Here We Come a Wassailing
Still nothing much to report around here. My life's theme right now seems to be "Sheets: Their Many Forms." The rain, it's coming down in them; the bed, it's covered with fresh flannel ones; my desk, it's stacked with nothing but, and they are covered with angry red marks from a pig-headed author who won't let me apply my expertise to make him look less of an idiot and more of a scholar. (Why won't he just let me help him?! Arrrgh!)
Of the external world, there's very little going on. We watch movies. We tease the cats. We practice the piano so we don't embarrass ourselves at the second annual Christmas party featuring yours truly on keys.
Of the internal world, there is much going on, but it's all a variation on the theme My Boyfriend Is Better Than Your Boyfriend, Fa La La La La.
I've been eating several clementines a day and getting all my artificial sugar from chai. I'm lusting after fabulous boots that exist only in my imagination, and I've come to the realization that 1. I don't have any sweaters that make me look hot, and 2. a light jacket won't cut it when I'm home for the holidays in the land of snow and ice. Simon, as always, continues to be at the forefront of my mind, what with his constant sensitivity to my needs and his ever-expanding capacity to deal with my moods. (I don't do mornings. Or late evenings. Or afternoons, right before lunch.) Every single day he goes above and beyond the call of necessity and makes me feel like I'm Student of the Week and I get to be at the front of the cafeteria line on tater tot day. I want to Baby Bjorn him and carry him with me always. Fa la la la barf.
Seriously, though, all week he's been traveling completely out of his way to come by my apartment after work so I don't have to drive my disintegrating car over to his place. (The exhaust system is completely rusted out and will drop onto the freeway mid-ride any day now.) And he shows up with a gallon of milk so I can have my morning cereal, and when he walks in the door he picks up my cat and tells her how cute she looks when she's crazy out of her mind. He calls me from work whenever he has a spare moment, he bears my garbled Gershwin, and he makes me his emergency contact on his passport renewal. The love--it has rendered me speechless. Or at least unable to talk about anything but.
So that's the story, morning glory. Even my camera has been quiet for the last few days, and all I have on it are some pictures of Will at an ATM and Will doing his dishes and Will opening his fridge and a shot of my officemate promoting our latest venture to offend people and go straight to hell. What this blog needs is a string of twinkly lights to spruce things up. And more cowbell. And a swift kick in the pants.
tick tick tick *kablam*
(t minus 90 min here)
hope you're well.
:)
I am extremely well. Hope you are too. *kapow!*
Twinkly lights rule. I've got two sets of them here at work and even when things look like they're going straight to hell, you just plug them in and life is great again just as we know and love it. :)
I gotta have more cowbell.
You want to Baby Bjorn him. Haaa.
Also, what the hell is More Cowbell? I saw it on someone's shirt at the mall and I've seen it at various events in blogland and now on the Great Leah's blog and I am beginning to think I am too old and unhip and not attuned to what the young uns are talking about these days.
Heh. Every sweater makes this girl look hot. Oh lordy, you should see her today.
I will refrain from making the highly predictable joke in which I comment that her sweater looks great on her, but better on my bedroom floor. I wouldn't dream of being so crude in this public forum.
Thank you, Simon, for showing such restraint.