Cyborgs and pratfalls

Breaking: My boss called me Amy and Rebecca today.  Then, when she caught herself, she said, “At least I haven’t called you Leah!”  Nun humor.

It has come to my attention that there is a direct connection between my mastery of the English language and my proximity to Steve.  Not only do we have so many inside jokes that trying to follow our conversations is like trying to crack a code, sometimes even we do not know what we are saying.  After many minutes of hysteria over something stupid one of us had said or done this weekend, Steve turned to me and asked, “Why does hurting laugh?”  So at least it happens to both of us, this verbal regression.  Steve is, without a doubt, smarter than I am, and we do have the ability to have serious conversations (usually over beer), but why should we, when we are both so good at fully amusing one another?

I watched five movies this weekend, and four of them were about cyborgs.  Steve and I watched Robocop and Robocop 2 because they were free on demand (it’s such a blessing I don’t have television, as I would never leave the house), and neither of us had seen them before.  How such a thing is possible, as my childhood seems to be one long movie-watching experience, I don’t know.  Speaking of my sedentary childhood and also cyborgs: because I hadn’t yet reached my half human/half machine quota for the weekend, last night I watched Terminator and Terminator 2 back to back, by myself.  Although I remembered those movies as being way scarier and less hokey (“in the few hours we shared, we loved a lifetime’s worth.” Blech), I still love them.  I hope you don’t judge me for that; those aren’t even close to the worst movies in my thinning-DVD collection.  I keep trading DVDs for books, but I still have four Schwarzenegger movies.

Okay, you can judge me for that.

The only other thing of note I did this weekend was somehow turn my life into “I Love Lucy,” but with no one to do any ‘splainin’ to.  Let’s just say Dr. Pepper needs to use stronger cardboard in their 12-pack boxes.  And Target should maybe reinforce their paper grocery bags.  And my landlord should do something about the ice on my stairwell.

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Talking ’bout things that nobody cares

No, I didn’t buy yet another TV series on DVD.  I borrowed “The Big Bang Theory” from Lacy, and she “Psych” season two from me — a swap long in the planning and resulting in one of the greatest voicemails I’ve ever received (“I packed it.  I think I packed it.  Anyway I…Did I pack it?  I packed it.  Did I?”).  She packed it.  We are nerds.  This show is about nerds.  I like it.

The weather isn’t so bad today, so my mood isn’t so bad, either.  I even had an iced beverage for my Friday morning Caribou.  I don’t go out for coffee as much as I used to — partly because I’ve finally learned how to make my own, partly because I’m cheap, and partly because I’m no longer caring for animals that need to be avoided (I still have nightmares about that damn parrot) — but walking across the street during my break makes Fridays seem special.  And I bought a nun some hot chocolate today; surely my reward is in heaven.

Anyway, it’s Friday, as I’ve mentioned, and the weekend looms before me.  Last weekend I went home and witnessed my future insanity in the form of my mother haggling over magnets at Goodwill.  This weekend Steve and I are doing something that will probably result in giggling, and then I will likely buy some books and maybe some food.  It probably doesn’t sound like much to you, but a weekend of books, gay men and food is my idea of a good time.

I’ve stopped looking for gray hairs, because every time I do, I find one.  I told my mother, and after explaining my “maybe I took a blow to the head” theory, she pointed out that I’m just turning into my grandmother.  Which is exactly what I didn’t want to hear, but I guess it’s better to think I’m turning into her than into Sweeney Todd.

7% blogging

I wonder if there is such a thing as selective dyslexia.  I just finished the book Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See, and it takes all of my brainpower not to call it Snow Flower and the Secret See by Lisa Fan.  I’ve read it, I know what the title means and I certainly don’t know what a “Secret See” could be, and yet I persist.  It’s sort of like something Becca (accidentally) got me thinking about this morning: the number one most common name I am called by accident is Rebecca.  Does this happen to all Rachels?  Is it just the R thing?  But then, the next most common is Sarah, so what does that mean?  Am I just Biblical, or what?  Becca suggested it has something to do with spending all my time with nuns.  Valid argument.

Anyway, I’m thinking all these things to distract from my latest fiasco: I have gray hair.  Or hairs — two hairs, to be precise, and I don’t actually have them anymore because I ripped them out.  This is frightening because not only am I emotionally six, I am physically twenty-three.  Yeah, I may love cardigans and Cosby sweaters, and maybe I wish I knew how to knit, but I’m NOT ready to be a gray-haired lady.  Early grayness only looks good on Steve Martin or Anderson Cooper, not me.  Panic level = high.

Actually, I’m more like 32% panicking and 61% finding this funny/bizarre.  These gray hairs were several inches long and both from the same spot on my head, so either I’ve been going gray for a long time and haven’t noticed (you’d tell me, right?), or else it is a fluke.  Like, I have a partially-albino scalp.  Or I was hit on the head very hard at one point and suffered follicle damage.  I don’t remember anything like that happening, but possibly this proves it to be true.  This is how scared I am of aging: I’d be more comfortable with brain damage.

I just realized that in the past two months, I have purchased myself 12 seasons of 4 different television shows.  The next time someone asks if I have TV, I’m going to need to rethink my answer.

Life in the nunnery continues to amuse; today the receptionist tried to convince me her hair dryer picks up radio signals.  Maybe there is such a device, a radio/hair dryer combo (if not, I call it), but you can be sure Sister doesn’t have one.  It reminds me of the time Sarah and Keely’s computer speakers started broadcasting phone calls from the next room, but I’m also pretty sure that’s not what’s going on here.  She just turns on her hair dryer and hears voices.  These are the sorts of people on whom my livelihood depends.

So that happened.

I share an office with an old, impossibly tiny nun (like you would expect anything else of me), and the other day I turned around and caught her reading a romance novel at her desk.  Like the real kind, with Fabio on the cover.  This is strange on many levels, but mostly because no one else seems to think so.  This is what passes for normal activity around here.

Clearly I am in the right place.

Big Money, No Whammies

Not only was yesterday excellent for the obvious reasons, I also found a quarter on the ground and got to play with a wienerdog at work.  I have a soft spot for old ridiculous-looking dogs, and Tinkerbell fits the bill (yeah, the name stinks of Paris Hilton — but this Tink belongs to a nun).

My new theory is this: the universe shall provide.  Like, I just say “I need a job” and eventually Angi finds me one.  I need an apartment — Sabrina to the rescue.  I gripe about my lack of couch and suddenly a friend’s boyfriend’s parents are aching to give me one.  How am I gonna move it?  With my co-worker’s mom’s mini-van, of course!  Recent events suggest the universe might even be taking me seriously on the whole “world peace” thing.  Not sure why it’s happening, but let’s keep this train rolling; baby needs a new pair of shoes.

(Winter boots, size 8ish, preferably brown or black.  Thanks.)