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Friday, February 28, 2003

Must Be The Wine Talking.

Well, now that Boyfriend has finished his cake—from scratch, no less—for Movie Club tonight (this month's movie discussion is The Pianist, which I liked a lot) I should get started on my dish. But a couple glasses of wine (it ain't Two-buck Chuck but it's the same price, anyway) and the lateness of the hour have given the impetuous child within a louder voice than usual:

"I don't wanna."

But we really need to; I don't know how early I'll be able to get home from work tomorrow. "I don't wanna." I'm bargaining now. OK, so if I make the Rosemary Potatoes tomorrow (they'll be better warm anyway) then I can make the Chilled Asparagus tonight. "I don't wanna." Well, OK, then, I could serve Roasted Asparagus Bundles instead, which can cook at the same time as the potatoes. So does any of this mean I can just waltz out of the kitchen tonight and go play The Simpsons Road Rage instead?

Wait...now I don't remember whose side I'm on. What was I doing? I think I needed to go blanch something. Oh, Bla-a-a-anche...

[...and here insert the clattering of pots and pans, followed by a short yell, and then a person limping down the hall towards the adhesive bandages again...]

12:30 AM PST (link)

Tuesday, February 25, 2003

You Tear Me To Bits.

My shredder is dying a slow death. Mostly it works and cross-cuts my credit card applications and convenience checks, but with increasing frequency, I find long pieces of paper which haven't been cut wrapped around its teeth like spinach. It frequently sticks when I use the reverse setting. I also find myself spending an inordinate amount of time with tweezers and pinking shears trying to pluck stubborn clots of shredded paper—up to a dozen sheets thick—out from between its teeth. That's probably less its fault as it is mine for my OCD habits. It's actually quite relaxing to sit there, slightly entranced, picking at it; Thirty minutes later I'll come to with a fine white papery powder on my hands, clothes and floor but a strange peacefulness in my chest.

You can only imagine what wells of patience I must draw from if I have a scab or pimple.

I've tried ~~gawking at the inside of~~ fixing the thing, but only three of the four screws that hold the case on the shredding mechanism will loosen. This is extra maddening precisely because of the obsessive need to clean the little pieces of paper out of it. If only I could get in there, I'd get those nasty little things! (In my teen years, my father had a similar obsession for a few months with the fibers from a new carpet, so I guess I come by that naturally.)

You'd think that by now I'd have a much more digital world than this, but I'm still somehow drowning in paper. How can someone live today without their personal shredder? It'd be like living without soap, or without door locks. I suppose I ought to just get a new one, particularly with it being tax season, but...I'm a little sentimental about this one. See, this shredder was...well...a valentine's day present from four years ago. Yes, Valentine's day. What a romantic message, huh? "My love for you is secure; please don't leave my heart in shreds." But it's also the only present I ever had that, when plugged in, unwrapped itself. I can't tell you when I'd ever laughed so hard. It's such a fond memory that I hate to have to, er...dispose of the evidence.

Well, it's got a little life in it yet. We'll have to see what happens after I shred 1997.

12:56 AM PST (link)

Monday, February 24, 2003

Notes On Hygiene.

Note to self: If the label says something like "Eats through Soap Scum" then that same "eating" mechanism probably applies to the skin on your fingers too.

Note to self: Don't use the "natural latex" bandages in the first aid kit at work. You remember that scene in Ghostbusters where the heroes end up covered in marshmallow goo? That's what you'll be plucking off your already-sore finger after removing it.

Note to self: Remember to stand as far away as possible from the automatic-flushing toilet at all times.

Note to self: Even though you're distracted about the automatic toilet spitting at you, the sore finger, and the bandage goo, please try to remember to close your fly after leaving the restroom. Your coworkers are already looking at you funny what with the goo and the yelping, and the finger you might wish to give them is, as previously stated, otherwise occupied.

03:00 PM PST (link)