Archive: Minutia

After a night of Nyquil-induced dreams of a cartoon Hillary Clinton and an 80s-era Nancy Reagan, I called my boss to let her know that I would not be at the office. Even the shortened walk around the block for Ted made my head spin, so the thought of sitting through my commute and holding vigil at my desk was hardly feasible. I’m having a hard time distinguishing the fog from my cold medicine and the cotton balls that have replaced my brain. My ears are buzzing, I can’t breathe in through my nose, and I’m going through boxes of tissues at an alarming rate. My heavy breathing is punctuated by wimpy, non-committal coughs and insistent sniffles. In short, I am a mess.

It happened. I crossed my fingers all winter long, but today, during the onset of spring, I have finally been forced to take my first sick day. If anyone needs me, I will be on the couch in an appealing cloud of chamomile and menthol. Heck, barring a miracle combination of liquigels and chicken noodle soup, I’ll be here even if no one needs me.

Last Friday, I accompanied JG to his school to be a spectator at the coolest fund raiser ever: a dodgeball tournament! There were over twenty teams competing in a double-elimination bracket, and JG was on the teachers’ team. The kids were so hilarious and cute with their uniforms. There was a team of Planeteers with visors that said, “The power is yours!” Another team wore orange t-shirts emblazoned with “The Orange Ninjas” (although one girl was a “ninga”). There were kids who wore dress shirts and ties with their athletic shorts. One team sprayed their hair red, white, and blue, and their shirts read, in stark permanent marker, “You can’t beat Team America!” The actual dodgeball was fast and intense, and I was immediately plunged into memories of being pelted by insensitive middle school boys. I felt sorry for all of the kids who were the last ones left standing on their teams. The teachers got pummeled by a team of varsity soccer and lacrosse players, but they pulled out three victories before being eliminated. Despite groaning about being “too old for this kind of thing,” everyone seemed to have a good time, and no one got hurt, thankfully.

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JG’s mom and grandmother, Mimi, came to visit for a night this week for really no reason at all. They’re both ladies of leisure these days, and Mimi had never seen our house, so that was just cause to take a gander at Kennett Square. After I got home from work, Mimi gushed to me about how she loved our house, and Ted bothered her dog, Sam, in his puppy way. We walked around the downtown area before having dinner at the Half Moon, where a yak burger and an ostrich fillet were on the specials list. The four of us demolished the mountain of crab nachos, and I thoroughly enjoyed my blue moontini and maple-glazed pork tenderloin. Oh, and Mimi left us a container of chocolate chip cookies. Ah, yes.

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Whenever JG and I drive south on 95, we pass a tourism sign in Maryland for something called Skipjack Martha Lewis. We’ve passed this sign several times, and I always lapse into a fit of giggles. Skipjack Martha Lewis? What is this random collection of words? Is a skipjack like a lumberjack? What could this tourist attraction be? JG raises an eyebrow as I dissolve into laughter in the passenger seat — yet another reason I should not be driving — and we resolve to look up whatever it is when we get home, but we never do. Well, this week, I finally did it. Look, Skipjack Martha Lewis is a boat! With a blog, apparently. Now, I kind of want to take one of their cruises on the bay to see what the deal is. I have my eye on Margarita Night or Havana Night…

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One of our friends gave me a potted gerbera daisy for my birthday, and I brought it to work for a little office cheer. I am the Angel of Death when it comes to plants, so I wasn’t sure how long I could go before killing it. I had a bumpy start by forgetting to water it on the Friday before we left for spring break, and when I came back five days later, the plant was not too sprightly. Nevertheless, I persisted in watering the daisy every other day, just like JG recommended, and — I’ll be darned! The daisy is still alive, a month later! With three whole flowers! Maybe my black thumb is lightening up to be a tiny bit green. I think I’m ready to take on another plant, albeit a hardy one. Maybe a jade plant? Or some bamboo?

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When I started this job, one of my first orders of business, with the consent of my manager, was to clean out the supply closet. I isolated supplies that I figured we used regularly, categorized them (filing, shipping, fasteners, printer supplies), and labeled the sections with bright green sticky notes. The rest of the stuff, including an ancient adding machine, rolls of adding machine paper, rubber approval stamps, and piles of floppy disks, filled up a large cardboard box, which has been gathering dust on a bookshelf ever since. At the time, I told my manager that I suspected that we wouldn’t need these supplies, but if we did, I’d hang on to them for six months before throwing them out. Well, friends, the time has come, and we have not touched even one item in limbo. I triumphantly lifted down the purgatorial box this week and set it out for the housekeeping people. I consider it a moral victory.

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Yesterday, Whoorl’s Gmail status message was something to the effect of, “Very Important Publication coming to MY HOUSE!!!” On an impulse, I sent her an IM saying, “Wha?? That is crazy!” I didn’t expect a response at all, especially since her little activity button was yellow for Idle, and I figure that IMs are for asynchronous communication, so it was fine. Then I saw the box blinking orange and —

Whoorl: YES!!!!!!!!!! to take my photo! what do i wear???!!! ACK!

My jaw just about hit the keyboard. Whoorl was asking me what she should wear for a photo shoot? What kind of alternate universe was this? My mind swirled and I threw out the “pocket-y Gap dress” as a suggestion, referring to a recent purchase Whoorl had posted on Flickr. I was so taken aback to be having this conversation that I was hardly aware of what I was saying, much less truly considering what Whoorl would end up wearing. Besides, that dress was probably the tip of the Whoorl wardrobe iceberg, so what did I know? Then, this morning, I got a e-mail from Whoorl, who felt it was her duty to inform me that she wore the dress after all! I have no idea if my suggestion was any direct factor in that decision, but that doesn’t matter. Is it sad that I think this is a high point in the fashion-oriented segment of my life, limited though it may be? Whatever, I’ll take it!

Called JG to report that I was still at work. Had to finish laying out a poster to try and fit in a manuscript’s worth of text. Was bitter that the author totally disregarded the 10-day lead time guideline.

Enjoyed a relaxing commute home with jazz flute and piano in the background. Remembered that an up side to staying late is missing the traffic.

Got home, changed, and started to make fettuccine alfredo. Asked JG to put chicken on the Foreman grill to cook.

Splattered the roux onto my sweatshirt from overzealous whisking.

Slopped milk all over the counter from fumbling with the pull-tab thingie.

Dropped the whisk into the pan, covering it with sauce. Fished it out and grabbed another.

Became anxious when the sauce didn’t thicken correctly.

Spilled sauce onto the stove while adding the pasta to the pan.

Dropped a baby carrot on the floor while making salads.

Wondered aloud, and angrily, why I was sucking at life.

Sat down to eat. Was pleasantly surprised that the dish tasted good.

Realized after the fact that I added an extra cup of milk during the pull-tab tussle. Didn’t feel so bad that the sauce didn’t thicken right away.

Bundled up in my Slanket and sat with JG to watch a few episodes off of our new DVDs of the third season of The Office. Laughed heartily. Wondered how we missed the one with the bird funeral.

Lay down to “listen for a little bit” while JG turned on the basketball tournament.

Woke up blearily to see that West Virginia and Xavier were going into overtime. Trundled down to brush my teeth.

Savored the comfy bed. Realized that the night was pretty good, despite cooking klutziness.

Watched West Virginia miss enough free throws to throw away the game. Fell asleep almost immediately.

Why do people interrupt me when I’m answering a question they’ve asked me?

Why am I mobbed by employees when there are many other customers in a shop, but if I’m the only one, it is all I can do to find someone to help me?

Why do grocery store patrons shun the cashier lanes and attempt to ring up overflowing shopping carts of groceries at the scan-it-yourself stations?

Why does my boss feel the need to volunteer every gory detail of her son’s talent show, despite my complete lack of interest in rollerskating third graders or dancing chipmunks?

Why, despite my utter lack of spending money, am I able to come up with countless items I’d like to buy?

Why am I completely nonchalant about the fact that I am now two issues behind in my three-week-old subscription of The New Yorker, and I have no hope of keeping up?

Why do co-workers assume that their lack of planning constitutes an emergency for me?

Why does the idea of sitting on the lap of a giant rabbit (with equally giant teeth) appeal to small children, but it sends me running for the hills?

Why do I always overestimate how many holiday stamps we need and then have an outrageous surplus whenever postage rates rise?

Why are phones set to ring at maximum volume when they’re in pockets or on desks, not down the hall?

Why does seeing pictures of my college roommates’ fun and exciting trip to San Francisco make me feel mundane and settled?

Why can’t I keep my penmanship consistent?

Sunday Scribblings #103: “I just don’t get it…”