Ohrwurms

Woke up at four this morning with Elton John's "Goodbye Yellowbrick Road" stuck in my head. What is the universe trying to tell me with this early-morning looped soundtrack of flamboyant '70's superstars? Seriously, what are the odds? First Queen and then Elton John. And not precisely their most well-known tracks, either. If I were Allison DuBois (you know? from 'Medium'?) it would probably be some sign that I had to lay to rest the wandering soul of some music producer who passed on with some Gary Glitter-based guilt still on his conscience. What's next? Will I progress on in time and have some George Michael next? Or will we stick to the same decade and branch out to gay favorites sung by straight supergroups (you know I'm hoping for some ABBA; maybe "Chiquitita" or "Fernando")? I'd rather sleep through the night undisturbed by earworms, truth be told. Because you know the only way to get them out of your head is to pass them on to someone else. It's cruelly self-serving but it has to be done for your own mental health. Although I don't think that Dan has ever quite forgiven me for the whole "Train They Call the City of New Orleans" episode. At three and four in the morning, when you're single, there's no one to spread the contagion to, though. So unless I beat whatever this is, I'll probably be spending at least an hour lying in bed mentally chanting "Golden Years."

It was 10, not 13.

The highlight of my day:

I miscounted the number of boxes we had recieved from another office and my boss told me that his kids have better math skills than I do. For someone in the financial arena, that's the equivalent of telling a sex worker that your dog gives a better blow job.

Luckily, like most sex workers, I am really not that invested in my job. And, unlike most sex workers, I have quite a few other options.

The weekender in MSP is rapidly filling with activities, which is fabulous. I had a minute and a half of panic this evening when I thought that I hadn't actually booked the flight. I've been known to do stupid things like ˆthinkˆabout booking a flight but not actually follow through, so my concern was justified but ultimately unwarranted. I do have a reservation, even the airline agrees. Now to pack...

She Will Rock You

So I'm 75% sure that my upstairs neighbor is a stripper.

She comes in at 3am and clops around her apartment in high heels. I know because I'm not the world's heaviest sleeper and the sound of high heels on uninsulated concrete is unmistakable. What other profession brings one home an hour after bar close in high heels every night? Waitress? No server I know would spend 8 hours on their feet in heels. Trader on the Asian Desk? She would be in New York, not ATL. Nope. She's a stripper.

Not that I'm judging. It's not the world's most noble profession, but what is, really? And I've known some great girls who paid their rent in ones.

But look, Stripper, take the shoes off when you walk in the door, huh? One man's ceiling, and all that. We're not precisely on the same schedule.

Oh, plus, last night featured a bit of shouting a heavily closed door and more rapid heels on concrete. So of course now I'm drafting my police report in my head and certainly in no danger of falling asleep again. Even lavender on the temples didn't work. And then I get Queen's "Killer Queen" stuck in my head and it doesn't fade away until I get in my car to go to work and Queen's "We are the Champions" is on the radio. Weird.

Dollywood, here I come...

Today is the birthday of the modern day's buxom Ovid:


Happy 61st, Miss Parton!

I have a problem

A list of things I discovered this morning that I had done last night while drunk:

-shattered a drinking glass on the floor
-removed two out of five tea light candles from their holder and threw them away
-baked one slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookie, wrapped it in foil, and put it in the fridge

Who knows what else went down during my midweek waltz with booze; I should really check my phone log and make sure I didn't do something foolish there.

This is why I'm not Olivia de Haviland's PA.

Thanks, En Vogue

That's right, you guessed it: back to reality.

I discovered last night that my flight back to ATL was not, as I first imagined, at 9AM-ish, but at 6:50PM. Yay! More time in the snow and procrastination on packing! Plus, I can do all that reflecting re: THE FUTURE. Very heady stuff.

Christmas was divine, but not as snowy as I had hoped. The loot:

-a new fancy camera
-a new fancy printer/copier/scanner
-a panini maker
-a book about grilled cheese
-the A&E/BBC version of Pride and Prejudice
-the largest bottle of Maker's Mark I've ever seen
-goodies to make me a better baker
-a whole lotta love

Christmas Eve Midnight service (held at 10PM so the suburbanites can still get a good night's sleep) was exactly what I expected: a powerpoint on future classes (jews?), a non sequitur clip from 'The Polar Express', a sermon about how if this is your first time in church for a while it's probably because your life has reached a low tide of pain, sorrow, and regret.

But I had Blissa with me and we heard some good carols.

Every other night I was out with friends. I had forgotten how good that is. New Year's Eve was a fabulous time. Fantastic food and revelery at #2's, the final countdown at jetset, way too much booze. If you're at all curious how I ended up in the wee hours, call me and I will relate it to you in my 'what is my goddamn problem' voice. Or call Kovsky and he'll yell 'she hooked up with a hippie!' Oh, 2007, what will you come up with next?