November 16, 2006
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I just checked on something in my archives and noticed that old posts using an apostrophe in them now have some kind of weird character string in them. I could fix the posts-which I will inevitably do as I'm neurotic-or I could imagine that it's MI6 code for contacting aliens about the best field in Britain to land the mother ship on. I'm going for the MI6 code for now.
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Five weeks to Christmas, people, five weeks! I've been playing Christmas carols on my iTunes already. Angus has declared war on this act by insisting on playing fetch with Gorby's most favorite (and most annoying) squeaky toys around me. By the time Christmas rolls around, we'll either have a winner or one or both of us will be deaf.
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I had a London meeting yesteday and managed to swing in to Starbucks beforehand (gingerbread latte!) to ease my caffeine needs. Before I got to the queue I realized something was wrong. Something was wrong with my skirt, specifically. I felt like I was wrapped up like a mummy, bunched in some kind of trapping-fabric prison. Turns out the lining to my skirt had gotten tucked into my tights. Once I realized what was going on I knew I had to fix it now-right now-as otherwise it would drive me mad. I stepped outside of Starbucks, stood in front of a black wall, and froze my tits off while I lifted the back of my skirt, pulled the liner free from the prison of both my stockings and my knickers, and then adjusted my Underoos (they weren't really Underoos I just like to pretend they are. They give me super powers, in that I'm able to leap tall buildings with a single beaver) and my tights, smoothed my skirt, and went back in.
So then I waited in a giant queue (gingerbread latte!) and I found out they have a Starbucks prepay card. I signed up for one, and even broke it in buy buying my venti nonfat gingerbread latte (I think people that order complicated coffees are pretentious asses-"half caf cap decaf double shot soy latte!"-but at Christmas time, I abandon my ordinary Americano and join Assville.) I got my coffee from the coffee window and saw people staring at me, grinning. I grinned back. I love coffee. I love Christmas. I love my new Starbucks prepay card. Everybody happy.
Then I reached around for a napkin and realized the black wall I stood in front of to fix my tights wasn't a wall at all, but a privacy window. The black wall was actually glass. I didn't see them, but the patrons of Starbucks saw every stitch of my undercarriage clothing and my white ass as I fixed my skirt.
I shrugged it off.
I've done worse.
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Before I get all depressed again at how many bloggers are getting knocked up without even trying (This is why I haven't been reading other people's blogs, and why I'm going back to my little turtle shell again, la la la, I can't hear you), can I just say...ew?
Mrs. Claus does not get knocked up. Mrs. Claus is about 1,000 years old, all she does is bake cookies and pet the reindeer. Santa Claus could not get her pregnant-he doesn't even have a penis, I'm sure of it (I haven't checked myself, it's one of those things you just know, like you know that You Can Believe It's Not Butter doesn't actually taste anything like butter and that Paris Hilton knows her way around an antibiotic cabinet). So for the makers of said film? Yeah. I owe you a nightmare.
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I'm going on 4 years of writing this blog soon-not sure if you were around then, but life for me was very different in 2003. I was sitting here this morning in my chilly study with the Christmas music on and I remembered a darker, colder November. I remember swirls of snow on the windowsill and fireplaces roaring in the living room and bedroom. I remember white floorboards and pastel couches. I remember watching TV until 3 am and wondering how I was going to get through it all. I remember that November three years ago very clearly. I checked my calendar this morning to see what date it happened and I saw it-this coming Sunday is the 3 year anniversary of the day I lost my job from Company X. Maybe it's sour grapes, maybe it's hindsight, maybe it's bitterness, but my life is wildly different now and in many, many ways much better-financially I'm better off, my work-while difficult-is something I enjoy more, I have a lovely dog and a house that I love, and that's not even mentioning the boy...
I would still take away the memories of that November, if I could.
But things don't work like that, and so I remember that cold and bleak November and thank god it all turned out the way it has.
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