At work we have snacks in jars, and one of the jars is all full of animal crackers, and they are the brand of animal crackers that is rhinos and goats and cows and donkeys and elephants and buffalo and camels and lions, but no monkeys. Not a monkey anywhere. That must be a different brand, with the monkeys. But every time I eat animal crackers, I think of this time Oz told Willow that the monkey was the only animal cracker animal with clothes, and he wondered whether the monkey mocked the other animal crackers with his monkey pants. But there are no monkeys in my animal crackers. It always bugs me a little. So does eating camels. I love camels! I don’t want to eat them! When I am scooping up animal crackers for myself, I try to steer around the camels.
I do not much care for black coffee, which is quite bitter, but I drink it anyway because I am 1) afraid of becoming a yuppie and thus disinclined to purchase trendy mocha-type drinks; and (more important) 2) too lazy to bother about putting it sugar and cream and then stirring it adequately so it doesn’t all settle on the bottom. I greatly enjoy writing in coffee shops because sometimes really awful people come in for long or short lengths of time and talk about all the really awful things they and their friends have done, and it is fun to eavesdrop on them.
My new laptop has a clit mouse. I have not used a computer with a clit mouse since before I learned what a clitoris was. Fortunately (fortunately because otherwise I would kill myself) it also has a touchpad.
Whenever I see those signs that say “No shirt, no shoes, no service” or “Shirt and shoes required” or whatever, I always always check myself to make sure I am meeting these requirements. I have not paid a lot of attention to this previously, but I was strolling into the library yesterday on my lunch break, and I did it twice in such rapid succession (at the entrance and then at the door to the stairwell) that I couldn’t help but notice. My brain went, Shirt? Check. Shoes? Check. Okay, we’re good to go! My feet paused for this moment of consideration. I guess in case I ever lose my mind and accidentally go out without a shirt on, this will be handy because I won't also have to get booted out of a library or wherever.
That's silly.
On my lunch break after going to the library, I read Lux the Poet, which I had on hold at the library and which had just, just, just come in when I got there. I am reading it as a substitute for Suzy, Led Zeppelin, and Me, which I have not yet read because I’m delaying gratification until some as-yet-undetermined point in the future. I still really like Martin Millar. His books are so sweet. Lux the Poet is all about an angel who got framed and booted out of heaven so she’s doing loads of good deeds to get back into heaven. Except that’s not what it’s all about, that’s only one bit of the whole thing. But it’s my favorite bit, although the other bits are also good. The aforementioned angel is very tired but she carries on giving coats to bums and helping little old ladies across the street because if she carries on doing that long enough, she’ll get to go back to heaven again. There is also a funny poet not altogether unlike the poet in The Graveyard Book (the poet in The Graveyard Book was not heavily featured enough for my tastes, so it’s very pleasing to be reading Lux the Poet so soon after), and a girl with a film, and an angry thrash metal band called the Jane Austen Mercenaries. Martin Millar makes me smile.
Also, an unexpected side effect of becoming a rockin’ guitar chick: The cuticles on my right hand are suffering. I am a compulsive cuticle-pusher-backer, and I ceaselessly push back the cuticles on one hand with the fingernails of the other. Now that I am keeping the fingernails on my left hand trimmed very short in order to play chords more effectively (dude, C#m is unreasonably difficult. It’s almost a C! Why must I spread out my fingers so dramatically just to play it?), those fingernails are not long enough to push back the cuticles on my right hand. IT IS DRIVING ME INSANE. I am thinking of playing only chords that require three fingers, and giving up using my ring finger in guitar-playing, just so I can grow that fingernail out and continue pushing back cuticles when I wish to push back cuticles.
And before you ask – No, pushing back my cuticles does not give me hangnails. I’ve been doing it for a while and I have cuticle-pushing finesse now. Lucky me.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
6 comments:
OH MY GOD. YOU can tell me. I have been trying to figure this out for years. (I guess I could google it, but I prefer to be told. The last time I tried to figure it out, Google was not handy.) What part of the fingernail, exactly, is the cuticle? And why does it need to be pushed back? If it's the part of the nail I'm guessing it is (the skin at the bottom?), doesn't it hurt like hell to push it? Maybe not like hell, but like a slightly painful thing?
Oh wow. Okay. The cuticle is the thing at the base of your nail that like seals your skin to your fingernail. You don't have to push them back, but it makes your fingernails look tidier, which is why I do it. I think you're supposed to soak your hands and use a cuticle-pushing-back tool to do it, but I can't be bothered doing that.
It doesn't hurt me at all...Maybe you have exceptionally sensitive cuticles. Or maybe when you first push back your cuticles it hurts. I don't remember. It's been ages since I started doing it.
I see. That was very helpful, thank you. Maybe I'll attack my cuticles sometime this fall.
Um, in the wake of that interesting exchange, umm Jenny, I can't find your e-mail address but LOOK, my library doesn't have one single book by Martin Millar and also there is no decent bookstore within a 60-mile radius. So. Boo to you.
No, tim! Don't be led astray by Jenny's craziness! IT GIVES YOU HANGNAILS.
Lauren, darling, I cannot imagine that your library lacks an interlibrary loan system. Interlibrary borrow some stuff! If your borrowing is limited, I would suggest Suzy, Led Zeppelin, and Me - I still haven't read it but I am certain it is wonderful.
tim, pay her no mind. You just do it gently and carefully. I almost never get hangnails. My mother thinks you get hangnails in spite of the fact that I NEVER GET HANGNAILS.
Post a Comment