The latest buzz

You know what happens when you find a lipstick you really dig? You become kind of attached to it right before the company discontinues it.

And I'm really attached to my Hard Candy lipstick because it's caffeinated. It smells and tastes like coffee (mine: Spiced Latte), and all I have to do is lick my lips to get (a rather negligible amount of) caffeine in my bloodstream.

Today, mourning the lipstick's discontinuation, I broke down and bought an unopened tube on eBay. Upside is that I paid less than I would've paid if I'd bought it from Hard Candy.

Apparently, caffeine is becoming de rigueur in beauty products. This article from the BBC (which is a couple of years old) talks about caffeinated butt creams, etc. And I know that at some point I've blogged about Shower Shock, the soap that delivers 200mg of caffeine per serving (one serving meaning one shower). It's been widely publicized, with the general consensus among consumers and the media being that it actually works.

But in my mind, the lipstick one-ups the soap because I can be beautiful and buzzed at the same time. (Okay, okay ... it's a stretch on both accounts. Play along.)

Guys, assuming you don't wear lipstick but you want the lickable goodness of caffeine without sucking on a bar of soap, there's now a product for you, too! Spazzstick comes in cool mint and vanilla toffee flavors, and it gets bonus points for having a funny name.

But I'm left with lingering questions about the $57 caffeinated butt cream. Somebody pick up a jar and let me know how that works out for you.

And all she wants to do is dance...

I am wearing bright red shoes today. (Yes, the camera makes them look orange, so you'll just have to believe me.)

I am wearing bright red shoes, and it makes me all kinds of happy because they don't match anything else I'm wearing.

This, of course, has caused some mental distress among my coworkers. They do not understand. And that is fine with me.

Call it my insurance policy against being normal and boring. It proved to be a good remedy for a case of the Mondays.

Perhaps I shall wear my purple clogs tomorrow as defense against a case of the Tuesdays. They'll go well with the purple, green, and gold Mardi Gras beads that are sitting in the back of the Vue waiting to be handed out to coworkers.

Or I could wear my pink glittery penguin socks ... or my Boogie Heaven shirt ... or my rocker-girl skull hairbows (but not all three at once, because that'd just be overkill).

Oh come on ... certainly I'm not the only person with happy-happy make-it-all-better clothes, right?

Thoughts on the Revolution

He who shall be called Matt has joined the blogosphere. Read his blog and clap politely, please. I was going to post this over there, but it ballooned out of size. Also, I figured you guys might want a stab at saying the things I left out. So toss out your thoughts on the tech-love/geek-love revolution. Good, bad, ugly, misunderstood?

Here's my take:

Due to the SideKick, TiVo, iPod, PDA, flash drives, and Nintendo DS, I'm told that I'm nearing information overkill, but I don't mind. I read my home (and work!) e-mail from the SideKick. I post photos to the blog while I'm on vacation. At any time, I have the ability to listen, read, watch, play, and do whatever my heart desires.

I'm all over your "geeks shall inherit the earth" philosophy, but it's not nearly as widespread as I'd like it to be. I quit seeing my therapist because she didn't know what a blog was nor why SQL was stressing me out. If you don't get that part of my life, you don't get me. Worse yet, I'm still largely regarded as a geekgirl in a boys' world: How did I become an onna otaku when I wasn't looking?

The KI blog has taken off by leaps and bounds. January sported over 12,000 unique visitors hitting nearly 30,000 pages -- and February is on track to surpass that, even with three fewer days in the month! But while the stats are a nice pat on the back to me, I view the blog in the same manner as the geekgear: tools for me and me alone.

Corporate America may no longer control the hearts and minds of the technorati, but CorpAm still has a stronghold on middle-class America. "All the walls, all the boundaries, and all the middlemen" you mention are self-imposed security blankets to which people become more attached as they age.

I've become very active in supporting and promoting indie artists; while they cost more, they deliver high-quality unique products. But once again, I think I'm the exception to the rule. Most humans gladly will slurp up oversanitized music, products, art, and writing because it's safe.

If you're planning to throw yourself into the digital medium, know what you're getting yourself into. Who supports techno-artists? Other techno-artists. I've felt nothing but warmth from the relationships I've made with other hooked-in folks -- I've got tight friends who've believed in me when I haven't believed in myself. But the reach of the info age still isn't widespread.

Taking over the world starts with turning the heads of doubters. The technoradicals have a bright future, but it's a long road. If you're prepared for the highs and lows, then I wish you the same love and support I've received the past few years from my gaming, LANning, blogging, techie buddies.

And no matter what you choose -- or how you choose to implement it -- I'm in your court.

I met my husband through a series of run-on sentences

Told you guys I had hit a goldmine when I pulled a bunch of files off an old hard drive. Among them, a song written by Carrie, a song written by Matt, several AIM conversations ... and the personal filing cabinets from all my old AOL accounts.

My high school history teacher told me to save them because I'd want them later. She was seven degrees of cool.

Aaaand among the PFCs I found the very first e-mail Paul sent me, ever. It reads:

hello, mine name is paul, how are you, i read your profile, you look like an interesting person, maybe we can talk, i think i would like to get to know you. ummm, anyway email me back, i know it says you are taken, but i thought i would talk to you anyway

In a reply e-mail, I told him in so many words that I wasn't interested. He waited a couple of months and asked me again, and I was in a better mood, so I said yes.

Then we talked on the phone. Then we met at the arcade. Then we went through our senior year in high school, skipped both of our proms, and ditched our out-of-town college scholarships to stay together. Then we graduated from college and got married.

Thank heavens the boy is persistent.

Blaaaaargh!

It's 5:35 p.m., and I'm sitting down to lunch. I know it's lunch time because I've finally found five minutes to scarf down a coworker's leftover chili that was in the fridge. I also know it's lunch time because I've passed the headache phase and I'm nearing the phase in which I'm unable to concentrate on stuff ...

... like the work I'd be doing if I wasn't eating lunch.

I finally sat down with my boss this afternoon, and we agreed something's got to give. "These are burn-out pace jobs," she told me, and I agreed. It's been echoed around here before. I love my job — I have routine without it becoming routine. Every story is something new, and it's always a chance to learn. I'd be really good at Jeopardy. I need a raise.

I try to avoid blogging about work specifics, but sometimes I've got to get it off my chest. Like now ... lunch has been nuked twice, and it's cold again. I think I'll throw it out and wait for dinner.

Surely somebody else has a "burn-out pace job" and can give me some advice on how to decompress, preferably without the heavy drugs I'm prescribed to get me through the day. Advice? Please??

To do: (1.) Sew handkerchief into underwear

I have realized my limitations today: I cannot pick up a matchbook with my second and fourth fingers and put it on a pack of cigarettes without moving my middle finger.

Try it. Then kick yourself because it's so damn easy and you probably can't do it either.

I found this out after work today, after a few coworkers and I ended up at a bar. (I drank a Coke. Someone else paid.) It's always nice seeing the other side of people you thought you knew pretty well. I'd say more, but I was sworn to secrecy: "What happens at the bar stays at the bar."

No problem. Same time, same place next Wednesday. I'm looking forward to it. After a month or so of waking up every morning and dreading going to the office, it's nice to have something fun to look forward to.

I came across some old files recently (Goldmine! More on that some other time...), and among them was a list of links I bookmarked when I was in college.

Here's one to gawk at: Hanty Panty. It contains instructions on how to make panties out of a handkerchief. Boxers and bras, too. Frankly, I don't see how most people could fit into a hanty, but more power to those who can — and want to cover their nether regions with a handkerchief.

Oh! And check out the neckties that have been turned into thongs "for lady and male man." Very ... innovative.

[Insert pithy title here]

Phew. I should apologize for being out of it the past couple of days. Okay — I really should be apologizing to my coworkers and my husband, because they get the brunt of the retaliation. I generally try to sanitize things before they get in the blog.

Aww dammit ... I just sneezed on the monitor. Guess it's not so sanitized after all.

Anyway, the short version: I've got PMS and Jeremy's staying with us for a few days. I don't mind that at all; he treads lightly and puts up with my messy house and inability to cook. But it's always weird having someone in the house, even somebody who's seen me without makeup before. I have to remember to be somewhat of a lady (e.g. not letting out a window-shattering burp like I would if it were just Paul). ::grins::

Jeremy snapped at me this morning. It pissed me off. It's not my fault that he can't get along with his wife or his mother. Nor is it my fault that he skipped work today. I love the boy to death, but he can be very frustrating and energy-consuming. Paul says Jeremy is a psychic vampire. Maybe Paul is right.

So without futher ado, I'm going to go watch the Olympics and dream of being someplace cold (like Turin). Who knows — maybe within a year I will be someplace cold. In any case, I'm already planning and saving for the 2010 winter games in Vancouver. Yaaaaay Canada!

And before I sit down and relax, I'm going to make a cup of super-rich and very expensive gourmet hot chocolate. That stuff is like PMS tonic. :)

P.S. Speaking of the Olympics, I feel so sorry for Italy's Carolina Kostner for her fall during the short program today. The fall was bad enough, but I'd be really embarrassed by the photo snapped by Reuters. Heh. Better her than me.

Ciao iPod! I'm buying an MP3 Toilet.

Yesterday, the folks over at TechEBlog published a list of the 10 strangest MP3 players.

Among them: One you can build yourself in an Altoids tin and one you can buy out of a vending machine for five bucks. Or how about ones that smell like roses or blueberries?

I'd like to meet the folks who are hoping to edge in to Apple's market share by building these things like MP3 players that serenade you with mood music when you sit on the toilet.

Gah, why won't Carrie die already? :)

Paul, Jeremy, and I were poking through an old hard drive tonight when we came across an Apple ][e emulator. So we popped in Oregon Trail and had at it. Paul was the party leader; the other passengers were Kate, Jeremy, Matthew, and Carrie.

The game went something like this:

(1.) Leave July 1.
(2.) Carrie gets dysentery right away.
(3.) We cross a river, in which we lose 535 pounds of food and two of our wagon axles.
(4.) A thief comes in the night and steals 10 sets of clothes, leaving us ... naked?
(5.) Jeremy gets measles. Jeremy dies the next day.
(6.) Carrie gets typhoid.
(7.) An ox wanders off.
(8.) Matthew gets typhoid (presumably from Carrie). Matthew dies two days later.
(9.) We run out of food and find out that Paul's a really crappy hunter. He gets no beaver.
(10.) Carrie gets a fever.
(11.) Kate gets exhaustion. Kate dies.

At this point, the party's down to Paul and Carrie, she's got three diseases, she's eating up the 100 pounds of food we got by killing a bear ... and she just won't die.

The wagon breaks down. Carrie won't die. We trade for wagon parts. Carrie won't die. We hunt for food and come back with a one-pound rabbit. Carrie won't die. We eat the rabbit, leaving us with no food, no bullets to hunt for food, and no clothes. And finally ... she dies.

The room erupts in cheers. Finally, the diseased-ridden tramp is dead. ::grins:: Then Paul dies of starvation and gets to write his own epitaph ... in which he memorializes the woman who caused the demise of the entire party.

Gee thanks, Carrie.

Shrubbery becomes half-shrubbery

[Edit on Saturday: This post completely disappeared, along with the comments that'd already been left. So let's try this again...]

Talked to Matt today. He seems to be putting my torch to good use — he and his buddy are putting in 20 hours a day on my little Hothead and have made several hundred dollars by selling the resulting glasswork. Good for him. But tomorrow, I'm going to beg for the torch back. I've got a history with that torch — it was a gift — and if he's doing well, he deserves a nicer torch anyway.

Last night, a fairly large storm came through the area. It was windy and rainy, and a couple of areas had tornado watches. When we woke up this morning, all three of our 15-foot privets were split. One lost one limb; the other two looked as if they were pretty much split in half.

This weekend is supposed to be a repeat of last weekend: snow, sleet, rain, freezing rain, all of the above. (By the way, what's the difference between sleet and freezing rain? The weatherman listed them separately, but I thought sleet was frozen rain.) If it's not terrible outside, I guess we'll get out the chainsaw and cut up the broken branches. This should be an exercise in hilarity, as I don't think I can heft the chainsaw on my own and Paul's allergic to privet.

Okay, I'm going home. It's been (another) helluva week, and I'm going to soothe myself with the Olympics.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be desperate...

I hate commuting. Seriously. If there was a way that I could beam my Weapon of Mass Correction into the office from home, I'd be set.

That's not to say that I haven't gone to great lengths to make The Closet feel more like home. I have a Fairly Oddparents welcome mat and I'll occasionally wear my houseshoes when I don't think anybody will notice. ::grins::

So anyway, I hate commuting, which is why I was so peeved that I was stuck in traffic forever on Tuesday. After sitting at a complete standstill for literally 11 minutes, I called Jeremy to kvetch.

He told me traffic was jammed due to the Mile of Men, a Valentine's Day radio promotion going on in front of a local bar. He said that the idea was for men to line up holding numbers while women drove by really slowly and chose a lucky (?!) bachelor.

Wha-? Now that's the epitome of desperation, a drive-by ogling which — for some couples — apparently led to some serious PDA with total strangers.

I think those locals looking for love should've opted to stay home to cook Engagement Chicken, which became popular in January 2004 after Glamour magazine reported it'd led to three marriage proposals. And FOX News reported in June 2005 that in the year and a half since the recipe had been published, Glamour had received 21 letters from women saying Engagement Chicken had worked for them.

Perhaps it's the succulent lemon peeking out of the chicken cavity that pushes men over the edge. (That's what made me giggle when I saw the photo!)

So, in the pursuit of true love, would you rather resort to the Mile of Men or Engagement Chicken? I suppose it really depends on where you'd prefer to stick your fist...

Four days later...

Took this in my car during my lunch break. Car is sitting in the shade.
Only in Memphis can it get this hot four days after we got three inches
of snow. (Canucks: That's 0C to 28C in four days.) Weather.com says it's
about 70F, but that 14-degree difference is just splitting hairs. :D
--katesink

[Edit: Friday's forecast: (Day) 40F; (Night) Freezing rain]

Shiny, shiny tokens of affection

For the second year running, I completely forgot that my coworkers celebrate Valentine's Day.

I don't know how this could've slipped my mind, because I have one of last year's gifts — a heart votive holder — prominently displayed on my desk. Perhaps it didn't immediately spring to mind because I've never before worked at a place where Valentine's Day is shared among coworkers.

So I felt pretty guilty when I walked in this morning and was greeted with cupcakes, candy, a big tin of chocolate, and handmade sterling silver earrings. Knowing the earring-maker was having a particularly rough day, I bought her a large Mountain Dew from Taco Bell. Certainly doesn't equal beautiful dangly heart earrings, but Mountain Dew is hard to come by around here, and she was very appreciative. ::grins::

But nothing — chocolates, earrings, Mountain Dew — compares to the gift that hubby gave me earlier this month. (He couldn't wait until Valentine's Day. We're not so keen on surprises.)

As you have probably ascertained from the photo, it's a metal rose sculpture, hand-made by one of the SA Goons. And it's fitting that it's carved from hard drive platters, so it's a geek gift through and through. But what really got me was the phrase he asked the guy to engrave on the base of the sculpture: A rose like no other for a woman like no other.

Yep. That's a good one. You guys would be well off to write it down and remember it for next year. ;-)

Hope you all — married, single, somewhere in between — remember the people in your lives who love you dearly ... on Hallmark holidays and every other day of the year, too.

Happy Year 1, Me!

I made two mistakes today.

Statistically speaking, I am told that two mistakes are practically nothing when counted against the amount of material I read on a daily basis. But as an editor, I hold myself to an almost unattainable level of accuracy, and I kick my own butt when I don't achieve it.

The big boss e-mailed me earlier and said, "It happens, that's okay." I noted the incorrect comma usage but held my tongue.

Finally this afternoon, I crumpled in the managing editor's office. "I can't take it," I said of the mistakes. She already knew I'd spent much of today — which had been set aside for me to do SQL work — fixing this thing and helping that person.

"I feel like for every 20 things I catch, one slips by me ... and it's the one I should've caught," I continued. She nodded, then took the blame for the spelling mistake that had gotten under my skin. She created it; we both missed it. I don't get how she's not beating herself up. Bigger fish to fry, I suppose.

Ten minutes ago, she stopped by my office and said, "Look, Kate, don't be discouraged. I'd be much more concerned if we'd misquoted somebody or something. It's not like we libeled ourselves." I agreed and told her it made me feel better. And it does ... at least a bit.

I think the whole "being human" thing is always going to grate on my nerves. I seem to have missed the precept that mistakes are going to happen ... even if I'm there to catch them. Why does it bother me so much? No idea. Ask my parents; they say I've always been like this. And — as if to punctuate the obvious — I got an e-mail today from the editor of the magazine I proof: Happy 2nd anniversary proofing for us!!! Man, were we ever lucky when we snagged you!!! You're even more anal than *I* am, which is GREAT!! :-)

Blessing or curse? I don't know if I'll ever come to peace with that one.

Today is my one-year blogging anniversary (well, if you ignore the seven months I blogged in 2002). When I'm fighting my demons, writing helps me cope. And when my demons are at bay, writing brings me the routine and peace I desperately seek.

My blogging anniversary is as good a day as any to make a resolution. So, with two mistakes under my belt on Monday alone, it's high time I tell myself not to take it so personally. I won't let these little things be an affront to my editing skills or my self-confidence.

Well, it's easier said than done. But I'll try.

Self-worth check!

According to this /. article, ABC has traded sportscaster Al Michaels to NBC to acquire the rights to Mickey Mouse precursor Oswald the Lucky Rabbit.

Now, in all fairness, I should say that Michaels was itching to get out of his contract and seems to be in good humor over the whole thing. He was quoted as saying, "I'm going to be a trivia answer someday."

But still, let's review:

• Al Michaels: Spent three decades at ABC and was the voice of Monday Night Football for 20 years.
• Oswald: A pen-and-ink drawing.

Yeah, that's got to do wonders for one's self-confidence.

What is this white stuff?

Woo hoo! Snow is on the way!

The National Weather Service has issued a Heavy Snow Warning for Memphis. Other Memphians, let that rattle through your brain for a while. Lots of snow. Here. Today. ::grins::

I am so playing in the snow as soon as I get this awful case of hives under control. (What's up with that, anyway?!)

Yaaaay snooooow! ^___^

Rubber duckie, you're the one ...

It's been 16 months since Paul and I moved into our house. Sixteen months, and until last night, I'd never used the Jacuzzi.

If one more person says I'm crazy, I'll smack 'em. ::grins::

This morning, somebody told me they thought the hot tub would've been a major selling point of the house. And it was ... the first time I lived there. But after a decade, the hot tub kind of lost its mystique.

So when we took the house over from my parents, the Jacuzzi was just something that took up a big chunk of the bathroom between the toilet and the shower. ... Which is how I managed to go 16 months without using it.

But this week has been so stressful, and I was so frayed. So last night, I decided to take the plunge (har har). Paul cleaned out 16 months of dust, then — even though it was late and I had half a magazine to edit — I unwrapped a sleep-inducing bath bomb, turned on the jets, and relaxed.

Really relaxed.

And I think it worked wonders. I slept well and woke up in a good mood. I got through work without snapping. Ooh ooh, and I even went out for Italian food with the boss. ^_^

So I'm starting to rethink this whole Jacuzzi thing. I mean, I didn't really need it the first time I moved in. I was nine years old then, and how stressed can a nine-year-old get? Ohh, I'm dying under the pressure of multiplication tables and a flat tire on my bicycle. Woe is meeee.

But now that I'm old and weighted down by the world (::snicker::), a hot tub seems a lot more useful. I think I'll probably use it again tonight, for no good reason other than it's there and it's soothing. ... And I'm making up for lost time.

HEY YOU GUUUUYS...

Man, I had a rough day. Bordered on a breakdown, snapped at a coworker, cried in my car. I think I just need a change of scenery.

But (!) I felt a lot better when I saw this pic. I think the big guy is saying, "I'm one of you! Really! I swear!" It makes me giggle to no end.

Jeremy says he’s going to change his identity and move to Australia. Well, I’m going to quit my job, move to Alaska, and get my master’s in Arctic Engineering. Can you tell I’ve actually put thought into this?

Now, it’s off with me. I’ve got a magazine to edit. Can’t even put down the red pen when I go home. Which contributes to my bad mood. … Which is why I’m moving to Alaska.

Oh, crikies. Alaska doesn't have any penguins, does it? I must rethink this whole thing now...

I'm not crazy, I'm ... oh wait ...

Last night, after Paul read my post, we did a little research on the effects of the clonazepam. Fortunately, I feel a little less crazy after reading the product information and some other stuff from Erowid.

For starters, I’m not just "losing touch." It’s anterograde amnesia, which comes part and parcel with the medication. Ditto for the extreme fatigue. And I had to giggle at the adverse effect dubbed “intellectual ability reduced.” I’m not quite sure what that means, but perhaps I can blame the medicine for my inability to finish the NYT crossword. ::grins::

Also found out it’s in the same class as Rohypnol, Librium, etc., but much stronger at similar doses. (To put it in perspective, the White House says roofies are 10 times more potent than Valium. And clonazepam is twice as potent as roofies.) Honestly, it did scare me a bit — enough to ensure that I will come off the Klonopin as soon as I feel well enough. In the meantime, I’m starting to understand what my husband means when he tells me he “vaguely” remembers something:

Me: “Don’t forget, we have plans to go to (whatever) tomorrow night, so I’ll need you to be home from work at a decent time.”
Him: “We have plans?”
Me: “Yes, we discussed them last week. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
Him: “I did?”
Me (exasperated): “Yes. Don’t you remember any of that conversation?”
Him: “Vaguely.”
Me: "AAARGHHHHH!" (like a pirate)

Okay, that’s enough about my seasonal medication issues for now. I promise I won’t bring it up again for another month or two. If I say too much, Paul, Jeremy and Carrie worry unnecessarily, and that’s not emotionally healthy. Take it from a real expert on emotional health — me!

Speaking of Carrie, I have a 12 minute, 20 second voicemail on my cell from around 5:50 a.m. today. I assume she accidentally dialed me while she was driving, because all that’s audible is her singing along to the same Coldplay song over and over. She says they're different songs, but they don't sound like it.

Paul suggested I rip the message and post it, but I already caught hell for the photos, so I’ll refrain. Get it? That’s a pun. A very bad pun. Oh, cut me a break already, peoples. I know you’re laughing on the inside.

P.S. I used MSPaint to create an artist's rendering of Carrie singing. It's all love. <3

'Scuze me, I think you have my stapler.

Wow. Another Monday, another clonazepam. I swear, work is becoming more and more hectic and tedious. If I'm not sedated, I'm a basketcase. If I am sedated, editing becomes a concentration game. But I'm trying really, really hard to avoid going postal between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. (After that, all bets are off, as hubby can attest.)

Problem is that there's no specific reason I'm stressed out. Little things (too much work, not enough sleep and taxes...) just seem to be building into a crescendo. And not a pretty crescendo either. One with lots of drums and tubas and an off-key trumpet played by that girl in high school who should've taken up stamp collecting instead of music.

I hope the one coworker who reads my blog doesn't thinks I'm slipping. I'm not slipping. I'm like one of those grabby things you use to open jars.

Anyway, regarding work, I know it's all a bump in the road ... a temporary thing. I keep telling myself: This too shall pass. Right now, it may feel like the effing kidney stone from hell, but it'll pass. And then you'll be able to pee normally again and sell that kidney stone for $25,000 like William Shatner did.

Okay, I generally don't include that last part, because that's not really part of the problem. I just added it for effect. Did it work? I hope so. I think I'm pretty funny when my brain's a chemical circus.

... but not as funny as a picture of a sleeping sharpei. ^_^

The first step is admitting you have a problem

It started out harmless enough, with a tube of lipstick my senior year in college. I remember it well — it was called Raisinberry. I guess you never forget your first.

And after Raisinberry came Endless Performance Mascara, then Crystalline eyeshadow, then Oil-Free Eye Makeup Remover. I didn't see it then for what it really was. Every couple of weeks, my coworker — a part-time Mary Kay Independent Sales Associate — called to see if I wanted something new or improved or on sale.

But soon, I was buying Mary Kay beauty products left and right. Things with mysterious names ... like Day Solution and Night Solution. I didn't know what they did or what was in them, but for $60, I figured they had to be doing some good. She assured me I was on the right track to being as beautiful as Mary Kay Ash herself. If I'd seen a picture of Mary Kay Ash, I would have called it quits right then. Instead, I kept buying creams and salves and strange-smelling liquids I was supposed to smooth onto my skin twice daily.

After a while, my dealer — err, coworker — said she'd cut me a break. Join Mary Kay and I'd feed my addiction at wholesale price, half off what I'd normally pay. All I had to do was fill out a form and sign the bottom line. Oh, and give her a hundred bucks. It was a serious lapse in judgment, but it's hard to think straight when you're wondering where you're going to get your next eyeshadow fix.

After I started to sober up, I realized I'd thrown away a hundred bucks. A hundred bucks! But within 24 hours, I had a sales director telling me I'd made the right decision, that I'd never regret it. She consoled me, soothed me with Extra Emollient Night Cream.

Then she dropped the bomb. Told me I needed to do this right. If I really wanted to succeed, I needed to pay the company $3,600 in the next three days. Or, she told me sourly, if I was too cheap to pursue real success, the company would let me squeak by with a mere $600 investment.

What the hell? All I wanted was my fix at half price. I had a stable job that paid the bills and kept me from having to hawk nail polish to total strangers.

[Err, I lost a long and boring-ish portion of the post here, in which I said I decided to only sell enough to keep my discount and was seriously creeped out when I went to a conference and saw a roomful of women chanting mantras to a slideshow of Mary Kay photos.]

That was four years ago. Tonight, I decided to clean house — literally and figuratively. So I've taken a final inventory, packed up my purple-and-while filing cabinet, and closed it for the last time. If anyone needs anything — eye cream, lip enhancer, cheek color — feel free to take it off my hands. Just know what you're getting yourself into.

And let me keep my last tube of Raisinberry. It holds a special place in my heart.

Fair? He's downright paranoid!

Saw this ad on a local news site:


Do those smileys look drugged or what?

[Edit: Playing with layout a bit. Forgive me if things display improperly. And click on the graphic for a bigger version, because I've sized it down considerably.]

We're not morning people

Caught this photo of Paul asleep on the couch this morning. He didn't
even wake up. :-) Why can't cold and rainy mornings come prepackaged
with a blanket and a snooze alarm?
--katesink

Think warm thoughts

Ugh. I kind of freaked out at work today. I mean, everything ended up okay, but for a while there I seriously thought I was going to flip out all ninja-like and take some people down with me.

Anyway, I took my medicine — always a good first step — and now I'm just kind of floating along in "What Was I Just Thinking About La-La Land." To celebrate the joys of mega-chillin' (whether by medication or natural high), I put together a playlist of summery, laid-back songs.

Among them:
California Dreamin', The Mamas & The Papas
Little Plastic Castle, Ani DiFranco
School's Out for Summer, Alice Cooper
Pinch Me, Barenaked Ladies
Walking on Sunshine, Katrina and the Waves
Black Hole Sun, Soundgarden
Kokomo, The Beach Boys
Here Comes the Sun, The Beatles
A Sorta Fairytale, Tori Amos
Summer Nights, Grease
Why Does the Sun Shine?, They Might Be Giants
Steal My Sunshine, Len
Summer, Highland Falls, Billy Joel
Nada, The Refreshments

Now it's just time to pop that baby in and cruise on home, shedding thoughts about the office until tomorrow morning.

Only one clue today, and it's antithetical.