Last night, despite my 8 a.m. Sunday work schedule, Noah and I went out to hear some music and have a drink or three. (Note: when the "house special martini" involves both blue curacao and chambord in disturbingly large quantities, and is topped with Sprite, your teeth will feel as if they are wearing sweaters. Better to order a standard martini and eschew the sugar rush.) Across the bar, a loud, portly, over-served patron kept shouting at her friends: "no, it's, like, more a question of postmodernism!". No, ma'am, it is not a question of postmodernism. It is a question of whether you will puke all over yourself at the bar, or in the car on the drive home.
Unhappy footwear: crocs. (well, my feet are certainly more happy after being at work all day, but my brain weeps when I put them on. Damn you, high arches.)
Happy footwear: new ballet flats from Target! (and yes, I did get them in, uh, four colors. But they were on sale!)
At work in the bakery, the temperature generally hovers between 78 and 92 degrees. Therefore, my work attire is generally running shorts and a t-shirt. Today, one of my (obvs) male co-workers alerted me to the fact that my black shorts had flour on them by saying "you have flour on your ass. Both cheeks" - and, when I turned around, he held out his palms in an imaginary grabbing. I shot daggers at him and thanked him for being so observant. If it were less hellishly hot in there, I'd wear sweatpants if I thought it'd stop certain co-workers from molesting with their eyes.
Viewed from the front while she is lying down, my cat resembles nothing so much as an overstuffed cream puff with whiskers.
Small victory: it was brought to my attention this week that an old college acquaintance, one who I have disliked since the day we met, does not have the needlessly fancy-princessy-precious first name that she claims. Her real name is something much, much plainer, and though I won't divulge the actual names involved, imagine someone calling herself "Graziella" really being named "Mary".
Nicking underarm while shaving: oh, ouch!
Applying brisk, herbal deodorant post-shower onto those nicks: sweet jesus mooooootherfuuuuuucker!