the random delicatessen
"I'll have a little from Column A and a little from Column B, please."
Short, cryptic, and marginally observational snippets from life in the past week:
I made the announcement tonight to a few people who needed lots of advance notice. Birthdaybash is the weekend of October 20. I thought I'd dread turning thirty, but so far I've found myself rather excited at the prospect. I'm sure I'll say more as the date approaches, but it took me most of the way through my twenties before I really had a handle on who I was, and who I might want to become if/when I grew up. If I'd had my druthers I'd have celebrated #30 on another continent, but we're not ready to do it properly, so I'd rather wait. Instead, I'm going to surround myself with the best this life offers: the joyful, irreverent companionship of friends.
Is that an awl in your head?
A three-day headache, followed immediately thereafter by a cold, does not lead to a productive Amy. Indeed, my couch is sick of me and wants me to go curl up somewhere else for a while. Fang (collectively) achieved the impossible—actually managing to receive all the scritchies their little feline hearts desired. That, alone, clearly indicates it is time to get better and finish up the code.
You're cute when you're logical.
Silly timezone problems are nearly cured. Spousal thanks for the code vaccination that finally put us on the right track. Ask me about it sometime. I'll make amusing growly noises.
Filed under "icky"
Friendships hit rocky spots sometimes, and those rocky spots become logarithmically more painful to deal with as the depth of friendship increases. This was a really painful and intensely private problem between me and a truly close friend (and those of you who know me well know that I don't invoke the TCF phrase lightly). I cried, mostly when no one was looking or listening, and Fang got cuddles they really didn't understand. Talking it out was painful/awkward/hard enough, and I'm raw in lots of places that will take a while to heal, but they will heal. I got hurt; it happens, y'know? Life's meant to be played full-contact, and this is an occasional consequence. It'll take time and discussion and honesty to set things right, but I've got the time and I'm willing to do the rest.
Explain to me why I want this.
I'm obsessed with this—admittedly, gorgeous—Italian couture shoe I saw in Orlando. The six-year-old in me wantsssssss it and whispers sweet seductive nothings in my ear about how it'd be a signature part of my wardrobe if I bought it. Except that I can't afford it until it hits the last sale level at DSW. I'll wait and see. Original price it's a mortgage-payment shoe, but within my range at 80% off. It currently stands at 50% off. I'm consoling myself by reminding myself that I have a good shot at it—not only do I wear an unusual shoe size, this particular pair I tried on has the wrong size written on the box. Dammit, Orlando citizens, do your best to make sure that no woman with a size 5½ shoe size and a bit of cash to burn spots this little glamourpuss of a shoe.
For you measurement sticklers
That means a 35½ European size and an Australian 4.
Interesting things are afoot.
Sorry, the reference was too easy to pass up. Got some interesting life events going on here.
What about that convention thingy?
Yeah, it's still breathing down my neck. End of August: D-Day for my code. I'm bringing my 'A' game, my little black dress, and my ass-kicking shoes. What can't be solved with brains, finesse, or well-commented code will likely see the careful application of a 4" purple Givenchy stiletto.
Well, I won't start with that one. The slinky little red shoes (my lucky shoes) will come first. Then I'll pick something with an innocuous and generally decorous heel—something long enough to take a core cranial sample but not long enough to attach the offending human to the wall. That failing? Yep. Someone will get to talk to Miss Givenchy Geekygirl, and that's just not gonna end well, because those little heel taps are designed for serious punishment.
Someone said lipstick librarians are born, not made.
In the meantime, you guys keep on rocking your respective casbahs. If you guys like the Random Delicatessen format, let me know and I'll use it when I don't have enough big stuff to post about, but have little stuff.
P.S. - whichever cat is barfing on the carpet, please stop or I won't love you any more, and the scritchies will cease until food retention improves. —the kittymom