Thursday, January 29, 2015

Very short thank you notes.

Dear little cough,

Remember last night when I vowed to get more sleep, like farmers and country folk? I like how you skewered my hubris at approximately 12:42 a.m., reminding me that I don't actually decide anything, really, about my own life.

Thank you for helping me live in reality,



Dear yesterday's second orange,

When I unpacked my lunch yesterday, there you were, second orange, along with the first orange and the Icelandic yogurt (peach) and the carrots. A redundant orange, packed in the first place because I forgot I already had an orange. Except for the fact that you stuck around for today's lunch, when you were precisely what I needed to go with today's Icelandic yogurt (spiced pear) and carrots.

Thank you for completing my lunch today, and thus being not redundant at all, but rather comme il faut,



Dear new sweater,

When I wore you today, you made me feel like a character in a French movie. Understated, perfectly fitted, very warm. That's you I'm talking about, sweater, although actually: me too. So thank you.

The matching scarf didn't hurt, either. Not one bit.



Dear bed,

Thank you for waiting so quietly all day for my return. I sensed, when I lay down between the softest, coolest sheets in all of bedlinendom, that you knew I would need you, especially after all that after-midnight coughing.

And so, when my husband said, "Go to sleep," and I replied, "Maybe," you knew: you knew I would close my eyes in the gloaming for a half an hour, and I would be the better for it.

And I did, and I was,


Wednesday, January 28, 2015

The Megastore recommends: the Take Your Own Advice Edition.

1. More sleep.  You know it, I know it: I don't get enough sleep. Maybe you don't, either. I need more of it. Preferably in this configuration:
a. Go to bed whenever I want to. You know, 1 a.m. or whatnot.
b. Get up when I wake up. Like, you know, 8 a.m. Or 8:30. Or let's splurge on 9 a.m., shall we?
c. Do this and that until 11. Try to speak to no one.
d. Get to work in my super productive style.
e. At an appropriate juncture--after lunch? sure!--take a little nap. Just 30 minutes. Okay,  45 minutes. I've earned it.
f. Work some more. Then:

The working world was not made for people like me. Last night the historian pointed out that science has proven, via its science-y ways, that exercising in the morning before you've eaten is actually better than all the other timetables for exercising, like when people who follow the schedule above exercise, which is on their way home from work.

Well no thank you, science, for this awful insight into how even biology is apparently in on the conspiracy against me and my kind.

Even so: from this moment forward, I am going to try always to go to bed by midnight, instead of 1 a.m. And then maybe I will roll it back to the bedtime of farmers and country folk, 11:30 p.m. That's probably about as much as I can do. Take that, biology.

In conclusion:

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Outfit of the day manqué.

My outfit was good today, if I do say so myself, and I'm going to have to say so myself, since I would show you my outfit selfie, except for the following reasons:

  • in the photo--both photos, since I took two--I appear to be standing in a dank, darkened place. Such as my gym, in the entrance to the ladies' locker room. Though it's bright in the room, I'm standing in the entrance, which is dark, as if I had had to come through an uncertain and dim passage before bursting into health and fitness. In other words, you really can't even see my shoes. Which, trust me, were cute. I wore man-shoes, brogue-ish, in a cordovan leather. In the picture, you could maybe see a glint of light off the toe of the leather.
  • All the textures are elided in the bad light and, it must be said, the bad photography. There is velvet (skirt). There is a voluminous, romantic cardigan, dusty rose, with different knit stitches. There is a lilac pink sweater with zips at the shoulders (gold). Navy blue tights. All these textures are as nothing, because the photograph (photographer?) did not deliver, not remotely.
  • I felt rushed. There were ladies coming in and out around me. I thought I could take the picture quickly and it would be all dashing and devil-may-care. No, instead I looked fretful and concerned and sheepish, all at once, as if I were standing in a doorway, while ladies were streaming in and out and they were all, why is she standing there, taking her own picture? Does she not know this is a gym? She should get on her yoga pants already and get busy. Which: I totally was, I totally should have, and, in the end, totally did.
You're just going to have to trust me when I say: the outfit was good.

Thankfully, I did not bungle a photo of the sky, which was also beautifully dressed:

Sunday, January 25, 2015

Office snapshots.

This is how a perfectly lovely weekend comes to a close:

with rubrics...
and Excel spreadsheets...

...and assessment samples.

I should, of course, have finished this last week. But oh well.


I am assuming that next week, which will represent the end of this project as well as the end of many other such obligatories, will be less rubricated. Not to mention less Excel spreadsheeted. 'Spreadsheeted' sounds like a prank somebody might play on you at camp, right? A mean, mean prank. At Assessment Camp, which is--you know I'm right--the worst camp EVER.


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