Ain’t Sayin’ Nothin’ New

It’s colder than a witch’s … chestal region here, so much so that my nose is cold indoors — the worst sign of being chilly, in my opinion — and my boogers are rapidly forming icicles the very moment I set foot outside. Fifteen, y’all. It’s FIFTEEN out there, and even the trees look shriveled and small, like they’re turning inward to gather the remaining reserves of warmth. I .. forgot that feeling, and I kind of love and hate it, all at the same time.

We had a big melt last week, and the creek out back spread like too-thick arteries on an x-ray slide; they’re now frozen, our own miniature ice skating rink. March mystifies me and seems to be one of the universally hated months, with its schizophrenic weather and woeful lack of meaningful holidays. I mean, other that St. Patrick’s Day, which I’ve ignored every year but one — Split Day, wherein a variety of students attempt to outdrink one another with those miniature beers. I believe that day was followed by a staggering blackout and some quality time with my head in the bushes. No, no, St. Patrick’s Day is not for me. Down with March.

The cold means that the dog is alternating between being all up in my grill — near my face, to be specific, complete with tongue — and wandering around outside, too cold to poop, which always leaves me standing there trying to talk to her rationally, like she’s human. Today, I actually told her that it was too cold to go to the backyard, and I thought I’d fall down the hill if we tried, so let’s poop in the front yard today, FRONT YARD. I said this out loud like a fool. And a fool I am, for I’m typing this somewhat one-handed, for she snores mightily, her head on my left wrist. I’m thirsty, but too lazy to move her, and besides; she’s cute.

Thank you all so much for the movie recommendations — I really appreciate it, and my Netflix queue does, too (and hey, yes, to answer Jen and a few others: keep them coming! Love movies! Love!). Sometime in the last year, while we were in the midst of the Floridian nightmare, we stopped watching movies. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but our lives really sunk into one hell of a black hole during the latter half of our stay — we desperately wanted to leave Florida, but couldn’t sell our house, and renting had not yet occurred to us, because we’re dumbasses who can’t see the forest for the trees — and I didn’t realize until now the extent to which our normal lives ceased while we waited for the next phase to begin. I mean, Jesus, we weren’t even watching MOVIES.

This reminds me of a rule of working from home that I’ve broken all of twice in the last two weeks, only to be reminded of its cardinal nature, assuming you don’t have spawn demanding your attention: get out of the house. Aside from dropping off something to Adam, I worked from the couch today and can I say it again? UNWISE. Adam and I have each learned through our at-home experiences that working from home isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

There are wonderful things, certainly — the ability to make your own schedule, the flexibility to skip out on showering if you want to — but those same benefits can cut both ways, and do little other than act as glass walls that subtly shut you out from the rest of the world. A 9 to 5 schedule, while unappealing, brings you in step with most of the working world, and while it’s tempting to skip the shower in favor of pajamas, the best advice I can give is: don’t do it. Please shower. Clean hair and a little mascara will go miles in terms of making you feel human.

And for the love of God, find a Starbucks and try, at least try, to work when everyone else is working, lest you isolate yourself like a vampire, but without the built-in network of other vampires to go neck-sucking with. It also stops you from farting around to the point where you think you’re actually getting things done, but in actual fact, your laptop is in front of you, but your attention is actually on Bravo beyond it.

I didn’t do any of those things today, save for putting on actual clothes, and it explains why it’s now 9 p.m., my laptop is surgically attached to my body and further, I got neither jack nor shit done today because I spent far too much time gazing off into space and getting sucked into the frillionth episode of The Real Housewives of New York City (thank you, Bravo!), and if you haven’t seen it, I am torn between urging you to TiVo it now and demanding that you run for the hills and never see a single minute of it, ever. The women, they are ABHORRENT, yet oddly compelling and I can’t even talk about it further without little balls of spit forming in the corner of my mouth, so I’ll stop.

I intended to talk about more than this, including my gynecologist appointment tomorrow with a brand-new doctor, wherein I sincerely hope they don’t stick an ether-soaked cloth over my face and steal my ovary or something, but it’s a can of worms and apparently all of this procrastinating has made me too tired to deal with it appropriately. I am, however, hoping they can explain to me what’s up with my … lady parts and maybe help me figure out how to get a PERSON inside these lady parts, which sounds awfully creepy, and more than a little gross, but isn’t that what all the kids are doing these days? All the kids who aren’t firmly ensconced in someone else’s lady parts, that is.

Have a great Tuesday! And remember: GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.

*The Roots

20 comments March 17th, 2008