Also, my inner wrists are sore from raking leaves. I need to stop bragging so much.
I finally experienced one of those petite Victorian lady sneezes that appears as though your nose is saying “I beg your pardon most kindly” to your mouth, and there is a dainty, tiny exhalation of air slightly less powerful than a glaucoma eye puff test.
This is quite extraordinary, as I usually suffer from what is best described as my mouth’s attempt to regurgitate my nose clear off my face. That is the standard protocol.
Furthermore, I come from a family of extremely intense sneezers—both of the serial (dad) and garden sprinkler/honking (mom) varieties.
I wonder what the occasion was today that I could keep it together so well. Ah well, a reason to celebrate if there ever was one!
Today’s breakfast was a muffin with an unsavory surprise. I say unsavory because it was more sweet rather than savory. Not that that changed anything!
The thing was full of disturbingly succulent raisins.
I should qualify that. I mean there’s full of raisins, but this was more like a dried fruit infestation. And that’s what I’m telling you; it was beyond a point where I could pick them out.
The utopian bready part was incommodiously overrun with little purple pustules. Yeah I said it!
Carbuncle of my eyes!
photo courtesy of Flickr and Lara604
And I’m not taking it back.
Because breakfast happened. And now it’s over. And we all have to move on. But not before I have some words about it. In my online journal!
Today’s Lesson: Bran muffins should never be juicy.
Afterthought: It wasn’t actually so horrible in retrospect. But it was not something that could happen without me saying something.
I was at a restaurant with the sig otro the other night, and the following happened.
We got our check, and the our super-nice and thoughtful waitress had written, “Thank you!” on it in a cheerful, helpful script, and we were both like “Awwwww” but not in an annoying couply way (OBVI).
So then when I was signing my check (we split the bill like 21st century feminist astronauts), I wrote “Thank you!” on it.
And then boyfie was all, “Don’t write that! It looks sarcastic!” Then I thought about underlining the “you” but that would have looked even more sarcastic.
So I had gotten myself in a real muddle, because he was right. I tried to one-up her sincere niceness game and I ended up looking like a perfunctory pickle trying to masquerade as a cool, collected cucumber. She probably took one look and ripped it up…with her teeth!
I am the straw that broke the customer servant’s back!
Waitresses are people too! And how!
photo courtesy of Flickr and flattop341
In PWNED news, I had to IM the IT guy today to ask him an urgent question (hadn’t happened in awhile), and his new AIM icon was a large, glaring tribal mask.
It doesn’t take a symbology major to pick up on the subtlety there.
So naturally, the following conversation ensued:
Aparna: angry tiki mask
IT Guy: That is its purpose.
IT Guy: It keeps away evil spirits.
IT Guy: Are you an evil spirit?
Aparna: how dare you
Anyway, things escalated and I ended up having to pay him an actual face-to-face visit for SUPER REAL help with a NOT IMAGINARY problem.
Sad story short, it ended up being a minor glitch that I could’ve fixed myself and IT Guy communicated this information to me very clearly using a language exclusively made up of snorts and eyerolls.
But then I looked at some of these (July 23 is perfection) to feel better about myself. And it worked. Of course.
This is me, actually.
photo courtesy of Flickr and rileyroxx
Help request? More like Self-Help request; am I right, Crazies?!
Other quick notes of (dis)interest:
I realize I’m ok with the stairwell at work smelling like urine. I know this because I didn’t even flinch today when I noticed that the stairwell at work smelled like urine! Even though it’s never smelled like that before!
Conclusion: I’m open-minded!
I have a bug-bite stigmata on my foot. It’s a Bermuda triangle of itching and yellow skin pus caps. It seeps regularly, and all the bites operate as one trained unit in terms of ambiguous excretions.
Conclusion: Too much information? Not enough calamine!
I learned this new corporate drone term—spitballing! And I can’t stop using it.
Conclusion: I’m not completely sold on it yet as breakout star of my new, as-yet-to-be-determined catchphrase but maybe toss some more popaway flys at me, and we’ll touch base soon, chief! (sports metaphors dropped with casual enthuzed-ness are the only thing worse! *fist pumps and pounds all around*)