|Every day is a chance to do better
||[Jan. 15th, 2013|11:59 am]
That's pretty much my philosophy on everything. Although I will allow that there's a second clause to that, which is: "but every once in a while, it's okay to phone it in."
Just when I thought I couldn’t love Edward Gorey any more than I already do, I open my new calendar and there’s one of his pieces: Frivolity, at the edge of a Moral Swamp, hears Hymn-Singing in the Distance and dons the Galoshes of Remorse.
Which just delights me. It creates a fabulous picture and just delights me (since I own several pairs of Remorse Galoshes), the pacing, the wordchoice. And then he drew a fabulous picture to accompany it. Talented Bastard.
So I could look at the ads that Google places on my gmail page as an invasion of my privacy, but since I have damn few shreds of it left, I’m far more amused at how they reflect what I’ve been e-mailing. I mean, okay, I’m about to go into Faire season where phrases like fire-eating, alpaca and toilets mentioned in short time tend to deliver an uppercut to the system’s logic. But right now, reflecting my current wallowing in home repairs, and the need to update my parents daily that I haven’t fallen off a ladder, nailed myself to a wall, or drowned in a bucket of paint, and who are appalled that I’m not just paying someone to do it for me – forgetting that I take joy in accomplishing physical things and acquiring new skill sets (yeah, I know how to mud, she said, tossing back the last of her Diet Mountain, wiping the back of her mouth with her sleeve and slowly rising from the barstool) because I’m getting older and creakier and when the zombie apocalypse comes I need to be very, very useful to people who are young, strong and fast.
Anyhoo, so Gmail is populating my page with ads for drywall repair, painting, and repair concrete. But also “How to believe in God”. Wait, what the hell generated that? Oh, right. Swearing. Maybe, Gmail, maybe. But seriously, that’s like when I head to an atheist blog to catch up and you show me ads for Christian Dating Services. Methinks your marketing logic needs a little fine-tuning, because your targeting? A bit off.
I’ve finally learned: during the winter, the office on Mondays is freezing. But on Tuesday, they overcompensate for the freezing on Monday and so on Tuesday it’s hot as hell. By Wednesday, we’ve reached some sort of vague compromise which makes no one happy. It’s taken me a month and a half to get this down. So, ha, on Monday this week, I bundled up. Comfy, comfy. Today, I dressed light. And it’s freezing. Apparently all the people who complain about it being freezing on Mondays are out sick. I’m sitting here with two sweaters and fingerless gloves on and contemplating going out to the car to bring in a blanket to cover my legs. File under: Can’t Win
Ah, salad. You seem like such a good healthy idea in the morning. But at lunchtime, when you’re freezing cold, and in need of some comfort…you are cold comfort indeed. Although it could be due to lack of cheese. In an attempt to shave calories, I’ve been leaving off my usual garnish of feta cheese. Note to self: should you win the lottery anytime soon, fund a study on the relationship between cheese presence and disappointment with your salad level. I suspect they are inversely related and would like to see if the data backs me up. Although today’s salad does contain an object lesson: arugula. I hated arugula until about five or six years ago and then suddenly I loved it. Your taste buds change over time and while the biggest change occurs as you become an adult, it ain’t over yet. So consider giving some things a second chance. I’m talking to you, Brussels sprout and beet haters.
I’m still not sick. I mean, I’ve sort of been sick for two or three weeks – feeling vaguely under the weather, with little tempestuous bouts of sore, itchy throat, swollen glands, sore eye sockets (aka, Eye Sockets of Doom, which usually is a failsafe sign that I’m coming down with something) headache-y, tired. About half a dozen times, I’ve thought, well, this is it. But it just sort of fades away. So far so good. I guess there should be an upside to having an immune system that is essentially a crazed and paranoid Doberman Pinscher…you know, the kind that had the potential to be a good dog but then some idiot human basically trained/tortured it into insanity? So crazy that it attacks itself? That’s my immune system. The upside to having it attack me all the time is that it seems that if I give it the proper tools (I know, the Doberman analogy is failing to hold here, but okay, crazy, paranoid Doberman with opposable thumbs, how’s that for scary) like a minimum of seven hours sleep, Emergen-C in the morning, Bitters in the evening, plenty of vegetables, it seems to be holding all the germs at bay. Okay, I’m sure that nearly obsessive handwashing, plus habits learned as a chef – not using your hands to open doors or press elevator buttons, nor ever, ever touching your face or hair unless you wash first and then wash afterwards – helps too.
Let’s all pause while I realize that in writing this, I’ve just guaranteed myself BOTH the flu and norovirus. I’d delete it, but it’s been thought, and the universe doesn’t really allow takebacks.
Is there anything more disappointing than bad Baklava? (Okay, well, YES, of course there is, but sometimes truth just HOGTIES prose. As legions of politicians and pundits have taught us…) But seriously, the POINT of Baklava is honey, or syrup flavored with rosewater or orangewater. High fructose corn syrup with a dash of honey? You should be ashamed of calling it Baklava. And that pastry…I can tell you that it’s never seen butter. Pfah. I deeply resent that I had to ingest 60 calories of crap. While I’m not above doing a giant ptui and spitting half chewed food into a garbage can, I try to do that either in private or with other people who taste food for a living and have seen/done it before. My hothouse-raised colleagues are a little too sheltered for that.