Lunch

Weather: 21 degrees (feels like 11); fair with some high clouds
Mood: ...fine
Listening to: blowers now, but have made it through the "Garden State" soundtrack and Eiffel 55's "Europop" disc
Where am I? Work. Couldn't you tell?

I'm eating, for the second day in a row, a seafood salad sandwich on a lovely Kaiser roll. Handmade by...well, moi. OK, I bought the salad at Sam's Club. It says I chould be able to make 8 servings out of it, but I might even eke out 9 or 10. Lovely.

Yeah, so the food situation is under some control. I think I'm making sweet-potato-and-black-bean burritos for dinner tonight. We'll see how that works out. I have to admit it sounds a bit, uhm, odd. Unpleasant even. I don't care for sweet potatoes. Are they the same as yams, by the way...?

Reeling myself back in....

What is this fascination with women's underwear that the male species has? Can someone please help me out here? Upon request, I was recently told it's somewhat a mechanical question, sort of a 'how do these things work exactly?' situation. Still, you don't find a lot of women skulking through the boxer shorts at Target or wherever, trying to figure out why and/or how Boys wear them. So are XYs that slow on the uptake, or is it primarily cultural?

Guess reeling myself back in didn't work. Maybe I should just go back to Buffy of vampire fame and try to figure out why one season's set is cataloged one way (the right way!), while the other 6 I have sitting here are WRONG!

For those keeping score at home, I have officially resigned from the debacle-meeting group, and apologized for my childishness. I have (hand)written an apology and partial explanation to the single person who gets on my last nerve every time, carefully constructing it so that I apologized for upsetting the meeting. I did not apologize for reacting negatively over a specific improper word choice made by someone else. Hopefully, I can let it go at that.

Hah. Women never let things go at that.

It's ok; my emotional walls are repaired, reconstructed from the ground up. As I told someone this week, I doubt I'll ever be able to let them down with this individual again. And that's fine: she's not a friend, though she surely thinks she is. Forewarned is forearmed. Different points of view. And all that jazz (thanks, Mr. Fosse).

Right.

Back to Better Than Ezra and Paul Simon on headphones, and the piles of books behind me for the rest of the afternoon. Forget Buffy...that's my working theory for the rest of the week.

And by the way, I am NOT still reading the same books, noted in the sidebar, which you may not be able to see because the layout is fucked. There is a chance I will get around to fixing things tomorrow....