hale pupule

Stephen Fry said it best: "I should have known better, it was a Tuesday in February. Many of my life’s most awful moments have taken place on Tuesdays, and what is February if not the Tuesday of the year?"

Today hasn't been too bad, though. Yet. *knocks on wood*

Can't decide if my eyes aching is left over from the ouch of chopping an onion this morning, or if it's allergies. I'm pretty sure I have a Claritin somewhere in my desk, so I'll find out.

My hair decided to be floofy in some places and flat in others. So I slapped a snood on my head. Screw you, bad hair day.

I seem to be incapable of writing a fic shorter than 10,000 words. I'm at 4500, and John hasn't even walked in the door yet. *headdesk* Someone else posted ten 100-word drabbles off the same prompt this morning. I tried to forget I'd read it for two reasons: so I wouldn't be jealous, and so I wouldn't copy anything by mistake. It was really good, though.

My computer is chiming at me every ten minutes, and it won't tell me why it's chiming. No messages, no flashing icons, no pop-up memos. It makes me nervous.

The library is canceling publications left and right, and the aftermath is a complete mess sometimes. Vendors baying for the money for stuff we've sent back or databases we've told them we don't want any more. It can take months and many messages for them to get the message sometimes.

Bought Underworld's soundtrack to Danny Boyle's Frankenstein almost three weeks ago, and it still hasn't arrived. It's coming from the UK, so I must be patient, but ... hurry up!

Job anniversary today. Doesn't seem like I got here yesterday, but it doesn't seem as long as seven years, either.

Lunch: "Soup, soup, tasty soup, soup!" Potato cheese with oyster crackers. I haven't consumed anything harder than soup, melted cheese, soggy Cheerios, or pasta since I broke a tooth last week, and I'm starving. On the plus side, my clothes are a little looser. It doesn't hurt -- my tongue scraping against the sharp edge was the worst of it -- but I don't want to antagonize my other teeth until I get everything checked out by my beastly dentist tomorrow. (Some dentists are perfectly nice, even when you forget to floss. Not this guy.)

I'm such a doofus. I sniffled when I wrote the latest scene in my WIP. It's kind of the opposite of The Sixth Sense here. ( I realize the movie has been out for a dozen years, but I will never spoil it or the second series of Sherlock. )

Making up for the last post, because no Tuesday is ever a total loss.

I went into the break room and saw CJ and JT sitting at the table. CJ said, "We didn't see you at the Academy Awards."

Me: [after a moment of WTF] I haven't made a movie in fifteen years.

CJ: [startled] Seriously?

Me: Well, I was an extra, and it was just a few gigs during one summer break, but there are two things where you can see my face.

CJ: Cool. Are you acting now at your theater?

Me: The Mysterium? No, but I'm stage crew for The Crucible.

CJ: [brightly] Oh, you've been promoted!

Tuesday hates me. I have proof.

Couldn't get to sleep until after 3:30 this morning. Laundry situation is desperate, so I set my alarm for 7:30 to give myself enough time to do three loads before work. I went out to the laundry room, started the washing machine, and then saw the note on the dryer:

BROKEN

I wasn't about to let five quarters go to waste, so I washed a bunch of stuff I wasn't going to dry anyway (nylons, bras, and a hand-painted t-shirt). They're hanging all over the hobbit hole. I organized everything and put it in my car so I could go straight to the horrible laundromat after work.

And now that I'm getting ready for work, someone's repairing the dryer.

FML.