist's music video, the theme of which has something to do with me driving. Naturally. And I am either the main actress in this video, where the artists sings over me, and I look longingly or desperately or angrily out of the window, depending on the song. Or I am the narrator of the video, in which case I sing...this is hard to admit...into the rearview mirror.

5) In this age of iPods and downloads and Limewire, I'd prefer to not find a CD before it's released or leaked online, and I still prefer to buy my music at the store. Because then I can look forward to the release date, and then I can rush to the store on that date and buy the CD. Then I get the crisp jewel case, and I get to see the album artwork, the lyrics, the look of the disc itself. I just love that. And then, later, I can look around and see the accumulation of my purchases. Which makes me proud, because I love music that much.

6) I'm far too protective of what I consider to be my personal space. Some would even go so far as to say it is unhealthy. I hate when people stand too close to me when speaking (if I can feel/smell their breath, that is too close.) and I will, with no amount of secrecy or shame, back away. This usually causes the close-talker to move in closer, but I'll continue to back away until I am either literally backed into a corner, or until they get the hint. Whichever comes first. I don't like to be touched by people I don't know well. Social kisses and hugs are one thing, but the brushing of someone's thigh against my own when sitting on something like a bench? Unacceptable. I just don't like it. I feel like it's invasive, and I don't appreciate it. I always quote Dirty Dancing in this instance: "This is your dance space, this is my dance space." Indeed.

The only exception to this rule is Billy. My family members are excepted on a case-by-case basis.

7) Additionally, I'm very much like a five year old when it comes to possessions. I live my life in very definite terms of yours and mine. The scissors at my desk? Mine. My desk drawers and the contents thereof? Mine. Candy I've purchased? Mine. I don't mind sharing as long as I'm asked, but I hate walking into a room and seeing someone with something of mine in their hands. A perfect example would be my old job: I have certain pens that I love - because they fit well in my hands, write smoothly, etcetera. And, from time to time, I'd leave the pen in the back or on another desk because I was busy and distracted. Hours later, I'd see someone else using it, and I would see red. Because that person had to know that pen wasn't hers, so why was she using it? Conversely, I think I'm very good at not taking things that clearly belong to someone else. If it is necessary that I use something that does not belong to me, I will ask first, or make mention of it later. I'm pretty sure it goes back to my younger days, when my brother and I would fight so much and so fiercely that we had to be separated. Our rooms were safe zones, and we were not allowed into one another's rooms without permission. And if my mom bought, for instance, ice cream Chase had requested, and I went to eat it, I'd hear the "Uh-uh. That's Chase's ice cream." And he would hear the same thing if something were purchased for me. It was an act instituted to keep the peace, and it has never left me. Some say it's polite, some say it's childish. I say I can't help it.

8) I'm extremely polite. Which, I know, isn't a bad thing. But I'm polite to a fault. Guilt is a big factor, as is worrying what other people think of me. I will buy things I don't even like at a store if the sales girl/guy is nice to me. I feel like it's rude if they've spent time helping me and I leave without making a purchase. I know they're paid to be there, but still. I just hate feeling like I'm wasting people's time. In social situations, if someone offends me, it's very rare that I'll speak up for myself. I'd rather be a doormat than be misconstrued as a bitch. If someone upsets me by doing or saying something that I feel is a personal affront, I'll just marinate in my anger until it passes rather than telling that person that I'm upset. Because I don't want to make waves, and I don't want to fight. I have many people in my life who, possibly inadvertently, have offended me, but I'd never say a word. Going further, when I purchase cigarettes or gas or toilet paper or anything, I always conclude my time with the cashier with a "Thank you very much." Even if they're rude. And not just Thank you, but a sincere Thank you very much or Thank you so much. I say thank you every time the waiter/waitress does anything at my table when I'm dining out. I've thanked each and every person who opens or holds a door for me. I thank each car that lets me out into traffic, and I'm usually the car who lets people out of parking lots and into the road. I stop for pedestrians. I squeeze myself into walls and table to allow people to pass me in aisles and walkways, always giving the stranger the benefit of space. And I get furious with people who don't do the same. It's common courtesy. But, also, I think has something to do with the fact that I can't stomach the thought of the person I didn't thank/let in to traffic/let pass me going through their day thinking, "God. She was so rude."

9) I can't dive. I can jump into a pool, but I cannot dive. Something about my body just will not allow me to curve my body the way you need to curve to dive. I always just end up belly flopping in.

10) I'm scared of very deep water. When I was on my cruise, if I sat and thought of just how much space was below me, how much water there was around me...How far down I'd have to sink before hitting bottom and how there was nothing around me but water for hundreds, thousands, of miles, it really freaked me out. I think it's the helplessness, the hopelessness of it that bothers me. Also, I can't swim in any body of water whose floor I can't see. It's two-fold: One, if I can't see the bottom, it's clearly VERY DEEP, and we now know how I feel about that. Secondly, I need to see what's down there so I don't get stung/pinched/bitten by anything lurking around in the sand or murk. That one goes back to my summers spent at Hilton Head Island with my grandmother who once, while walking through knee-high brownish water, had her big toe pinched by a crab. That crap ripped up the skin on the side of her toe and made me scared enough to never walk in water that didn't reveal its inhabitants.

So that's all I'm obligated to tell you. I'm not tagging anyone because I don't want to put anyone on the spot. But if you read this and want to do it to, go right ahead. It's fun making people think you're crazy!

It's a List because I Just Don't Have TIME for a Real Post

1. I cannot switch to Blogger Beta. Just can't do it. At first it was due to my standard fear of change in any form. I'm comfortable with antiquated blogger, I am. I'm able to apply the miniscule amount of HTML I know in the appropriate places. I know what it looks like, how it works. I know all my saved drafts are safe and secure. I know all that. What I don't know is how the switch to Beta will affect me. So I haven't.

Until I started looking at the blogs that have switched over, and the OCD girl inside of me got all giddy, and she started whispering in my ear that I could go through almost two years of posts and add tags to all of them, and organize all of it. And, oh, that would be so much fun. And she told me I could make columns and lists and things on the side there, and I could move it around however I want...

So me and the OCD girl agreed, and tried to switch. The first time, I stopped because, hey, what if all of my drafts don't go over? So I procrastinated. The second time, I was like, "But what about all my links?" She tapped her finger onto her chin exactly fourteen times (she always does that when she's thinking) and nodded vigorously. "Good point," she said, blinking twenty four times. "Good point. Don't do it." But she started to panic at the thought of losing all of that info. So we stopped. Then I went to do it again, and I realized that I didn't know how to make links open in new windows with the new system. I emailed a friend, and she said it just all transferred over. So I looked at the OCD girl, and she looked at me, and we nodded in unison and I clicked the link to switch me over.

We thought we were on our way to a new and improved Divinities, but, alas, no such luck. My blog is too big to switch right now. And you know what? Now, every time I log into my blog, I get that big message saying "We're ready to switch you!" And every time I see it, I fall for it. And every time I do it, I get the same stupid message. "Whoops. Sorry. Not yet." And now I want it. Badly. This is not fair.

2. I met Chase's girlfriend on Saturday. And, you know what? She's pretty freakin' great. I THINK.

Chase is really into her, and she is really into him. And it's so comforting to see that. I even witnessed little boyfriend/girlfriend things between the two of them. It was so cute. He's a good boyfriend, I think, my little brother. And if he's not? I'll kick his ass.

3. I have a formal Christmas party to attend in December so, on Saturday, my mom, Chase, his girlfriend and I all went to this fancy-pants mall about an hour and a half away from here. Mom and I went on our own and searched high and low for dresses. We went into Neiman-Marcus and Nordstrom, trying to stifle the inevitable vomiting sensation that overtook us each time we flipped over a price tag that read "$790" or "Sale! $955." Ugh. We made jokes about how the other half lives, and kept on moving through the stores.

Unwittingly, we stumbled into the "Couture" section of Nordstrom, where gigantic ball gowns with crystal embellishments hung from velveteen hangers. We knew we were out of our league, but since no one was around, we checked things out. And that's when two sales people, one man and one woman, emerged from the dressing room area. They started to go over the specifics of their department, "Every dress you see here is custom-made, available in any size or color you desire." I sort of grinned and nodded, trying to feign indifference, and trying NOT to let them know I was out of my price range. After they'd asked me what the occasion was and I answered, they started giving suggestions. "This is a lovely cocktail dress," said the short salesman, moving the dress from its hanging position and to the front of his body. "It's quite elegant."

"Yes, well," I said, struggling to keep my composure. The price tag was dangling there, profane in its exposure. $3,450. "That's not really my style," I said regrettably. "Thank you though," and we scampered out of there. "Quick," I whispered to mom, "before they realize we could never afford this stuff!"

4. Eventually, I found my way to someplace more comfortable: The sales rack at Lord & Taylor. I ended up purchasing two dresses. They're both quite lovely, and I bought the two of them because I couldn't decide between them. So I brought them home, definite favorite in mind, and showed them to Billy and asked him to pick. He did not pick my favorite. Which puts me in quite a quandary. Because the one he picked is sexy, the other is classier. And I generally like to go with Classy over Sexy. But I do want to make him proud...So I don't know which one to wear. But I have to go shopping for shoes, so that means I have to pick one and stick with it, unless I want to buy complete outfits - replete with jewels, shoes and bags - for each option and then just make the choice based on how I feel that day. And that just seems dangerous. And costly.

5. I showed the dresses to my friend, and she agreed with Billy. So Sexy Red Dress it is. But I've just spent three hours in a different mall, and I couldn't find any shoes that complimented it. Damn winter shoes. Doesn't anyone buy sexy, strappy little shoes in the winter? I mean, I know it'll be all snowy and horribly cold in a matter of hours, but, c'mon. I need the right shoes.

6. I'm really looking forward to Thanksgiving. I have a shortened work week this week, and if that's not reason to give thanks, I don't know what is.

I'm Very Busy on Saturdays

It's noon on Saturday, and I'm sitting in my bed, my toenails wet, and watching The Real World/Road Rules Challenge: The Duel. I've been watching either MTV or VH1 all morning and fixing my feet. Because something happens to a woman when the need to wear open toed shoes suddenly vanishes with the first gust of cold winter air: She forgets, almost entirely, about her feet. So the polish sort of starts to flake off and look pretty gnarly. Add to that the fact that my poor toenail has been broken down the center for, oh, about three weeks now, and I've been bandaging it up every day to avoid its jagged edges getting caught on socks and whatnot, and my feet are in a pretty sad state. Every day, I say I'm going to sit down and make a new, complete toenail out of nail glue and cotton balls to eliminate the need for the ceremonial morning toe-wrapping. But every day, I think of something I'd rather do. Like, go out to eat or have a glass of wine, or watch TV, or play on the computer or do laundry or just sit and stare at the wall. Anything, really. So, this morning, somewhere between the Making the Band 3 marathon and the VH1 Top Twenty Countdown, I decided to go for it and do my toes.

Now, a mess of nail glue, one cotton ball, one pair of ruined, gluey scissors, one ruined, gluey nail clipper, a set of THREE nail files, two types of paint, a lot of contortionism, some Q-tips and one oh-shit-I-glued-my-fingers-together incident, my toes are now polished a lovely shade of deep, deep maroon and currently drying.

The thing is, it's my Saturday off, and this is all I'm doing. I mean, I always have these big plans for the infrequent Saturday I'm not forced to spend in the office. I think, "I'll go shopping!" Or "I'll clean the house!" Or "I'm going to clean my car!" I always think I'll be getting up and at 'em early and keep going all day, because I'm not in the office. But this is what always ends up happening. I lay in bed, I think about doing other stuff, and then I watch all the reality television my brain can handle with out melting, and I don't get out of bed until about 2.

Which means, I guess, that I can stay here for two more hours.

The Weekend and Today in Review, List Style

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.

Another Saturday, Another List

1. This morning, before work, I was watching Vh1, and I was hit with the trifecta of music I can't stand. Applying my makeup, I was subject first to Nikelback's Far Away, then Five for Fighting's The Riddle, then that goddamn Hinder song, Lips of an Angel. All in a row. I wanted to scream. Those three songs are haunting my life. They're everywhere. And it's driving me nuts.

But, aside from a few songs I can't seem to escape, it's a good month for music. It really is.

First of all, I got the new Justin Timberlake CD, which really rocks my world. I mean, I hate admitting that I like it, but I can't help it: I do. It makes me want to dance while I'm driving my car. And, actually, if you must know, I think it's rife with good stripper songs. Honestly. Not that I'd know anything about that.

Then, I ordered what has the potential to be my new favorite CD on Amazon.co.uk: James Morrison. After worrying that I'd only be able to hear his songs on his myspace page because he's not released in the US, I, at the advice of my lovely readers, ordered the damn thing from the British site. I was advised it would take 6 - 10 business days to get to me, but I got the email yesterday that said the album had been "dispatched" already. This gives me great hope, as the day before I got word that something else I'd ordered online (A World Cup Ghana jersey for Billy from eurosoccer.com) had been dispatched the previous day, and I got the thing yesterday. I don't mean to celebrate before there's cause for it, but this gives me reason to believe that I'll have my CD early next week.

And then, this morning, as I watched the aforementioned Vh1, their Jump Start bumper displayed the Upcoming Releases. And do you know what was on it? JONNY LANG. My favorite guy. And even though it got a sort of crappy review on Amazon, I'm buying that shit on Tuesday the 19th - The day it comes out. Why? Because I love him. And I have to support the artists I love so that they keep coming out with music.

I don't think I'll even have the sort of time it's going to take to listen to all of these goodies. Which is a really delicious predicament to be in.

2. Before recently, I had never really purchased anything online. But as my purchases have started coming in, I can see how this could be addictive. There's something terribly wonderful about expecting and getting packages in the mail! Who knew!

3. We seem to have run head first into autumn. The days around here were, not too long ago, hot and sunny, thick with humidity and stifling. But now, rainy days and temperatures that won't break 70 have catapulted us into my favorite season. The other day, driving home, I saw the first of many trees to turn red.

Back in July, I decided that my ringer should be Summertime, by DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. But seeing the trees and feeling the fall, it seems that Summertime is no longer appropriate. So I went onto Sprint's website and dug around for a new ringer, and then I found it, one of my favorite songs of all time: Al Green, Here I am (Come and Take Me), which I promptly downloaded and set as my ringer.

4. I may also be addicted to downloading songs as ringers for my phone.

5. Yeah, I know I'm a geek.

6. Last night, I cooked dinner!

Well, that's what I'm telling everybody anyway. What really happened is that I went over to Alex and Nancy's for Alex's birthday. Nancy, amazing chef that she is, was cooking Alex the Cuban his favorite ethnic dish: Ropa Vieja. Alex and I sat and talked over red wine while Nancy got three pots going on the stove, and, at the same time, set to the task of shredding the cooked beef by hand. "Do you need help?" I asked, over the kitchen bar.

"No, I've got it," she said, her hands pulling apart the tender meat and dropping it onto a dish. "Unless you want to help me do this," she held up strings of beef.

"Sure," I said, dramatically setting my wine glass on the counter, and sauntering to her side of the bar, like a soldier going into battle.

She left me to the task, while I continued to chat with her and Alex. I was much slower than her at the shredding, but she didn't seem to mind.

"Look at you," Alex said. "In a kitchen? This is a day for the record books."

"Yes," I replied, my eyes on the beef. "It is indeed. I'm going to put this on my business card, 'Meat-Shredder.'"

"Put it on your resume," he offered.

"Yes, but I'll say I cooked a whole dinner on my resume."

Alex nodded in accord. "Yes. Because people lie on those things all the time anyway."

It's pathetic, the fact that everyone in my life knows that I am useless in the kitchen.

7. I'm going to New York City tonight with some lady-friends for a night full of drinks and dancing. I'm dressing up in black slacks, a sexy top, and sexier shoes.

But, have you ever feel like one of the Beverly Hillbillies? Yeah, that's how I'll be feeling tonight. Because, as I've said before, something about New York City makes me feel like a little country bumpkin. Like, no matter what I have on, I might as well be wearing overalls and a straw hat. If I wear jeans, I feel like people are saying "Oh my god, look at that girl, wearing jeans in a club. She must be from Pennsylvania." And if I wear something dressy, I feel like people are saying "Oh my god. Look at that girl, all dressed up in a club. She's trying so hard. She must be from Pennsylvania." I feel like I can't win.

But I'll be with roughly nineteen other chicks, who are all dressing up, too. So there's strength in numbers.

Or it may just mean that people will say "Oh my god, look at those girls...They must be from Pennsylvania."

8. Last night, after dinner, Nancy and Alex and I went to a bar and watched a grown man get thoroughly and completely wasted on three glasses of Chardonnay. He got up to leave and fell over. I'm so glad that I'm not the only one who can't hold my wine.

7. I'm sticking to vodka tonight.

Things I Can't Stand Right Now

1. “Have a Happy Period.” – The demand Always brand maxi pads makes every time I open one up to use it. Fuck you, Always. And the happy period you keep insisting I have.

2. The fact that, because of my last surgery, I have to use Always instead of Tampax. Thanks, doc. Nothing makes for an extra-special uncomfortable period like reverting back to junior high and wearing pads. God. I can just hear my pubescent voice in the halls of Greenspun Junior High asking a friend, "Quick, look at my butt. Can you see the outline of my pad?" Ugh.

3. My ovaries, my fallopian tubes, my uterus, my cervix, my hormones, and whatever else invisible, wicked forces that conspire to cause my period.

4. The mysterious gnome or troll or specter that continues to use the last sheet of toilet paper in the bathroom here at work, leaving only mangy little strips of Cottonelle clinging to the carcass of the roll that was.

5. The fact that someone would diligently tear the last shredded sheet of paper from the roll and not stop to think “You know, someone’s bound to come in here and need some toilet paper. Maybe I ought to replace it.”

6. The fact that it seems to happen every time I go to the bathroom.

7. The notion that, because I work with three men and one woman, I can be fairly certain it’s the men who are causing all of this undue, toilet-paper-related stress. And the fact that, because they are men, and men are known to do this, I should somehow just let it go.

8. That I can’t hang up a sign that says “Listen, cocksucker, if you use the last fucking piece of toilet paper, replace the goddamn roll.” Not because it’s gauche and unladylike to do such a thing, but because our customers sometimes use that bathroom. And that would be rude.

9. My internet connection at work. It’s up, it’s down, it’s up, it’s down. C’mon Blue Ridge Cable. WORK WITH ME HERE.

10. The fact that I did not enjoy Straight Up & Dirty as much as I thought I would. I really didn’t. And I wanted to. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m jealous that she got a book deal and I didn’t (because, God knows I’ve been blogging long enough to be discovered, right? What? Have I ever tried to get published? Have I ever even attempted to do anything that would nudge me in the direction of a career in writing? Uh, no. Why do you ask?), but I don’t think so. Because I was genuinely excited to hear that she was published. I felt like a friend, someone I knew, had just signed a book deal. And I bought it the week it came out. I was stoked to read it. But what I didn’t enjoy was the fact that it was just like the blog. It was conversational, and honest, yes. And that’s what I loved about the blog. But, well, the blog didn’t cost me $25 to read. I wanted a story. I read it. I liked it. Just not as much as I thought I would’ve.

11. That Billy is going out of town tonight with his two cousins. Not for work, for pleasure. And when he told me? He said, “By the way, we’re going to Atlantic City Wednesday night.” By the way? Like it was an afterthought? Like, by the way, I went to Wal Mart and got beef jerky? Or, by the way, I pulled the hair out of the drain for us? For the record, telling your girlfriend you're going on an elective night out of town is not a by the way kind of announcement. Not that I wanted him to ask for permission, I would've just like him to say something less casual. But, hey, what do I know. I have my period. I probably wouldn't be happy with anything.

12. Did I mention my hormones?

13. That I don’t have a computer at home.

14. Fruit flies. They’re everywhere. And they’re driving me crazy.

15. That I can’t really write about anything engaging.

16. That I just posted another list. Sorry.

It's Another List. Didn't Mean to Ruin the Surprise for You...

1) I just commented this over at The Anchored Nomad, but I feel that I need to do it more justice...

The trip to Mexico I'll be taking (TOMORROW!!!!) is for the wedding of one of Billy's extended family members. Obviously, when one attends a wedding, one needs a dress. But when one doesn't know how formal or casual the function will be, one must find a dress that can go either way.

This is very difficult. But it is a problem best solved by the stores in the mall that cater to adolescent girls, whose very lives are sort of in between. They're also cheap. Cheap, cheap, cheap-cheap-cheap. Racks and racks of poorly constructed cleavage-bearing shirts, far-too-short-to-maintain-any-decency skirts, and the occasional borderline-decent dresses hover beneath hot pink signs shouting "$7.99 and up!*" and "Final Sale!" Surely, I thought, I can find something appropriate and disposable here.

I say disposable, because these clothes are rarely crafted to withstand any amount of movement or wear. Additionally, they are usually ill-fitting, groping at my behind, sucking at my thighs and hanging loosely somewhere in the vicinity of my waist/midsection. The chest of any given shirt/dress is always a crap-shoot. Sometimes they squish my C Cups into pathetic little excuses for breasts, sometimes there is a generous amount of fabric left over, turning an otherwise lovely piece of cloth into a terrifying peek-a-boo number. So if I find something that's sort of what I want, but its fit is questionable at best and is liable to just fall off of my body due to faulty construction, I have a hard time committing a decent amount of money to it. Occasionally, though, there is that one diamond in the rough: The kind that creates the perfect cleavage, highlights my tiny waist, cradles my pert bottom, but flares away from (what I consider to be) my problem thighs. And for that, my friends, I don't mind paying $19.99.

In DEB, the Northeast's premier budding-stripper outfitter, I found such a dress. Not to dressy, not too casual, tight where it should be, loose where it should be, good cleavage, nice view of my back, proper length...It was, in a word, perfect. It could go either way in terms of fanciness. I wouldn't be out of place at all. Perfect.

Forty-nine-ninety-nine.

Wha-? In a store that boasts $2 t-shirts, I'm supposed to pay fifty bucks for a dress that I KNOW I'll only wear once? Not because I'm the kind of girl who only wears things once (because, in truth, I think I actually only wear about five items of clothing on a constant rotation), but because it's guaranteed to rip or tear and just fall apart at the seams at some point during the evening.

But, at that point in my shopping experience, I'd been through every goddamn store that Middletown had to offer, closing time at the mall was rapidly approaching, and I was really looking forward to my post-shopping Taco Bell meal (Bean burrito with sour cream and no onions, thankyouverymuch). I struck a few poses in the fitting room mirror, and then, shrugging my shoulders helplessly, decided: Fuck it. I'm buying it.

If the thread and the material do happen to last beyond the few hours that the wedding will require I wear it, I'm going to wear the shit out of that dress.

*These stores are tricky with their teeny-tiny "and up" signs on all of their sale racks. A few days ago, my friend and I were in such a store, and ran to the register with what we thought were $14 dresses in our hot little hands. At fourteen dollars, a girl could buy, like, ten of those things, as emergency outfits or something. When our totals topped $50 for two dresses, we sheepishly told the cashiers to forget it. There's a special kind of disappointment when something that you thought was on sale isn't. It's the absolute polar opposite of the feeling you get when the $100 dress you wanted rings up for $12.

2) There is a trend emerging here in Pennsylvania, and probably everywhere else, that I find very troubling. People, lately, have been coming into my office to meet with my bosses for meetings - important, very costly meetings - with their fucking Bluetooth Technology earpieces affixed to their ears. I don't mean to say that they come in talking on a hands-free headset, I mean to say that they meet with my bosses with that thing that looks like a mutant hearing-aid strapped to their heads. This vexes me for a number of reasons.

a. It looks stupid.
b. Do you really need it when you're certainly not using it at the moment, and you probably won't be answering that phone during your time here?
c. I could be wrong, but it seems pretty simple to remove and reattach. Would it be so hard to, oh, I don't know, just take it off of your head?
d. It seems that, when you wear one of these devices while you're not using it, you're trying to convey a message that says something like: Yes, I am very important. My phone could ring at any minute, and I'll need to answer it. And I don't have time to mess around with picking up or flipping open a phone. I need to answer it and talk now, if not sooner.
e. Rarely are the people who wear such things actually that important. Usually, they're just your run of the mill 9-5 workers with average jobs. Like me. And you don't see me walking around with a wireless headset hanging off my ear, do you? No, you don't.
f. It seems like it would impede your hearing. Like, being that it covers the entire ear, I would think that everything sounds a little muffled if you're not actually listening to what's coming out of the earpiece.
g. It looks stupid.

3) Seriously? This Bare Escentuals stuff? Best. Makeup. Ever.

Even Billy, who rarely comments on my makeup (Side story: Sunday, we were at my family's house, and I began to extol the benefits of the makeup to my mother, telling her how light it is, how it doesn't streak, it doesn't pool in my creases when I sweat, there's no need to blend, blah, blah, blah. And Billy, who was sitting next to me with a look of what I can only assume was a mix of disgust, absolute boredom, and confusion, turned to my father and said "I guess this is what it's like when guys talk about cars?" Yes, Billy. It is. It's exactly like it. Every mind-numbing, boredom-induced-tear-falling, complete-lack-of-interest moment.) said to me this morning, "Wow, that makeup does look fantastic. Very natural."

If the man, who sees me without makeup AND with every item of makeup I can possibly apply to my face carefully and lovingly applied, says it looks awesome AND natural, I think we have a winner.

4) Mexico. I think we're all aware of my dramatic few weeks, so I won't bother boring you with my overly dramaticized accounts of my health issues and stress. Let me just say that I have never before looked so forward to a trip in my life. Nothing, to me, sounds more lovely than reading a lot of books, drinking a lot of tequila-based beverages, and perhaps taking advantage of our hotel's spa. I'm just going to forget about it for a week. No sense worrying when there's nothing I can do right now anyway. And there will be lots of alcohol to aid in my self-imposed amnesia.

5) Portugesa Nova told me to read a specific post on this blog today. And I did as I was told and fell so completely and hopelessly in love that I went ahead and made a mental note to read every post on the blog. More times than I care to admit, I have had to disguise a throaty guffaw as a nasty chest-cold-type cough, on account of not wanting to out myself as an Internet User to my coworkers. That blog is awesome. As is this one, a blog I've been lurking around for a few weeks, doing that same thing where I chuckle and say to myself "This guy is HILARIOUS," and then think "Maybe I'll comment," but then I get intimidated and I just...don't.

Maybe it's just me, but sometimes I feel creepy commenting on a blog I've been obsessively reading for a while, but haven't commented on. Like, especially when I know they have a stat counter, and they're probably all "Who the hell is this person in Milford, PA who's been logged on every day for four hours?" Because, once I comment, they'll have that moment of clarity where they're all, "Ooooh. It's YOU." Meaning, me. The lurker. It makes me feel creepy. I know I said that already, but, it does.

6) Can I just say how incredible my boyfriend is? He turned my horrible day yesterday into a wonderful night, with only some kind words, some sympathy, a vodka-tonic and some laughs. I won't go into details, but it's times like that when I'm reminded how truly lucky I am to have him in my life, and how much I absolutely adore him.

7) Anyway, I will be leaving tomorrow morning for Mexico. So I bought five books, some stupid pads, and some light, cute, airy clothes. Today, I've written a list of things I must remember to bring. But also, on that list, I've included some things I'm pretty sure I'll remember: like, "underwear," and "makeup." I shudder to think what kind of horrible travesty could possibly occur that would cause me to forget my makeup. Underwear, I could live without. Makeup? Absolutely not. In fact, I spend probably the first half of the drive to the airport every time I go somewhere checking and re-checking for my makeup. Which is why it always travels in my carry-on, so that I can compulsively open my bag and verify my makeup's presence.

So, with that list out of the way, tonight, I will furiously wash the clothes I already own, run some last- minute errands and pack. Probably until the wee hours of the morning. This is how I always prepare for trips: Weeks of fantasizing and thinking about what I want to buy/bring, capped off by one night of manic behavior in which I literally run from room to room, lay everything out on my bed, stare at it for a while, while wondering how the fuck I'm going to fit all of it in a suitcase, apparently blacking out and somehow actually fitting it all in, then falling into a deep sleep in which I dream about forgetting things and the subsequent remembering of those things.

So, anyway, this also means that I won't be posting for at least seven days. I'd go ahead and make you lots of promises about posting stories of my trip, but I think we all know that I suck at following through on promises like that. So I won't make any bold assertions, I'll just say that I will be back to blogging on August 17, and I hope to relay lots of fun stories.

Be back soon.

Saturday's List

1) Today is my first anniversary with Billy. Though I don't feel that our relationship has suddenly taken on an aged or old news sort of feeling, I do feel like we've crossed some sort of threshold into a Serious Relationship. I know it's been serious all this time, but being able to say that we've been together for "over a year," (Which I will start saying as of tomorrow.) tends to carry more weight than "three months," or "seven months." And, yes, I did give people the actual number of months we were dating. Because, when you're working your way up to a year, you have to detail the amount of time, so that people don't mix your serious relationship with a casual, just-dating sort of thing.

So, as of now, I've been with Billy for a year, a feat I didn't think was quite possible.

When we had been dating for merely a few weeks, he was aware that I wasn't putting a whole lot of stock in our budding union. Over dinner, he asked me why, and I hesitantly told him that I "knew" he wasn't a "relationship guy."

"Why do you think that?" he asked, taking a sip of his Jack and Coke.

"I don't know," I replied, my tone unsure and weak. "I guess it's just because you, you know, date a lot?"

"So what? Is there something wrong with dating?"

"No," I said, with more authority this time, "it's just that, from what I understand, you're rarely dating anyone longer than a few months."

"Yeah. Because if it's not working out, why should I waste my time."

"Ah, the eternal bachelor's creed."

"Did it ever occur to you that I'm just looking for the right person?"

It could've been that he just knew the right answer - and, God knows, it worked. It was enough to spur me into letting my guard down a little bit, enough to open up to the possibility of maybe having a real thing with this guy.

A year later, and everything is still the same: Blissful, fun, strong. It defies what I believed. Because, not only did not I believe he'd never dive into a relationship with me, but I didn't believe I could find someone who would make me this happy. And here he is.

2) Thursday night, despite the monsoon that ripped through Northeastern Pennsylvania, my friend and I drove the hour and a half it takes to get to the Garden State Plaza. We were on a mission for one thing: Bare Escentuals makeup. I've seen the infomercials for the stuff, and always wanted to try it, but found two things standing in my way: One, the fact that it was on an infomercial. Surely the excellent coverage and flawless complexion the makeup gave the models was all lighting and camera angles and infomercial trickery. Two, you have to order it. Which perplexes me because a) you have to give you credit card number out, and I don't like doing that (I know it's stupid. Shut up.) and b) you can't see it and/or try it on first. And I'm a big proponent of touching whatever I buy. I know it's antiquated and silly, but I just have to know I'm going to like a makeup before I go and spend nearly $100 on it.

But then I discovered that they had the makeup in the Garden State Plaza. So we drove, after work, all the way through New Jersey - so far, in fact, that we were nearly in New York City- to the mall. Neither of us was prepared for what we saw when we pulled up.

It was huge. Mammoth. Gargantuan. Ginormous. It was practically its own city. We pulled into the parking garage and were lucky enough to immediately stumble upon a a woman getting into her car that happened to be in a parking space right in front. I turned on my blinker and we high-fived each other (figuratively) and waited. And waited. And waited. And the lady in the car turned to face us and pointed toward the mall and mouthed something that I took to say "I'm going back in." And then she turned around and proceeded to reapply her makeup. I waited a little while longer, then, fed up, sped on. "If that woman pulls out of that spot," I said to Lindsey as we crawled through the garage, on the lookout for other available spots, "I'm gonna....I don't know. But I'm going to do something drastic. I swear."

Sure enough, moments later, we were rounding an aisle to see her car backing up and pulling out. I sped up to try and claim the spot that I believed to be rightfully mine, but I was too late. A Honda slipped in ahead of me.

I let out a moan of hate and agony combined, and promptly raised my middle finger to the lady who, as far as I was concerned, cheated me out of a spot that belonged to me.

Drama behind us, we found a spot and walked in. We strode through Neiman Marcus and out into the mall's corridor....And we could not believe our eyes. It was huge. HUGE. The main walkway forked more times than I could count, making it impossible to make a good lap of the mall. And we were on a time crunch. Two hours was all we had, and we had no idea where our destination store was located. I also had visions of buying a dress for the wedding Billy and I will be going to in Mexico. Clearly, I'm an overachiever.

Because, an hour and three dresses later, I bought a just-in-case dress ("I'll take this one just in case I can't find a better one.") and we still hadn't found what we went there looking for: The makeup.

Finally, we found a directory and located the name of the store. "It should be right here somewhere," I said, my finger on the illuminated map of the mall. We were standing in front of Nordstrom's, and according to the map, the makeup shop should've been right there. "But I don't see it," I said, looking in front of and behind me.

"It's right there!" Lindsey said, her long arm extended to reveal the store, tucked into one of the mall's many crevices.

"I'm an idiot," I said as we power-walked our way into the store.

Lindsey has used the makeup before and swears by it. "Trust me," she said, as I fondled a $75 starter kit. "You're going to love it. I promise."

But I wasn't sure. I just knew I was going to be let down because, in my mind, the makeup was a miracle product. And there's no way that four jars of powder could possibly live up to the hefty assumption I had. I eyeballed the girl in the corner, a redhead, who was getting a makeover. She didn't look so great. But, after getting "color matched," I whipped out my card and paid the hefty price, taking my gamble.

"Look," Lindsey whispered, pointing to a small sign by the register, "they have a 30 day money-back guarantee. So you can bring it back if you don't like it."

This gave me piece of mind as I signed my name for the dark-eyed saleslady.

And, as it turns out, I will not be needing to take advantage of their generous return policy. Oh my God. This stuff is incredible. I have the dewy complexion of a thirteen year old, without looking like I'm wearing pancake batter on my face. I can't stop looking at myself.

I wore it to a party last night, and one of my friends actually said to me, "When did you stop wearing makeup? You look incredible without it! Your skin is beautiful!"

I felt like I was in the infomercial. "I'm not not wearing makeup, honey. This is just awesome stuff."

He smiled and took a sip of his Pina Colada. "Well, the idea of makeup is to look like you're not wearing any, right? I guess you hit the jackpot with that stuff."

Granted, it was dark outside, and he could've been a little drunk, but it was my first rave review, and I'll take it.

3) My follow-up appointment on Tuesday went really well. My incisions, which had been covered by a gauzy tape, were revealed to me for the first time ever. They are small, though bruised and sensitive, and dainty. They will heal just beautifully.

"Your right side is more bruised than your left," the doctor said, fingering the yellowish blue half moon above my hip, "because your biggest cyst was on that side. It was so big, it obscured your uterus. We were lucky we got to it when we did."

"That big, huh?" I said, shocked that I'd never noticed something that large in my belly.

"Yes, it was. All the nurses came in and looked at it. We were all amazed. It's one of the biggest I've ever seen."

"Well," I said, shrugging my shoulders, "when I do something, I do it right. I'm not gonna mess around with little baby cysts."

Indeed.

4) Billy and I joke around a lot. A lot. We're both dry, sarcastic people, who spend a great deal of energy trying to be witty. Normally, our senses of humor melt together famously. But, lately, they haven't. I don't know if it's my hormones or my extreme fatigue, but many jokes he makes fall flat.

Last weekend, eating lunch, I interrupted a conversation Billy was having with his cousin to say, "Great, just what I wanted to do: Spent an afternoon talking about Billy's List of Hot Ex Girlfriends."

Billy turned to me, a half grin spreading across his face, and said, "Hey, that's a list you could be on."

Instead of saying something like "Only if I'm lucky," or "it can't happen soon enough," I shot him my most evil look and fought off tears. He let out a nervous laugh and reached for my hand. I pulled it back in one sharp motion, determined to not let him lube me up with hand-holding and mushy commentary. I was mad.

"God," he said, after his third thwarted attempt at affection. "What, did you store your sense of humor in those cysts they took out?"

Apparently, I didn't, because this made me laugh until my stomach hurt.

5) Although it has been well over a week since my surgery, my abdomen is still a little sore from my surgery. I'll be feeling great one day, and I'll behave as though I never had surgery, and then the next day, I pay for it. For instance, last night, when my friend and I hustled our way through a band's rendition of "Car Wash," I acted like my stomach muscles had never been sliced. Today, I'm walking like a decrepit old lady, sore from too much action. Which does not bode well for my anniversary celebration tonight. Which makes me sad. But I will look hot for my date tonight. I will push through the discomfort, dress sultry, walk tall, and be the sexiest girlfriend I can be. Because some things are too good not to celebrate because of some minor pain.

Because Blogger Sucks...

...and wouldn't let me on all morning, you get another list. Sorry.

1) I went to The City (and for those of you who don't live in the tri-state area and think I could be referring to any city when I say The City, that's New York City I'm talking about. Yeah. I'm a badass.) on Saturday night with a friend and her boyfriend to see Jim Florentine at Caroline's. Sitting out in the lobby/bar/waiting area, killing time before the 12:30am show started, my friend's boyfriend was asking me about Sirius Radio, a luxury I love so much that I may marry it (I hope it proposes! Cross your fingers for me!).

"So," he said, resting back on the couch we were seated on, the back of which was maybe 10 or 12 feet high. We all felt like kids, or at very least that we had all unwittingly stumbled onto an Alice in Wonderland set. "How does the Howard Stern station work? I mean, is it just Howard's show all day long, on constant repeat?"

"Actually," I said, sitting up a little straighter, preparing to speak with authority, "he has two stations. And on one of them, yes, it's his show on an all-day loop. But there are like, Howard News Team reports and a show about the show that morning. Stuff like that. On the other channel there's some different programming, and a few other guys with their own shows."

"Who?"

"There's this guy, Bubba the Love Sponge. He's really raunchy. But I like him. There's also a guy, Farrell, on there. But I can't stand the guy, so I don't listen to that one. He just grates on me."

Cut to a half hour later, where we go in to get seated. "We have seats right up front, would you like them?" said the Caroline's employee. Feeling brave and crazy, we said yes. We didn't know when he said "right up front" he meant "not even a centimeter from the stage. Like, if the comedians get sweaty, and it rolls off of their person at any point, it will probably hit you in the face." So, we go, and sit practically on the stage. There were five of us, but the tables are made to seat 12, set perpendicularly to the stage. And the six seats away from the stage were occupied by what appeared to be a group of friends. The guy sitting almost across from me spoke, and I thought Gee, his voice sounds familiar, and the more he spoke, the more I thought I knew him from somewhere. Until I realized, Holy shit! That's the guy whose show I don't listen to on Sirius because it drives me crazy! So this guy was sitting right across from me, and even though I don't like him, or have anything to say to him because I'm not a fan, I fought the urge to say "Hey, man, I listen to you on Sirius." I didn't say it, though, because that would be a lie. If I hear him on Sirius, I change the channel. Because he's obnoxious and loud and he never lets anyone finish speaking. BUT, there in the comedy club, he was quite polite and quiet. Who knew.

Anyway, aside from that, the show was alright. The comedians were okay, but it's wasn't the rowdy, laugh-till-I-cry laughter I expected. (To be fair, the opener/announcer guy was funny. And I like Jim Florentine for the way he messes with telemarketers, not his standup.) But I had a great time, anyway. And, shit, what are the chances that I'd be sitting right across from a guy I was just talking about. As one of my companions for the evening said, "Only in New York."

2) Sunday was absolutely beautiful here. Billy and I, his cousin and my brother, decided to go to a lake about two minutes from our house to fish. Although my idea of "fishing" is more "sit on the shore, read one of my new books and drink and/or smoke." So that's what we did. The boys headed down the rocky beach to cast their lines, and I sat in a collapsible chair in the grass and read Augusten Burroughs. Last time we did this (Chase and Billy and I), I had the foresight to wear my bathing suit, to get a little bit of color on my pasty skin. This time, however, I decided not to, as it was sort of cool and I didn't think we'd be out there that long.

Three hours, a picnic lunch, half of my book, about twenty fish and one snake later, I looked down and saw that, oh yeah, I got color alright. Nice and pinkish-brown, all down the front - and only the front - of my arms, on my chest (in the exact shape of the two layered tank tops I wore that day) and on the bottom three quarters of - once again, only - the front of my legs. Oh yes, and in the shape of the shoes I wore, too. I hadn't noticed myself getting burned because it was cool and windy and I didn't really feel the sun at all. Until I was standing by the shore, looking for a snake that had just disappeared under a rock (but that's another post for another time), and I felt the sun reflecting off of the water and hitting me with what felt like a million shiny little razor blades. So now, when I'm shirtless, and pantsless, I look like I'm still wearing that tank-top and pedal-pusher and wedged-heel outfit of yesterday. It's very, very sexy. And comfortable too.

On the bright side of this story, Billy has now taken to calling me his Faberge Egg. "So priceless and beautifully decorated, yet so fragile." Of course, when he followed it with a comment about not being able to take me anywhere without some sort of injury/rash/malady, it wasn't as cute. I just liked that he called me priceless. Because I'm a nerd.

I'm just hoping that this lobster-thing I have going is going to fade into a nice brown instead of the blotchy, itchy, bumpy sun poisoning I'm accustomed to. I've been applying a blue jelly Banana Boat product with aloe and lidocaine pretty regularly, hoping to stave off the inevitable grody rash that comes when I foolishly spend time in the sun.

BUT, I know that, if I don't do some tanning now, I'm going to either blister and pop, or just spontaneously combust when we get to Mexico in August. So I have to do some tanning/burning now to get it overwith. I don't want another fight with sun poisoning to sabotage another trip of mine.

3) I bitch a lot about old drivers. But the group of drivers I haven't mentioned yet are the young assholes. Granted, I'm more irritated when I get stuck behind someone doing roughly twenty below the limit (which I did everytime I went somewhere this weekend. Seriously. Every. Fucking. Time.), but I just can't go any longer without mentioning the passion with which I hate teenage drivers. Not your nice, normal teenaged drivers, who are bound to blossom into responsibly-driving adults. Those kids are fine. It's the 19 year old in a customized Honda, with the muffler that makes his car sound simultaneously like an insect and a Harley. With the sound system, and the rims and the lowered body kit. He probably has a real fancy paint job, and maybe even some weird bumper that changes the look of the car. The make, year, model and customization options are unimportant, as they will change from kid to kid. What will NOT change, however, is how horribly they drive. Fifty miles over the speed limit, through a residential section. Passing on the double yellow. Passing in the turning lane, even though signs clearly instruct them to refrain from passing. Cutting people off, not because they need to, but because they think it's fun to fuck with people. They ride your ass, they rev their engines unnecessarily. They're horrible. What ever happened to normal, law-abiding drivers?

I mean, sure, I speed. We all do. But it's maybe ten over the limit and I generally try to respect my surroundings. In a neighborhood, I don't crank up my gangsta rap so that the elderly people enjoying their dinner have to listen to every curse word imaginable. I try not to let the thumping of my bass shake the siding off of houses I pass. I don't cut people off. And most people just apply common laws of courtesy when driving. Why can't teenagers? And, on a related note, when did I get old?

4) I was elected today to go and pick up lunch for my coworkers and myself. I also had to stop at the bank and go to the convenience store and pick up bottled water and candy. I always plan my drives so that I have to make as few left turns as possible. (I just don't like making left-hand turns, okay?) So my first stop was at the convenience store. And, as is my habit, I rolled up my windows, turned off my car, opened my door and grabbed my purse to walk inside. Much to my surprise, my purse was quite light. Only then did I movie-flashback to the office, where I set my overstuffed wallet on top of the business checkbook, then cut to me leaving the business, and the camera pans to the wallet still sitting on the checkbook. I groaned. I had some cash with me, and since I was stopping at the bank anyway, it wasn't the money issue. It was the driver's license issue that bothered me. I always take my license with me. EVERYWHERE. I'll make sure I have it when I drive the four minutes of deserted country roads between my house and my parents'. I take it with me even when I'm not driving, just in case something terrible happens, for identification purposes. But I never drive without it. Ever. Knowing, then, in the gas station parking lot, that the drivers license was not sitting there in my wallet, made me uneasy. What if I got pulled over? "It's just a few miles," I said uneasily to myself, shrugging. And I turned my car back on and went to leave. Waiting to turn out of the parking lot, a state trooper drove by.

I pulled out onto the main drag and went exactly the speed limit. I'm not sure what the penalty is for driving without a license, but I imagine it involves handcuffs and the words "We're going to have to take you down to the station." So I was careful. Very careful. But I felt like there was a sign on the exterior of my car that shouted "I'm driving without proof that I'm legally allowed to do so!" Never has my ten minute lunch pick up seemed so long.

5) Everyone in the office has just decided that they all want to hang out somewhere to do their various tasks. And they all decided that my desk is just the place to do it. Which is awesome because we all know how much I love sharing my space. But it also means I have to stop typing before someone notices that there's really no need, ever, to type this much at my job.

Happiness is Made of...

1) A late night drive with my little brother, where we cranked old Bon Jovi and sang at the top of our lungs. Last night, Milford was privy to a stirring rendition of both Livin' on a Prayer and You Give Love a Bad Name. Never before has this brother and sister duo thrown quite as much fervor and passion into singing. Much less, singing to Bon Jovi. Our mobile concert didn't end with those two classics, but there was a solo (mine) of Blaze of Glory, a solo (his) of Whitesnake's Here I Go Again (On My Own), a lead singer (me)/choir (him) performance of Madonna's Like a Prayer, complete with car-dancing: flailing arms and many hands-folded-into-prayer-position interpretive moves. This dancing and singing occurred on an excursion to the Dairy Queen, where Chase and I parked in the exact same spot in which we always park, sat in the exact same booth we always sit in, opened the door too hard like we always do, and I ordered the exact same thing I've ordered the past three times we've been.

"You're getting the Heath Blizzard again?" Chase asked, surveying the menu while the young employee scooped extra Heath chunks into my vanilla ice cream.

"Oh yes I am. What are you getting?"

Chase rubbed his chin like a man twice his age, indecisive and contemplative. "Do they have anything with Peanut Butter?" Oh my God, I thought. He's turning into our father.

"You could get a peanut butter shake or sundae. Or maybe a Reese's Peanut Butter cup blizzard," I suggested.

He let out a sigh. "Yeeeeah," he said, stretching out both the word and his long arms. "I think I'll get the Reese's Blizzard."

There's something about that particular Dairy Queen that brings out the goof in both of us. We sit in our little booth, scooping our ice cream into our mouths with long red slender spoons and can, for some reason, find humor in everything. It's been there that we've witnessed a thin and frail old man with a long, long beard, who closely resembled Father Time, with his family. He reminds us of an old, ridiculous country song that our dad has on one of his Old Time CDs called Trinkets and Beads. This is a song we've always pictured being sung by an old man not unlike the Dairy Queen patron, who would do a little jig while he sang "Trinkets and beads, trinkets and beads, got five times more than anyone needs..." We've spotted men in tank tops with backs and shoulders so hairy that they resembled the standard Big Foot image, who looked as though they'd stumbled into this establishment by accident while trying to terrorize some campers in the woods just behind the DQ's brightly lit facade. We've watched a woman decide that she didn't feel like walking to the Dairy Queen's restroom ("What?" She said to cashier, her baby resting on her jutted hip, "the restroom's outside? Forget it.") and change her screaming baby right there on the table. We've been goofy, Chase making me laugh so hard that people look at me like I'm crazy. He accidentally-on-purpose gets ice cream on his nose and cheeks, then, straight-faced, asks one of the employees for an extra spoon or something. I don't know why but it makes me laugh every time.

Our drive is always with the windows down, trading the comfort of air conditioning for the ability to stick our hands out of rolled-down windows during our dancing. We always get home windblown and sticky, but full and aching from laughter.

2) Flowers given to me, not by my boyfriend, but by my incredible friend Melanie.

She showed up on our Monday night date with them, a card in her outstretched hand, wishing me well for my surgery. But more than that, she just did it to cheer me up. And they have. They sit on the island in the kitchen, greeting me every morning as I stumble downstairs to make my coffee. The rose in the middle has bloomed since coming to my house, and the rest of the flowers (I'm not sure what they are...Sorry!) all swarm around the rose in the most beautiful and cozy way.

"I went to florist," Mel said as we took our seats in the smoking section of our local haunt, "and I was like 'What kind of flowers should I get?' And I was looking at everything they had, and I wanted to get you something different, but I was like 'NO CARNATIONS! I KNOW HOW SHE FEELS ABOUT CARNATIONS!'" She finished with a giggle that echoed mine and took a sip of her coffee. I blinked back tears of raw gratitude and sheer appreciation.

A good friend knows which flowers you hate. But, more importantly, she knows exactly what you need when you're feeling a little low. Who said you have to wait on your boyfriend to give you flowers? They're incredible coming from an amazing friend, who has known you for as long as you've been in Milford and also knows everything - and I do mean everything - about you.

I should've used my flash for the picture, and I should've used an actual camera instead of my camera phone. But no matter how good the picture, it wouldn't convey the way they make me feel every time I see them. A reminder of someone who loves me. Someone I love.

She's a friend I don't see all the time. Jobs, boyfriends, distance and life get in the way of our regular meetings. But months can pass between our encounters, and it still feels like no time at all once we're face to face. We don't talk on the phone, we don't email each other, but our marathon sessions together - which last a minimum of two hours - suggest a closeness you don't see everyday. We store up the happenings in our lives, and explode with stories as soon as we sit. After telling our waitress "We're gonna be a while," we spill our lives out on the table over coffee, cigarettes and some sort of meal. We laugh like we're the only patrons in whatever restaurant we've chosen. We've cried over our meals, laughed, sulked, complained, beamed. By the time we leave, our table is covered with empty sugar packets and a million secrets.

3) Playing an old CD on my way into work. Two, actually. The first one was MTV The First 1000 Years: R&B, where I found not only Bobby Brown's My Prerogative, but also Tina Turner's What's Love Got to Do With It. I'd forgotten I had the CD, but last night's flashback session with my brother made me seek something old and familiar. I turned it up and sang along, feeling lost in junior high or earlier, recalling the crushes and school dances that the songs carried.

I then switched to the stripped version of Gavin DeGraw's Chariot CD. It reminded me of this time last year, where I went with Chuck and Pollo to his concert. I watched him onstage, with his curly hair and his passion for what he was doing, with his quirky sense of style and his genuine joy, and I wished for someone. I just wish I could find someone like that. Passionate and creative, sentimental, unafraid, confident. I liked his curly hair. I loved his music. And I remember, standing there in the crowded and sticky theatre, how much I wished I had another half who would enjoy this with me. Someone eccentric. Someone, perhaps, with curly hair. Someone who wouldn't think me silly for wanting to sing and dance to the music, someone who could understand being swallowed whole by music, a moment.

Before I went to the concert, I told Billy, who was merely an acquaintance at the time, that I'd be seeing Gavin DeGraw. "You'll love it," he said. "He's incredible in concert."

And I did love it. And, after making those wishes over the strains of the song Meaning, I got Billy. The one who does understand, who doesn't blame me for loving a song because of the piano in it, the one who gets just as into music as I do, the one who sings along, loud and honest, when we're in the car together.

I got what I wanted.

I have all that I need.

Ramble On, Laurie. Ramble On.

1. I am addicted to Vitaminwater. I mean, seriously. I bought $20 worth of the stuff at the IGA today. I drink roughly three to four bottles of it on a daily basis, and I'm wondering if it's really that beneficial to my health. Is it okay to drink that much? Can you have too much Vitamin C, B3, B6, B12, B5, Zinc and Chromium? Because I am such a sucker for this stuff.

Defense, Vitaminwater's Raspberry-Apple drink, says it aids in wound heeling. Should I be drinking this non-stop after my surgery? Will it really help me, or am I exactly the gullible idiot this company is after? I realize that whatever excess vitamin C you take in, you just pee out. But I take Centrum daily, AND Vitamin C tablets. AND I drink water and tea supposedly infused with MORE vitamins. Could I be doing myself more harm than good? Or am I doing nothing at all?

I can rationalize my addiction because this water, even though it has carbs and sugar, has got to be better than the liter or so of Dr. Pepper I used to drink on a daily basis, right?

Less than a half of my purchase today.

2. I finally updated the blogs on the right there. Finally, the ones with dead links have been updated. Seriously, it was driving even ME crazy. So Serra and Kristi, I'm finally linked to your proper blogs. And I have some new ones over there. FINALLY. I have seriously been meaning to do that for weeks.

3. I went through my pre-op paperwork today (it was in my purse), and I just realized that I can't wear MAKEUP OR NAIL POLISH during my surgery. Are they TRYING TO KILL ME? Seriously, I thought it was bad when I couldn't eat for 12 hours, but that's doable. Then they tell me I can't smoke or drink for 24 hours. And it sucks, but I can do it. NOW I see I can't wear makeup? What? And, the other thing is I have fake nails. Big, long, fake acrylic nails fashioned to look "natural." I swear, if I have to take them off, somebody better reimburse me the $60 it's going to cost me to put them back on. And do I have to go without toenail polish, too? Because that's just crazy. That may just be pushing it too far.

4. I was invited to a Purse Party in two weeks, a party where some woman sets up about a billion fake designer purses, and all the women ogle them and buy some good knock offs. Which sounds awesome. But then I asked what the price range is, figuring on about $20. Because that's what you pay on Canal Street in New York City or the flea market if you're a good bargainer. The woman who invited me says, "Oh, they range from, like, $50 to $100." Fifty to a hundred? Are you kidding me? Is it just me, or does it seem ridiculous to be paying anything more than $30 for a good fake bag? I mean, yes, it's cheesy to carry a fake bag. But I'm guilty. And I'll admit it. And I can't rationalize paying $1,000 for a purse. So I love fake bags. But there's something deep inside of me that refuses to pay for a knock-off what I could pay for a nice real Guess purse or a real Coach at TJ Maxx. Am I wrong?

5. I need a new CD. I've been listening to The Fray for months now, and though it hasn't gotten old yet by any means, my vocal range isn't compatible with that of the lead singer. It's always too high or too low for me to sing along comfortably. So I need something new, preferably by a chick, with awesome lyrics, preferably of the Love or Broken Hearted variety, so that I can have little mini-concerts in on my 20 minute drive to and from work every day.

6. I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but I really can't wait for the new Christina Aguilera CD to come out. But I will buy it when it does. Oh yeah. I said it.

7. Is it just me, or is everyone noticing how bloggers are slowly but surely starting to shut down their blogs either because they're over blogging or because they're going to blog for someone else? It makes me very sad, this trend. Especially this one. Because, even though she's blogging for VH1 now and she says she'll continue to update her blog, too, I know it's a lie. It's like the old "Let's just be friends, and see where it takes us" line in a breakup. You know it's not going to take us anywhere. They'll forget about you, and then you're just left, combing the archives for reminders of the way it used to be. You think I'm being dramatic? It happened here.

8. I also need some books to read while I'm laying around my house eating bon-bons for three days. I definitely want Augusten Burroughs' new one and this one by Laurie Notaro (and not just because we have the same first name...My friend Scott told me he couldn't stop laughing while he read it, and we both share an obscene, sometimes scary, love for David Sedaris. So I trust him.). But, really, those are the only two I can think of. I read five books in Belize. And I was drinking and actually doing other stuff, too. So I imagine that, if I'm not too doped up, I'm going to be reading a lot. Either that or watching a lot of porn. Ha! Kidding, mom! Maybe.

9. To anybody who read the now-removed grammar post, I'm sorry. That was pretty stupid.

10. In order to make up the time I'm going to be using for my trip to Mexico in August with Billy, I've been working every Saturday for the past two months. I will continue to work these days until my time has been dutifully made up. But now, I'll be taking three weekdays and a Saturday off for my surgery. At the rate I'm going, I will be working on Saturdays for the rest of my life.

11. But, my massage is on Sunday, at that pretty much makes up for it. The Spa called today to confirm, and asked for either "Laurie or William." It was sort of cute, the way they asked for either of us. It made me feel like a real couple. But, anyway, apparently, we have to be there early to "fill out paperwork," which I find a bit odd. I count on filling out paperwork at the doctor's office, but at a spa? It seems sort of silly. Shouldn't they just rub me all over and leave it at that?

12. I ordered something awesome for Billy for our year anniversary - A Ghana world cup jersey, with his favorite player's number and name on the back. At first, I was a little bummed because it was backordered until October. Now I find out that my order never went through, and the gift is now not available. I told him about it already (not only can I not keep a secret, but I thought since I know what I'm getting for our anniversary - the trip to Mexico - he should know, too.) and now I have to tell him to forget about it. Any suggestions for a new gift?

13. I downloaded and set as my ringer "Summertime" by DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince. I'm a little embarrassed every time it rings, but it makes me smile, too. It reminds me of junior high, walking home from school, the ice cream truck. I love it.

14. On a related note, DJ Jazzy Jeff will be DJing at a club about an hour from here in two weeks. My friend showed me the flyer and he goes "How much does that suck? Will Smith is making millioins of dollars per movie, and this guy is DJing at tiny venues. You think the Fresh Prince would've set him up with a gig in Philly or something." But I don't think Mr. Smith owes Mr. Jazzy Jeff anything. We argued about that for a while. But it all came down to the fact that we can't believe DJ Jazzy Jeff will be in Newburgh! Will he play and remix "Summertime?" "Parents Just Don't Understand?" "The Theme for the Fresh Prince of Bel Air?" In West Philadelphia born and raised, on the playground was where I spent most of my days... Ahh. That'd be incredible.

15. If I don't stop this now, I'm going to keep adding things to list until it's ridiculously long AND until the second I leave work. And there are things I should be doing; I should go and, you know, work.

Have a good weekend!