Ugh. Today is just a quagmire, kids. I'm still recuperating from my vacation, and the phone will not! Stop! Ringing! I'm about to wrench it out of the wall, socket and everything, and throw it bodily through this birdcrap-streaked window and into the harbor once and for all. Wow. Just writing that makes me feel better. Kinda fuzzy inside!
The other issue that has me in a snit is this stupid NotifyList thing on the bottom of my page. See, it's this handy-dandy service where all you faithful readers get to sign up to a private mailing list so I might alert you when I've updated this wacky journal of mine. However, it totally gets body-checked by spam filters. I'm serious -- they send a copy to my inbox as well, and with the first message I sent out, my e-mail server had attached an addendum to my original subject heading that read "SPAM!" No joke. The upshot is that any of y'all who have spam filters aren't getting notified as to my inevitable world dominion. Seriously, I'm going to be marching up to your back doors with an army of mercenaries and you'll all be totally confused because you couldn't read all about it here, first! Something must be done.
But later. See, I've got some more automobile hijinks to throw your way right now. Not about Stewart, but about a mysterious and saucy third party who just entered our lives. See, this woman I work for has this sleek little Miata, and today? Today, she let me drive it. And it wasn't like, "Hey, would you move my car out from under that tree?" either. Well, okay, actually it was, but that's not the point.
The point is that it ran like a wet dream (pardon the expression, ladies) and I got to be one of those people I snort about and make derisive hand gestures at in a clandestine manner when I'm sure they're not looking. Yes, I became a Sportscar Driver for three posh, glorious minutes. And what's more, Boss Lady told me I could borrow it "any time"! Unfortunately, I assume she didn't mean, like, for dates or smart dinner parties or anything.
And speaking of smart dinner parties, May Day and I are planning one! It'll be this Christmas Party thing, but with pasta and candles. And wine. Lots and lots of wine.
It's going to be all fucked up, too, because we don't have the dishes for it (or the seating), so we're like, "Okay...we'll use the dining room chairs, plus the deck chair and the computer chair, and those two butterfly chairs my mom gave me, and we'll have the guests bring their own wine glasses! And plates. We have enough forks, right?" So we decided to incorporate our garage sale chic into a sort of theme, and we're calling it The Dinner Party of the Misfit Toys. Then we decided that everyone should bring a crappy misfit toy for a gift exchange, and then we started assigning buddies and this elaborate dish-to-pass chart, and now it's called The Extremely Complicated Dinner Party of the Misfit Toys.
In the meantime, I've finished my holiday shopping, and now I'm scrambling to complete this highly-involved gift for my older brother that I swear is going to drive me stark-raving mad, and I'll end up running naked and dirty through the streets, yodeling at the top of my lungs and flinging eggs through open car windows. Course, some people might find that hot, and then I'd have a date! A seriously disturbed date, but it's better than nothing.
Wow. I really need to get a life, don't I?