Today's going to be a crazy day here. I can smell it.

It's been a misty morning, sliding into a dreadfully dreary day. Mt. Nittany, when I drove in, had a ring of fog around its base. The mountains just visible beyond the soccer field from my office window are still barely visible. Everything's hushed. It was quiet in the office this morning, although when student volunteers arrived, that changed, as usual.

But now, through the hush, come the yells of the field hockey team as they practice in my office's backyard. They are quieter than yesterday, though, and I have my trusty headphones.

I'm sure this headache will pass.

This entry is what blogging's all about.

Go read it.

How old am I again?

So I woke up with the Toys 'r' Us song stuck in my head (you'd be baffled by how often this happens). I went back to sleep for fifteen minutes, and it changed into "Barbie Girl."

That morphed into something else similarly juvenile, but now I've forgotten what.

This is a vent. This is only a vent. In the event of a real vent, minor explosions may occur. Duck and cover, using any handy desk or table.

To clarify: this references my nightclub job, not my office job.

Anne's rules of chivalry, revised.

1. When I'm doing my job, and it's perfectly obvious that I can handle the load I'm carrying, and you don't work with me, don't take the load out of my hands. That can, believe it or not, be a legal problem, since the insurance that covers me when I'm working doesn't cover you if you drop someething.

2. Don't take it upon yourself to defend my honor when I don't care.

2b. Don't take it upon yourself to defend my honor when it's not really defending my honor.

2c. Don't take it upon yourself to defend my honor when really, I should be telling the manager about the altercation myself. It's cute within reason, but when I protest and/or tell you directly not to do something, pay attention.

3. That's worth repeating: when I protest and/or tell you directly not to do something, pay attention.

4. For that matter, you don't need to open doors for me when my hands are free. My arms work. I do understand it's habit for most, though, and I'll cut you some slack here. However, nigh-hypocritically, you should let me open doors for you. Don't protest and just stand there until I go through myself. If we're playing a 'who's more stubborn' game, I'll win.

5. There's no need to just chat with me when it's obvious from ambient noise that I'm in public. I probably just want off the phone, as it irks me when other people do that near me.

1-5, subsection A. I like messing with gender stereotypes. Let me screw with what rules I want to.

This has been a vent.

I am so, so sick. And you'd think I'd have enough sense to keep something as simple as soup around the house.

Not so, unfortunately.

I'm a little worried that this job will empty me of words.

It's amazing, actually having my words valued, but at what cost? I get home and mostly just want to go to bed, at this point. The weekends totally throwing off my sleep schedule may have something to do with that, though.

On the other hand, I need to stop falling into the metaphor-trap of words as water--fearing the well could run dry. It's a common fear among writer-types, as I understand it.

"It's like I died and went to heaven, and it's an Outback!" - Dax

"There is no Batman without Robin at the front desk." - my boss's boss, trying to describe a two-person job

I'm wearing a brand new white angora sweater, and managing to shed all over everything I come in contact with. Including my own pants.

This has not been a promising morning. No milk for my cereal. Little sleep. Couldn't do up the hook-and-eyelet on the back of my suit skirt. Running late to an 8:00 a.m. meeting. Those sorts of things.

I've been asked out twice in two weeks. It's kind of odd.

And I didn't just say no to this last one, which is unusual. It could work out okay: I could see that. There's actually someone else I wish had beat this last one to the punch--again, as I kind of sidled around it once already, which I rather wish I hadn't, now.

I guess that speaks to how much timing is a necessity--an art form--when dealing with me.

And now, I have to be on my way to my first all-department meeting, on only a scant few hours' sleep. Today should be entertaining, difficult, and enlightening, at the very least.

It was a minor goal of mine to start 2005 with a clean bathroom.

I'd say a day late isn't too bad.

So far, strangely enough, I'm very much enjoying my all-by-my-lonesome holiday. I have yet to put on clothes properly, I've done laundry, opened the presents from my Dad and B. (notably: soft and fuzzy socks, a new leather folio, and these fantastic ear warmers that you can slide headphones right into), gathered the trash to go out, snacked on mint M&Ms, straightened up a little, moved a bookcase about an inch (but what a difference an inch makes), and banished the Christmas music that I woke up with on mental radio by means of a fantastic present from L.: Tapis Rouge: Cirque de Soleil remixes, which he bought while he was in Montreal. Amazing chillout/world electronica material.

Dad had urged me not to be alone today, and to perhaps go to a service. I'm finding it not so bad, though. I didn't think I'd have a problem with it, and I don't. I'm not sure if this is a function of how little Christmas has meant to me since my Aunt passed away, or just evidence that I really, really needed a complete mental holiday from everyone.

Happy whatever-you-celebrate.

I got the job!

Overtime pay = ++good
Actually having to work overtime = ++bad

I only got home about an hour ago. This was supposed to be my day off, and I worked ten hours.

"I'm not even supposed to be here today!"

If ever I could use the good luck, folks, now would be the time.

They'll be consulting references this week in the hopes of making a decision by Friday.

I so want this job.

From Jolie: "I may not like everyone I come across, but I want to keep them. Breathe them in, remember their mannerisms, file them away neatly into drawers. I don’t like when people turn into ghosts."

I used to love listening to A Prairie Home Companion. Growing up, Dad and I would listen to it in the truck on our way back from wherever we were on Sunday nights (and we were always out somewhere that night).

And now, straight from Minnesota, he asks "What on earth happened to the GOP?"

University of Pittsburgh linguist contributes something useful: an examination of the word "dude."

Overheard in Target's electronics department:

Video Gamer Guy 1: And she wants to get Halo 2.
Video Gamer Guy 2: She likes Halo 2? Man, that's a keeper.
Video Gamer Guy 1: (mumbled protest)
Video Gamer Guy 2: No, man, she's a keeper if she likes Halo 2. But then she's not attractive. She can't like Halo 2 if she's attractive.

Thanks, jerks.

At least they had the grace to look abashed when I swung around the corner of the aisle, pile of video games in hand.

"That's really hot, too" is the response I got in the midst of a conversation in which I was asked if I chewed tobacco. The answer to that, of course, is no. The guy expressed regret, because "chicks who do that are really hot." But the recent adoption of smoking the occasional cigar was a natural mention (stupid as I am), and then I got the quote in question.

He asked if I wanted to hook up moments later.

My "job" is so weird.