The above pun is brought to you by Andrew_P who got the 5am-6am slot on the 5th day of One & Other. He is sitting in a (discount) tent on top of the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square. He can do anything he wants (as long as it's legal) though he's chosen to sit in a tent, where we can't see him, so he can probably do a few illegal things as well. Hard to say, really. He did bring a book.

Every hour a different person currently living in the UK gets a chance to stand on a Plinth and...be themselves. I've seen people dance, read (aloud), change from their PJs to evening clothes, lecture on art, hold up signs for various causes, write postcards, and wave flags.

Some of my favorites have included a girl who dressed up as a pigeon and danced, a man who brought a life-sized cut-out of his deceased father so he could put him on a pedestal, a woman who built an effigy out of bread, and a girl who had to fill in at the last minute and just sat, drinking tea and watching the square.

When Graham first sent me the link I thought, "that's nice, who cares?" I was all set to close the window and forget about it but, even as I asked about the rules - namely the one about running around naked - the woman on camera started taking off her clothes. Well damn, I thought, that answers that question. She stripped down to her bra and panties and then started putting different clothes back on again, much to the late-night audience's disapointment. "It's cold!" she said, when asked to take them off again. And she stood there, in her dress and heels, and jewelry, and makeup at not quite 3am and said, plaintively, "My time's up. I don't want to get off."

And I was hooked.

For the most part I look in to see if they're entertaining and then, finding that they aren't, ignore it again. The current guy, the plinther of a discount tent, is so boring that the camera is mostly zooming in and out on the fountains and long-distance shots of the plinth and National Gallery.

I like the heckling a lot. I like the encouraging comments. I like watching someone standing on a plinth explaining to passers-by why they're standing on a plinth. I like talking with people online about what the person on the plinth -should- be doing. I like watching the sky lighten. I hate everyone who talks on the phone or texts or writes signs you can't read. I hate it when the stream breaks down. I hate that I watched it all day (in the background mostly) and can't sign up even if I do make it to London. I'm hoping to see more monologing, singing, and dancing. I want rhythmic gymnastics. I want someone to fall off (there's a net). I want to see two people up there at the same time.

I want to see what happens.

Hey, look, tent-guy is almost off. Scott from Scotland is up next. I wonder what he's going to do?

I was discussing how I came to be friends with one of my boys* and I realized the same answer is basically true of all of them: they started talking to me and implied I was nifty without being stalker-y**.

Really? is that all there is to it? With how many people could I be friends if one or the other of us just started a conversation and telegraphed that the other person is interesting? Casually? No pressure, no expectations, just, "hey, you're pretty cool."

I bet extroverts figure that out in the first quarter-century of their lives.



* the discussion was with one of my boys and it was about how I came to be friends with one of my boys, so it's not a dangling modifier so much as equally valid to interpretation.

** implying I'm nifty rather than telling me over and over is a good way to stay on the correct side of "non-stalker-y"

I would really like to use a webcam for a week or two* but I don't really have money to drop on a decent one right now. I was hoping that someone had one (for a PC) they're not using that they'd be willing to loan or sell me. It's for a good cause, I swear. I would love you lots and lots forever and ever.


* I only need it for a week but I'm not sure starting when, though hopefully soon.

Since no one has said they were going to meet me there, I am going to stay home. My phone is on, though, so if anyone wants to go, drop me a line and I can meet you there.

anyone interested in a last-minute tiki (forbidden island) tomorrow night? I'll probably get there earlier rather than later and then just stay until people leave or I fall asleep at the table and they kick me out. Also, Miss Morgan and I were thinking lunch at Chevy's, ping me if you're interested.

What all should I sign up for? My preference is for larps ('cause that's what I've done) but if someone is willing to babysit* me in a tabletop game or whatnot, I'm willing to consider those as well.

*babysitting required to combat crippling shyness rather than incompetence. You all laugh, but that's 'cause, almost by definition, you met me with a safety net. Without a safety net I do things like lock myself in the bathroom and cry** and you couldn't have met me.

** true story.

My soon-to-be-ex-roommate started packing up her stuff before I started packing up mine, and she claimed the corner of the living room farthest from the door as her staging area. That's fine, I started stacking my stuff in the closest corner, which is smaller as the furnace is over there as well as most of the living room furniture. But I'm mostly packing up a car's worth of stuff, and then moving it each day so I don't need a ton of space.

Today, between trips when I only had a handful of stuff downstairs, she moved it all over and started stacking her own stuff there. Seriously? Seriously, lady?

I will never have to deal with her cheerful, "your stuff was in my way, so I moved it!" attitude again. Bah.

So I've been playing with last.fm and with all of the people I have listed as "friends" my musical compatibility is, at best "low" and at worst "very low." Are any of the rest of you using last.fm? Wanna be my friend there? Same username (of course).

I understand the marketing strategy behind writing a short story and having it advance the timeline in a world. You reference it in your novel, rather than including it, and people have to buy the anthology in which it was published to find out what happened. It makes sense.

HOWEVER, when said short story contains -major- -plot- -points- which are instrumental to having even the faintest clue what is happening in the book one is currently reading, there should be a note -somewhere- indicating the existence of said short story. I've encountered this problem in a couple of urban fantasies lately (notably Charlaine Harris' Southern Vampire novels and Kim Harrison's Rachel Morgan books) and it's driving me bonkers.

In Kim Harrison's case I had actually read the short stories at their respective time of publishing, though I hadn't particularly liked any of them so I didn't buy them nor did I reread them) so when I read her most recent novel that suddenly draws so heavily on the plots of -all- of them I was at least able to follow along.

In both Harris and Brigg's case (and you knew this had to be in Brigg's case or I wouldn't've brought it up in a book review for her) I was vaguely aware that she had written short stories but I didn't know when they fell or even if they were related. It wasn't until I started reading a book and realized I hadn't the faintest idea what was going on and did I miss a book somewhere, are you -sure- that's the next one chronologically, that I started digging for short stories. I was able to find them, and read them, and continue in a world that makes sense, but I work in a bookstore. I have the advantage of knowing my way around a fairly extensive database and I can immediately turn around and put my hands on the anthologies in question. If I didn't, if I would have to make a special trip to a bookstore hoping there would be such a story and that they would have it in stock, if I had to hope that a librarian could help me track it down and get it for me, if I had to purchase it sight unseen online and then -wait- for it to show up, I really don't think I'd bother for anything less than my greatest obsessions. And, if you recall Kim Harrison, in that case I read them when they were published.

Jim Butcher, it's worth mentioning, does a fabulous job of writing short stories that amuse as anecdotes but aren't suddenly the missing piece of a novel's plot.

And that's what we're looking at here: a problem where a side project, a story which is not included, is pivotal to the events of the book you're reading. One expects, when reading a series, that if you read them in order you'll understand what is going one. In great series, even if you get the order wrong, you'll be told enough (in a manner that isn't pure exposition) to catch up. This is, increasingly, not the case.

Specifically, with regards to Cry Wolf by Patricia Briggs, a novel that is listed as Book 1 in a spin-off to her Mercy Thompson books, there is a short story which covers -all- of the events described on the back cover. I literally worried that my book was put together incorrectly, with the last chapter being printed in the first chapter's place. If I hadn't purchased the book (a dear expense, even with my discount), if I hadn't been stuck on a bus with nothing else to read, if I hadn't been told by a trusted friend that it's good, I would've dropped it two pages into the first chapter because, and I'm going to use capslock here because this can't be emphasized enough, I COULDN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT WAS GOING ON!

If they had included a note that this book starts off where a short story, located in such-and-such anthology, left off I could've read them in the correct order. If they'd included the short story, or even an abridged version, I would've known what was going on. I read her other books, I had a vague idea of the politics that created the situation here Cry Wolf is set, and the only reason I knew anything about the story, the only clue I had to what was going on, was the blurb on the back. I normally avoid blurbs like the plague, picking books on recommendations, because they invariably ruin some aspect of the story. In this case it was a lifeline while drowning at sea - a lifeline that wasn't actually attached to anything, mind.

That said, if you read Moon Called and the short story "Alpha and Omega" located in the anthology On the Prowl first, it's a cute story that will fill a jonesing for more Mercy Thompson. It's not as developed and it certainly doesn't stand alone, but fans will enjoy it.
Newcomers won't get past page 8.

My roommate gave notice. I'm subletting a room from her, so that means I have 30 days to give move out as well.

I've only been here since July, but that was starting to feel like a record.

I really can't deal with this right now. Anyone in Alameda need a roommate?

Oh, and the 30 days she gave me? It's from when she told the land-lady, not me. I wasn't here so she taped a note to my door -2- days ago. That I'm arguing against.

So a woman goes to the doctor and she says, "Doctor, it hurts when I talk!" and the doctor says, "Stop talking!"

It was actually good advice, and the only advice you can really give to someone with laryngitis. Two weeks ago, when I had lost about 90% of my voice and was coughing 10% of the time, my doctor gave me an inhaler to prevent really bad coughing fits, a script for benzonatate* to numb my throat and ease the pain, and advised that I not try to talk. That was Friday, and I foolishly went dancing on Saturday and exacerbated my throat, but by Wednesday I was feeling mostly myself again. Fast-forward to a week ago, my day off, and after walking only a couple of miles around the island over the course of the day (less than 5miles, according to gmap pedometer) my throat was feeling very raw and I decided I wasn't up to going dancing. Tuesday I could feel my sore throat coming back so I called off my afternoon plans and Wednesday, my other day off, I started taking Benadryl and spent the day lying on the sofa.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday passed in an increasingly unpleasant blur of coughing fits and headaches. I haven't lost my voice this time, but I'm coughing 90% of the time and I can't stop and the inhaler was helping when I was only coughing occasionally but it's not up to this onslaught. I'm not sleeping well 'cause I can't breathe and the coughing not only tears my throat up but it gives me headaches (what I've been referring to as self-induced shaken-baby-syndrome). On Thursday afternoon and Saturday morning I had enough energy to walk along the beach (again, about a 5mile there and back) but Saturday evening through today has been absolutely miserable so that was a bad decision. So bad, in fact, that I resolved to combat it with another trip to the doctor.

Yes, I willingly went to the doctor (last time my boss told me that I had to). He even remembered me ("you're the lady who couldn't talk!" and he was very happy to hear my voice though I like to think my voice sounds nothing like the cawing being produced. All the people who've greeted me with "you sound awful" seem to agree). I'm leaning strongly towards allergies and, even though he specializes in the stupid things, he didn't want to assume. He specifically said that he's not going to run an allergy screening on me while I'm feeling awful. My lungs continue to be clear and my throat and my nose are very inflamed. He wants me to get a chest x-ray in case there's something he's not hearing, but I'm reluctant and while he gave me a referral, he's not going to insist at this time, though if I don't feel better I might as well get it done before I go back 'cause next time he is going to insist.

In the meantime, I have a nasal anti-histamine blocker/decongestant (olopatadine hydrochloride) for my nose in case the problem is the post-nasal drip; I have heartburn meds (pantoprazole sodium) in case it's acid-reflux; I have allergy meds in case it's an allergen (fexofenadine/psuedoephedrine) which he warned me to only take in the morning 'cause it's a pretty strong upper, not that it's going to matter, he corrected himself 'cause he also wrote me a 'script for; codeine with cough syrup - his words (prometh/codeine). I took a picture:


I got home and stared at it for half an hour before deciding what to take first (allergy meds, heartburn meds, and the nasal spray - my real problem is that I wanted the cough syrup but didn't want to knock myself out. I gave in on that front, too. It's cough-syrup flavored and so yummy I lick the spoon, all at the same time). I guess step 1) is feel better and step 2) is figure out what's wrong. I'd prefer a slightly more controlled test situation** but I've been doing it my way (ignore it and hope it goes away) for a couple of years now; it's time to let someone else have a go.

Also, I have work tomorrow and then Wednesday is my day off. If I'm still feeling like death warmed over on Wednesday, I'll look into the chest x-ray thing.

*drug names are for Shaun 'cause he's a pharmacist and he likes to editorialize my pharmaceutical experiences. Yes, I get particularly verbose when exhausted or inebriated, why do you ask?

**I'm probably neurotic about that. My answer to "did it help?" is pretty much always "I don't know" because without a control me who -didn't- take whatever it is to compare myself against, how do I know if I'm a) feeling better than I otherwise would because it worked, b) feeling better because I'm better and it didn't do anything, c) feeling the same 'cause it's getting working but my symptoms are getting worse, d) feeling worse because I'm getting worse and it's not doing anything, or e) feeling worse because, while I'm getting better, now the drug is making me feel like crap.

It was such a gorgeous day out, when I got off of work, that I resolved to go for a walk along the beach when I got home and not wuss out and sit on the sofa. I got home, changed into shorts and flip flops, grabbed a sweater, and took off walking.

Oh, for the love of little green apples, why do I not do this every day? Admittedly the weather was particularly nice, which it isn't always, warm and not terribly windy and it would be decidedly less fun in the rain, but...Water! birds! patterns in the sand like I never see on the ocean ('cause actual waves don't leave patterns)! Dead things at which I wish I hadn't peered quite so closely! Kites! Volleyball! A random jogger who said "hi!" to me even though I was looking the other way and obviously listening to an mp3 player (Hi! *waves*)!

My feet are all tired and exfoliated, and my hair is windswept, and my clothes smell faintly of saltwater and I'm happy and worn out and jealous of the people who were jogging. And here's a picture of my footprints, walking first one way up the beach and then the other way down it:



On the way home I bought $20 worth of fruit and daffodils and enchilada sauce and an onion and I finally made enchiladas and they were so good that I ate too much :o) And now I'm exhausted and full and ready to zonk out.

MacKenzie convinced me to go down to FNW with her after work on Friday (a hook-up that was made of fail, mostly through lack of planning and communication on my part, which culminated in my running out to her car, shoes in hand: "We're not in that big a hurry!" "Sorry, I prioritized waxing my mustache over finding my shoes." "You have a mustache?" "Not anymore." Then I mocked someone in a car ahead of us who hopped out without her shoes on (and further left one in the car so the driver had to stop again) but in my defense, it's one thing not to have a chance to put your shoes on before you get in the car and it's an entirely different thing to have still not put them on when you get out.) but once we were on the road it was smooth sailing especially 'cause we were a carpool and got to pass all the suckers who don't have friends.

My last-minute planning didn't actually involve enough time to coordinate with anyone else for dinner (MacKenzie already had other plans) so I wandered around Palo Alto for an hour, navigating by google maps on my phone which, quite frankly, is one of my favorite things ever: "I need a bank. Find me a bank! Thank you!" and then a quick dinner at Pizza My Heart, also one of the best things ever, while I painted my nails to cover up the blue stains from dying my hair (I can see the difference in color even if no one else can) and back to FNW still almost an hour early but that just gave me more time to socialize with Karen and Paul and play with their respective cellphones (G1 and iPhone). I'm not obsessed, I swear.

The dancing was fabulous with lots of people I adore and polka sets in the middle and getting to dance with Jeff and Wendy who should really show up for more of these things. So, for that matter, should I. I need to learn foxtrot, tango, salsa, and get good at swing.

I made it to about the last 4 songs of the last set and hit a wall. The balls of my feet sent me a memo basically firing the rest of my body and since I couldn't find partners anyway I decided to change shoes and let myself get talked into going to Afters. I am really good at setting reasonable boundaries for myself at a dispassionate distance and I am really bad at keeping to them when actually presented with the opportunity to have fun. Instead of going home and going to bed, which after getting up at 5am to go to work that morning would've been a good idea even if I didn't have to get up at 5am again the next morning, I went to Denny's and hung out with people for a while. It was good and it was fun but I spent Saturday so zonked that it was pretty much all a blur. Also, it turns out that my (mild) dyslexia gets noticeably more pronounced when I'm stupid-tired.

One downside of my dancy-dancy weekend was that, as dancers hanging out conversationally, there was plenty of time to gossip and - don't get my wrong, I'm all for gossip as long as it's not malicious - and since we were all irish dancer the subject of the Starry Plough came up repeatedly.

I loved the Plough. I still love it as it was, as I wanted it to be. I will always remember the Plough first as the place where I went for years, and while I haven't been there since before The Incident,* I hear "The Starry Plough" and think warm-fuzzy thoughts. So when one friend said she went to the Starry Plough 'cause she wanted to dance but also wanted to go "somewhere no one knew her name" my heart broke a little. The Plough was "Cheers!". It was the place where you walked in with a bounce in your step and were greeted by people who were thrilled to see you and looking forward to claiming a dance, or just a quick chat on the sidelines.

I've given up the wistful dream that someday we could go back and have that wonderful space back again, but hearing friends say they were asked to leave because they're known to associate with people who dance at the Alameda Ceili was another nail in the coffin. The behavior I'm hearing, and to be fair I haven't witnessed any of it so it's all hearsay, quite frankly boggles my mind.

Anyhoo, I just wanted to say that I'm still not over the Plough and I don't ever really want to be. Say what you will, but we had a great run.

* I still blame you, Andy, just so you know. Also, I realized recently that you could've similarly destroyed the redwood forests and I almost had a heart attack. Next time you're coming to visit we're only doing boring things like watching reality television so if that all goes to hell in a handbasket I won't care.

stolen from the lovely tshuma:

I use a CSS tweak to automatically suppress anything shipped to LJ by LoudTwitter.

It won't suppress the actual posts' subject lines and icons, you'll still have to scroll past those, but it will suppress the content.

Go here.

Copy and paste:
.loudtwitter {
display: none!important
}

And save.

St Patrick's day is a special holiday in my world, not so much because I have any interest in drinking Guinness or green beer (because I don't) but because if there's one thing I can count on, it's that Miss Ammy will find a way, come hell or high water, to spend the entire day listening to Irish music and dancing like a fiend and that and that all one has to do is follow in her wake to do the same.

My day started with dying my hair purple, a fact that I mention so that when you see me you can say, "wow, Jennifer, your hair looks so very...um...actually, it looks exactly the same." Which it doesn't 'cause I now no longer have those silly highlights from last June and my hair is gloriously -dark- again! But it's the kind of difference that you pretty much have to be me to notice or care about.


Because I refused to get up early on my day off and was dying my hair, I wound up taking the bus over (and of course just missed the bus I wanted) so I was only at the Oakland City Center outdoor concert for half an hour, instead of the full hour available. The band, Quin was a lot of fun and they seemed delighted with us. Now I'm listening to them via myspace and I'm enjoying myself all over again :o)


Then it was off to La Cheval, a Vietnamese that I realized I had been to once before with Miss Ragani. Also, I don't care what Sam says, it is not gauche to take the slice of lemon from the empty pitcher and put it in one's cup of water. That's what lemon is for. The food was yummy, the company was great, the pitchers of water were plentiful (sometimes you go to a restaurant and ask for a pitcher of water and they bring you one and you can't get it refilled and everyone is regarding their empty glasses mournfully, hoping the ice will melt quickly) and a good time was had by all.

Then it was off to Mills College where Miss Rachel had invited us to come dance and teach dances to the student body on behalf of the History Club. The student body wasn't terribly interested, but the history club seemed to have a lot of fun and we got to dance and eat cookies and fruit and did I mention the dancing? There are even pictures of -me- dancing for once.


From there we schlept out to Nona's Kitchen in Pacifica where there was corned beef and cabbage of such amazing nom that I wasn't able to bring home any leftovers, and we got to revisit the whole concept of "kitchen dancing," only this time with wait-staff trying to get past with dishes. It's been quite some time since I've had to "keep it small." Personally I think things like the Angle-Saxon* are a lot easier in small sets 'cause you don't have as far to go, but keeping it tight doesn't seem very popular when you have nothing but space.


I really wish Nona's wasn't so far out there, or it would have to be added to the Forbidden Island classification of "if anyone is going there, for any reason, you have to let everyone know so they can join you." All in all, a fabulous day spent with fabulous friends, doing fabulous dancing and eating fabulous food.

* no, that's not a typo, yes, it's a pun

To start with, I've been sick most of the week. Going to bed Tuesday night I thought, "oh zut, my throat is starting to hurt" and sure enough I woke up Wednesday morning sans the ability to speak. I went into work anyway, to do the opening stuff, and then asked if I could please go home because I'm sick and I can't talk and I've been conditioned by my previous manager to think of myself as utterly useless without the ability to speak, and my new manager said, "no".

Erm, what? I'm sorry that I'm not the only person under the weather today so you'd be short two people instead of just one but that doesn't change the fact that I'm sick and I only came in because I know how hard it is for the opening manager to have to do the opening accounting stuff. Now that's done and I'm utterly wiped. Fortunately she managed to call someone else in early for their shift and let me go home, but as a result when I still felt bad the next day I wasn't going to chance getting stuck there so I just called out. Also, since I don't have a car, it's an hour in, 2 hrs of work, and an hour to get back home again. Not really worth getting up at 5am. So I left early on Wednesday, and called out Thursday and Friday which apparently means I need a note from a doctor saying, yes, I really am sick.

Which meant I needed to find a doctor. Who could see me that day. Within walking distance. If I'd realized this would be the price, I'd've just gone in. "I'm here, make use of me or don't." But I did manage to find a doctor less than a mile away who could see me that afternoon and it turned out to be a really good thing 'cause he said, "ah, yes, you shouldn't try to speak. And here's a note for work, what would you like it to say?* And here's an inhaler for the coughing fits, and here's a 'script for symptomatic relief of the whole sore throat thing." Also he liked that I have a timbuk2 bag 'cause he has one, too, and loves it. Having this thing is like knowing a secret handshake or something.

And that was fine except when I went to drop off my script, they said my insurance was canceled on what is actually my hire date. Erm, no. I asked the pharmacist to call my insurance group to see what was up (because I have no voice) and he did and they told him i'd have to call my HR department. So I tried calling and they told me that, oh, my insurance had changed companies**, and here let's transfer you to the new pharmaceutical insurance department and they gave me all the information I needed for them to process my insurance. Why he couldn't get that same information, I don't know. Even if it was just, "we need to speak with the actual person," I was standing right there. So that was frustrating. And the rest of the day was spent on the sofa, watching Top Gear and QI and things I'd netflixed, having burned off my stir-crazy energy.

Saturday, buoyed by my throat-numbing medication, buttressed by my inhaler***, I headed off to the St. Patrick's Day festival in Dublin. I still had no voice, but my throat didn't hurt as much and my energy was way up, but I knew that I needed to be a good girl so I packed two cameras and deliberately dressed in non-dancy clothes: a form-fitting, knee-length denim skirt; a warm, long-sleeve sweater; a less than sporty bra; flexible-soled, extra padded shoes... Okay, the last one was a blatant concession to the fact that I can't resist dancing to save my life. I am a bad monkey. But I -tried-. My resolved lasted all of about 30 seconds, until Quinn asked me to dance.

I had a fabulous time. Molly's Revenge puts on a great live show, if not particularly aimed at dancing. We tried to recruit them to come to the Monday night ceili 'cause they -said- they have Mondays off. It is a bit of a drive from Santa Cruz, though. They also kept referring to us as "The Alameda Ceili" as if it were the name of our dance troop, and not and open dance night where anyone can show up. It's just that when people ask "who are you?" "Dance addicts who get a weekly fix at the Alameda Ceili and FNW who show up anywhere they think there'll be danceable music and a little bit of room" takes too long.

I danced about half the time, and tried to be good and not talk, and I did take a bunch of pictures of the sets when I wasn't dancing, with a special concentration on MacKenzie 'cause she said, "You brought a camera! yay! I don't have hardly any pictures of me dancing!" And also, she drove.

On the downside, because the medication was helping me feel better, I did a fair number on my throat and now I'm coughing a lot. Or at least starting to cough a lot. I have a general policy of ruthlessly suppressing all coughing fits and the inhaler does help a lot, even though I'm trying not to use it. So, still no voice today but I am going back to work and hopefully they'll put me at customer service where -listening- to customers is a lot more important than -talking- to them.

* I have no flippin' idea! can we call my boss and ask her what -she- needs it to say?

** My current flat is about one block up from an apartment in which I had previously lived. When I moved, I called to update my address, but somehow they just reset it to the old address on the same street. bah. When I have a voice again, I need to call -again- to straighten this out.

*** I last had an inhaler half a lifetime ago (mine, to be specific) and it was wonderful when I had it and awful for 14 years when I didn't. No more coughing until I throw up because I had the temerity to try and breathe in cold weather! No more tasting blood at the back of my throat 'cause I dared push myself while exercising.

so that Andy will know about what he is lying when he lies and tells me he went to see it:

Tuesday was my first day off last week and Miss Krissy, having looked at my schedule, invited Miss Laura and me to go hiking at the Alviso Slough with her and her lovely baby, a plan that started off brilliantly even if there was a lot of "hey, look, we're almost done...oh, wait, no, we're not" but then went very badly when one of our party got sick to the point that she couldn't walk any further and we had to get the rangers to drive out and rescue us. On the plus side the rain held off and while the mud/clay stuck to our shoes, it wasn't a bog and even sitting on the ground for half an hour didn't do worse than get me damp and a little dirty. The baby, with her added drool factor, tried to get filthy, but that's what babies do.

Also, Miss Krissy, having just returned from New Zealand, brought me back -possum- yarn! It's a possum/merino/silk blend in cranberry. How incredibly cool is that?

Then I opened on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday which doesn't seem that bad except they now have me coming in half an hour earlier which means my alarm goes off at 5 and, well, I haven't exactly gotten the hang of going to bed early enough to wake up that early. I'm thinking it's going to have to be "in bed, sleeping" by 11 :o/ Which is hard when some nights I'm no where near leaving at that time. And that's why I was so exhausted Friday, after work, but that didn't stop me from going to the 4th Friday vintage dance in Berkeley with the lovely Miss MacKenzie and her boy. I had a great time, dancing all of the dances (bopping along on the sides for the ones I didn't know or didn't have a partner) until 11pm when my body suddenly informed me that it had been up, doing everything I asked of it, for 18 hours and it was -done- now, kthnxbai. I didn't even know my body knew lolspeak. Also, I got to have the following absolutely hilarious conversation with a friend as he tried to explain the british slang "you've pulled" to me

G: so if someone comes up to you and says "get your coat, you've pulled", the premise for that comment is that you have managed to persuade them to accompany you home that evening. Except that the act of someone having said that simultaneously confirms that nothing of that sort has in fact happened.
M: ...
G: that doesn't make sense to you?
M: No
M: Use smaller sentences maybe?
M: I am stupid tired
G: hrm.
G: okay
G: me tarzan, you jane
G: jane at bar, having drink
G: tarzan come speak to jane, aaaRRRRAA-aa-AA-aa-AA-aa-AA-aaaarr....
G: tarzan he say, you want me, you got me
G: but jane, she not wanted tarzan yet
G: so what tarzan say, not really true
G: tarzan just hope, jane like barefaced cheek
G: aaaRRRRAA-aa-AA-aa-AA-aa-AA-aaaarr AAAAH LION!

The next day, in the shower, it occurred to me that this was like playing slots when you pull and then when the jackpot, but I am informed that this is absolutely, positively, 100% incorrect and, in fact, I couldn't be more wronger if I translated it back and forth through babelfish a few times. Those weren't his exact words, mind you. I think he contented himself with, "no." He thinks it's more like the attraction of magnets.

This brings me to an interesting point about not being able to hold my liquor (which I can't), namely that it's not so much the alcohol as the tired factor that makes me loopy. On the way home I couldn't stop giggling and I thought that things were funny way out of proportion to their actual amusement value. Also, I fall over a lot. So start with a tired Jennifer who is very giggly and can't stand up straight and add booze and inst-a-drunk. I do better when well-rested, I swear. Or at least, I'm fairly certain that should I ever -be- well rested that I would do a lot better :o)

I woke up relatively early this morning but decided I couldn't be bothered to get out of bed as I didn't have to be at work until 3:30pm anyway, so I dozed off and on and read until a more reasonable hour (10ish) when I decided it was time to pull back the curtains and face the day. 'course, it was still only about 10:30 which meant that I had an exciting day of, erm, watching things I'd downloaded and possibly reading.

Instead, about 1/3rd the way into my cup of tea I was distracted by the excruciating pain in my lower right abdomen. I cried, I broke out into a cold sweat (my face was literally dripping) and I threw up until there was nothing in my stomach and then I threw up bile for a while. I changed out of my work clothes (now all sweaty) and into pjs, only I could bear to have the waist band around my waist so I rolled them down around my hips and I could not find a single comfortable position in the world. I couldn't stand up straight, I sitting hurt, lying flat was agonizing, curling up was worse, front back side, it didn't matter. Everything made me hurt. Eventually, in tears, I called a friend who lives nearby and asked her if she'd kindly give me a lift to the hospital.

Except, by the time she got here, I was mostly feeling better. Oh, I'd thrown up some more and I'd tried different positions, and there was crying in the meantime, but by the time she knocked on the open door, I was no longer in any kind of agony. But I grabbed my blanket and tottered off to her car and she dropped me at the ER (I told her she didn't need to wait 'cause I'd either feel better and could walk the three blocks to home or I wouldn't) and I was shown rather a bit more quickly than I expected to a room where I was instructed to change into a gown and pee into a cup and wait for the doctor.

I waited and waited and waited, and even curled up under my blanket, I was chilly and feeling rather a bit silly and worrying about the expense, so after an hour I changed back into my pjs and sure enough that's when the doctor walked in. I was ready to go home but he asked if he could give me a quick abdominal exam and he said that if I really wanted to I could leave, against his advice of course, and he'd much rather run a blood test and do some other exams, but it was up to me. So a nurse came in with the LAMA form for me to sign and explained (and wrote out in as many words) that I could have a cyst or appendicitis and it could rupture, resulting in death and I signed, she gave me a copy, and I was allowed to go my way.

When I got home I started to ring work to say I wasn't really feeling up to coming in, except I was interrupted by an incoming call which turned out to be the nurse calling to say that they'd run my urine anyway and I certainly had some sort of infection and could I please come back so they could give me a script for that. I bothered to put clothes on and find my insurance card (they'd told me to call back with the number) and once more there was trundling. I was feeling less better by this time, but I figured the script was somewhat important. My favorite part was when the nurse told me I'd need to drink lots of water - clear water! - with the antibiotics. As opposed to that opaque water people are so fond of?

Anyhoo, I am feeling better and am safely ensconced on my sofa with my antibiotics (I only have to take one pill, two times a day, for seven days which even I should be able to manage) and tomorrow is my day off so hopefully the agony will not be a recurring theme in my life.

So I came home with the same number of organs (and in the same places) as when I left the house. Also, I signed a form saying I could die and it isn't their fault. How cool is that?