If this were only a marketable skill, I'd be rich

Just because we're twins doesn't mean that RR and are good at all the same things. When it comes to dancing, there is no comparison---RR got the full share of skill in that area. But I have my own area to shine when it comes to movement. Awkward movement, that is. I'm talking of course about being a klutz. My friends, I am good at it. RR is no slob in that area, sure, but I am a star.

Look, anybody can be clumsy. But me, I make it an art form. I'm a bumbling artiste.

Like tonight, for example. Anyone can lose her balance and stumble. But it takes true talent to lose your balance, stumble against the trash can, regain your balance by throwing your foot down perfectly onto the pedal, lifting the trash can lid to smack yourself in the sit-me-down-upon. That, my friends, is talent.

No, I mean it. The stuff I do on a daily basis looks like it was choreographed. That's good, because I think if you have to be graceless and uncoordinated, you might as well be entertaining at the same time.

Of course, my favorite clumsiness stories are from when I was in law school. I thought that I had blogged about it, but I can't find it anywhere, so here it is.

Second favorite clumsiness story (I swear I think I've blogged about this):
One day before class started, I was sitting in my chair. I had on heels, and I had them stuck between two rails of the chair underneath me. I do this all the time. I just like to sit that way.

I dropped a pen, and I leaned over to pick it up. The weight of me leaning over caused the chair to lean with me. I went to put my foot down to stop the chair's movement, only to discover that both feet were firmly hooked into the chair rails and weren't coming out, and I was going down. And sure enough, the entire chair tipped over, with me just sitting in it. Anyone can fall out of a chair. I give it a little something extra. My classmates were concerned that I might have hurt myself, but for me, it was just another day.

Absolute favorite clumsiness story:
One day I was walking to class, arms full of casebooks, backpack on my back. Heavy, heavy backpack with my heavy, heavy laptop tucked inside. I approached the door, but my arms were full, so I did what I usually did, what I had done successfully for years, first at work and then at law school: I pressed the handicap button with my foot so that the door would open by itself. And this did in fact work, as it had so reliably in the past.

But this time, I was wearing boots avec just a bit of a heel. And when I swung up my leg to push the button, I lost my balance and started to tip backward. I couldn't use my arms to regain balance because they were full. Being somewhat experienced with balance loss issues, I could have regained my balance with just my legs, resulting in a "I'm just dancing here" kind of movement, except that I had the aforementioned heavy, heavy backpack strapped on, and the extra weight just tilted me straaaaight backwards. Straight back. Down to the ground. On top of my laptop. Casebooks still firmly clutched against me. I wish, oh, how I wish I had it on film. I mean, straight backward. You don't see that very often outside of the movies.

And, naturally, because I have TALENT, when I had started to fall, as I tried to recover my balance, I threw my door-opening leg straight back down---hard---to the ground . . . .right into the nearly-waist-high paper recycling bin by the door. Which I took down with me, leg still inside it.

Ta-da! Bet you can't top that one.

Chicken's Finger: Wally Has The Last Laugh

Deals pointed out that I should post more. I wish I had more to talk about! Well, I wish I had more that I could talk about. Mostly, I just work, and I'm afraid to blog about that too much. Some of the people I work with do not have a sense of humor about that kind of thing. But oh, the stories I could tell.

But I can tell you about the stupid thing I did last night. See, RR and I have to give dear ol' Wally subcutaneous fluids every couple of weeks because he's in pre-renal failure. It's kind of like hooking a little I.V. up to him. So the last time we did that, I left the needle on it (with a cap on it! for safety!) so that I could remember how to hook it up properly and to make sure that we didn't actually leak more fluids out of the bag between doses. But of course, RR and I were very, very careful to make sure it was covered, and we put the whole apparatus in a bag to keep accidents from happening.

I think you see where this is going.

So, yeah, I stabbed my finger with the needle. The needle that had been injected into my cat, removed, and then left around for several weeks. It bled like . . . something that bleeds a lot. I got no sympathy from the cat.

And today, it still hurts like the dickens if I brush it up against something. And now of course, I'm paranoid that I'm going to get some kind of weird infection, or cat scratch fever by proxy, or something. I'm keeping an eye on it.

I was telling my coworker about it, and she asked the same thing I was thinking, which was, "If you're worried about it, do you call your doctor or your vet?" I still don't know. But so far, nothing's swollen or weird-colored. I'll keep you posted.

Three Things

I redid my blog design a wee bit, and somehow blogger changed my links to old, old, old links, and I'm not entirely sure how to fix it.

I currently hate blogger.

I ate way too many cashews, and now I feel ill. And fat.

It's not waterboarding, but it *feels* like torture

Y'all, one of my coworkers likes to sing at people. This is one of my pet peeves. Yes, I have a lot of them. I don't have a problem with someone singing in general. A person who sings while she works or is walking around or looking at a menu or whatever is a happy person with a song in her heart. But that's not what's going on here.

Like, say, we're sitting at a table in a restaurant, and she wants to tell you about a song that you aren't familiar with. She'll sing it at you. The whole thing. Like you bought a ticket for the performance. She likes to put on a show. She's not concerned with whether you want to hear it, just about whether she wants you to hear it. Normally the show is directed at me, but we took our intern to lunch the other day, and she got to be the recipient.

And I really didn't want to listen to my coworker, even if she wasn't singing, because what I really wanted to do was eavesdrop on the only other table there. This is because as we were being seated, I heard one guy at that table say to the other, "I shouldn't even be telling you this." You know that whatever they were talking about was way more interesting than what we were talking about. And definitely more interesting than the one woman show going on.

Of course, she did buy us coffee on the way back to work. But she also made us listen to a cd that she had playing VERY LOUDLY. And if we weren't paying enough attention and instead started trying to talk to each other, she'd say, "Oh, this is a great song," and then turn it up louder. My ears, y'all. MY EARS. I could not make eye contact with my other coworker, because she knows I don't like being sung at or forced to listen to music, and I knew she'd give me a knowing look that might lead to an uncomfortable discussion with the singer/music oppressor. I mean, my music oppressive coworker is nice, and I get that she's excited about music, but this just happens to be a major pet peeve of mine, and it . . . flames . . . on the side of my face.

But the coffee was nice.

Speaking of music, don't you love the song "A Hundred Hearts" from the Swimmers new album (currently streaming on their website)? RR and I have it on repeat. Very catchy. Now, see, if my coworker had been blasting that, I wouldn't have had a problem with it. Except that she made the poor Starbucks barista shout so that she could hear him over her music, so never mind. That's just rude.

Avast, me hearties!

It be that day again!

Minor Annoyances

This past Saturday, I marched into Sephora in a fit of what I was thinking was optimism but more accurately could be described as temporary insanity and demanded that the sales associate give me a recommendation for idiot-proof liquid eyeliner. Ha! RR and I were going to an art exhibit that night, so maybe I thought it would make me seem more arty? Anyway, they were out of stock of the sales associate's favorite, but not to be deterred, I ignored my better judgment and purchased her second favorite with, despite very clear and helpful instructions, predictable results. Thank goodness for qtips and eye makeup remover.

In other news, there are lots and lots of dead little gnats all over my bathroom. This gives rise to three questions: (1) where is the security breach, i.e., how are they gaining entrance, (2) for what purpose are they here, and (3) WHY ARE THEY ALL DEAD? Are they coming in to die?

Speaking of gnats, this happened:

Clearly crazy.*

I really don't know what to day, other than this: doesn't it look like her face was just poorly photoshopped into the hideousness? That's how bad this outfit is. It's not daring, it's just sad. And also: I think I need to go into the business of celebrity stylist because clearly some people will wear anything.


*(credit where credit is due: this photo is from gofugyourself)

In a way, it's funny, but mostly I am appalled

At the mall this weekend, a sales associate thought that my twin sister was my daughter.


This is the second time that this has happened.

Eau dear.

The other day, one of my coworkers told me that the elevator in the parking garage had smelled like urine that morning. “Like, seriously bad,” she said, wrinkling her nose. There are two elevators in the parking garage, and I didn’t notice any smell in the one I had taken. I got to work only a few minutes before her. I don’t know if she rode on the same elevator that I had taken that morning.

On the way from my car to the elevator, I sprayed some perfume on myself.

And now I’m wondering if my perfume smells like urine.

Needless to say, I didn't ask her about it.