ho-hum Sunday

I wonder about people who are crazy enough to do online journaling of any kind. Are these people safe to be seen in public with? Can they be trusted not to drool on themselves (or others near them)?

Every now and then, in the 0.000076 seconds between thought and thought-quashing, I think, “It would be interesting to have something along the lines of a blogmeet.”

Then, the 0.000076 seconds pass, my brain kicks into self-defense mode, and either the brain decides to segfault or reboot into something like safe mode, which guarantees posts about nothing but feline inanities for a couple of days while the higher-order brain functions come back online.

Sometime after the brain starts functioning again, I remember the same thing I remember every time after I get a funny thought like this: who needs organized meets for things like this? Hello, geekfest anyone? When I can invite my friends over for dinner and have six webloggers on just about any given night (as long as that night isn’t Tuesday or Wednesday), it’s kinda pointless to schedule something Official.

Not when everyone’s just going to show up for dinner anyway.

* * * *

Why, yes, it HAS been dull around here lately. Mostly we’ve been sitting around, enjoying the thunderstorms, wondering if good ol’ Izzy (aka Hurricane Isidore) is going to get a northward itch and bring us some more rain. The cats have been fat and sassy, I’ve proven that I no longer need a recipe to make peanut sauce, and I’ve gotten a bit of a start on getting shelves stained for the living room.

In other words, there’s not a single bit of transcendental, screamingly funny, or even slightly enlightening news to relate.

Unless you count the slight tongue-lashing I gave the cashier at Target today. Dispute me all you want, woman, but considering that I reached her checkout lane less than thirty steps after picking up the nail polish I wanted, it was rather hard to forget its price during that time.

Of course, I got home and found out that the bottle was broken, so all that yammering about not paying double for it seems to be a bit moot. If I want that color, looks like I’ll have to dump it into an empty bottle (if I’ve even got one lying around) or…you guessed it…pay double for it.

Oh, well. I consoled myself with royal purple fingernails today.

Edmund’s mostly okay with this sort of thing, seeing as how I’m an adult human and am allowed to make these kind of choices for myself, but he’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t like it when my hands stink of acetone, fingernail polish, or polyurethane.

I have to take what I can get; the crop of random IMers has been pretty wretched and dull lately, so no entertainment there.

Now, if only some theatre in Alabama will decide to screen Secretary, I might just decide that all is bordering on right with the world.

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