Okay. I can’t help it. I was going to go for a record—two nights in a row of all nice and serious postings on domesticat, and then I heard something and I just can’t shake the sillies.
Someone actually makes a Hello Kitty vibrator.
Yes. As in Hello Kitty, that nice little innocuous brand that you remember from your childhood. You cannot understand how much this disturbs and amuses me. The mere fact that this object exists—and has been manufactured—and is being SOLD—tells me that I am NOT the craziest person on this watery little blue planet.Not. Not. Not. It feels SO good to know this for certain.
Anyway. Moving on to things that won’t totally shock and disturb…I got the over-the-toilet rack set up in the guest bathroom this evening. Of course, the cats had to give it a serious once-over (what is this and why is it in our bathroom?!?) and then …. shockingly enough….they left it alone.
While driving back from buying my lunch today, I was thinking about the concept of age, and how much it matters to people. We have a twofold conception of age in this society—we are obsessed both with our chronological age and our mental age. Due to our obsession with numbers in base ten, we see numbers that end with a ‘0’ as being somehow more significant than others, more indicative of a stage of life, than any number in between.
Normally, this isn’t a problem. But things get interesting when mental age doesn’t equal chronological age. We as society members expect everyone to mature somewhere along an expected scale. We have certain expectations about the emotional maturation of two-year-olds versus forty-year-olds, for example.
I ended up having to do a ton of running around today to get all my errands done. One of my last stops was at the farmer’s market. I know, I know, I talk a lot about food. It’s a fun subject. But I was browsing through all the things that are available fresh at this time of year, and I was reveling in it. The smells were fabulous—fresh peaches, eggs, okra, blueberries, tomatoes, blackberries, and mounds upon mounds of different kinds of beans.
You know, this social life thing is pretty good for me. Since changing jobs, it seems that we’ve been hosting visitors at our house about twice a month. It’s hectic, and it’s difficult to keep the house as clean as I’d like, but I have to admit that it’s comforting to know that if I don’t show up at work for a few days, there are people in this town that would actually worry enough to call the house and check on me.
Jeff’s headed out to see his parents tomorrow. Their computer is acting pretty unstable, so Jeff’s going to take his trusty software and know-how and apply the good ol’ Wipe And Reinstall tactic on it. I should go out there with him—his folks haven’t seen me in a while—but quite frankly, there’s so much to do here at the house that if I want any hope of getting a rest break before Sunday, I’ll have to stay here tomorrow and get stuff done.
I think perhaps yesterday just wasn’t a day to write. Then again, yesterday was just an odd day in general—eight hours’ worth of busywork at my company with no real pressing things to get done. I’ve been trying to work on a logging script so that I can better analyze the hits I’m getting on domesticat, but the script kept bombing out on me. By the time I fled my cube and drove home, I was annoyed, aggravated, and had a pounding headache.Luckily, the spousal unit was preparing dinner. That gave me a chance to take an aspirin, grab the nearest willing cat (last night’s volunteer for Onerous Petting Duty was Tenzing—brutal life, isn’t it?) and flop on the couch for a while until I was back to my normal goofy, chipper self. The cat was gratified by the petting (there was much shameless purring and tail-thumping), I was gratified by the dinner and the release from my headache, and thus I got a load of laundry done instead of just sitting on my ass all evening.