Thursday, June 24, 2004
Things to do, things to do. Always things to do. They've been piling up the past few days like the proverbial dishes-in-the-sink (not so proverbial in my case). I've been off work dead (seriously, the way I felt, "dead" is the correct adjective) for the past few days and the work piled up at the office and at home. All the basic chores I do in a day are only evident when I DON'T do them. Now I have two days (really three days, I succumbed to the alien slime invading my sinuses Monday evening) of work to catch up on.
I've spend the last two days recovering from what I diagnose as the wedding-moving-big project at work-having to much fun-lurgy. Also known as "what happens when you spread yourself to thin." I should know this would happen. I get tired, I get sick. Happens without fail. As a result I've spent the last two days in bed surrounded by tissue and various over-the-counter pain remedies. I was finally rousted (yes, it is a word, I looked it up) from my sick bed yesterday by my team leader calling and wanting to know about the project I'm working on that needs to be delivered ON MONDAY.
So I went to work today.
They loved me at work today. I was a pleasure to spend time with. I dragged myself in propped up only by some painkillers, extra-strength Lemsip (ugh), and a box of herbal tea (pronounced HER-BAL in England, no silent "h" for the true speakers of the language). Of course this combination has kept me a bit slap-happy. Add in some organic dark chocolate as a lunchtime treat and -HELLO SATURN - I'm somewhere off in the solar system for the rest of the day.
(I'm actually writing to you from somewhere near Neptune right now. Yes, I could have gone for the cheap laugh, but I didn't.)
But on a serious note, I did go for my dress fitting (my own dress! I finally wore my own dress!)today. Pretty straightforward dash into Manchester, throw on the dress, down a glass of wine etc, etc, etc. Then something strange happened. The fitter said "those words. You know, the words NORMAL women only hear in their best fantasies -"It fits you perfectly." Seriously. SHE SAID THEM. My dress fits me perfectly. The fitters don't need to change a thing.
-->Most women would think, "Thank god, all the work down at the gym paid off! I'm finally a perfect size FILL_IN_THE_BLANK." I, however, thought, "Thank god, something I don't have to pay for!" I really am a romantic... <--
So now I have the dress & accessories. Next comes the hen night (only a week away!), then I leave for NYC, and exactly a month from now I'll be walking down the aisle.
Oh my god.
The day that was never going to arrive is suddenly on the Japanese Bullet Train screaming towards me. How did this happen? I somehow went from "just out of college" to "just married" in only a few years.
I need to go find my youth. Be back later(anyone have a torch?)...
I've spend the last two days recovering from what I diagnose as the wedding-moving-big project at work-having to much fun-lurgy. Also known as "what happens when you spread yourself to thin." I should know this would happen. I get tired, I get sick. Happens without fail. As a result I've spent the last two days in bed surrounded by tissue and various over-the-counter pain remedies. I was finally rousted (yes, it is a word, I looked it up) from my sick bed yesterday by my team leader calling and wanting to know about the project I'm working on that needs to be delivered ON MONDAY.
So I went to work today.
They loved me at work today. I was a pleasure to spend time with. I dragged myself in propped up only by some painkillers, extra-strength Lemsip (ugh), and a box of herbal tea (pronounced HER-BAL in England, no silent "h" for the true speakers of the language). Of course this combination has kept me a bit slap-happy. Add in some organic dark chocolate as a lunchtime treat and -HELLO SATURN - I'm somewhere off in the solar system for the rest of the day.
(I'm actually writing to you from somewhere near Neptune right now. Yes, I could have gone for the cheap laugh, but I didn't.)
But on a serious note, I did go for my dress fitting (my own dress! I finally wore my own dress!)today. Pretty straightforward dash into Manchester, throw on the dress, down a glass of wine etc, etc, etc. Then something strange happened. The fitter said "those words. You know, the words NORMAL women only hear in their best fantasies -"It fits you perfectly." Seriously. SHE SAID THEM. My dress fits me perfectly. The fitters don't need to change a thing.
-->Most women would think, "Thank god, all the work down at the gym paid off! I'm finally a perfect size FILL_IN_THE_BLANK." I, however, thought, "Thank god, something I don't have to pay for!" I really am a romantic... <--
So now I have the dress & accessories. Next comes the hen night (only a week away!), then I leave for NYC, and exactly a month from now I'll be walking down the aisle.
Oh my god.
The day that was never going to arrive is suddenly on the Japanese Bullet Train screaming towards me. How did this happen? I somehow went from "just out of college" to "just married" in only a few years.
I need to go find my youth. Be back later(anyone have a torch?)...
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Hello out there all you loyal readers! I'm sure most of you (intelligent) individuals are either asleep or still relishing the feeling of your nice, soft bed. Where am I? After an early morning visit to the chamber of torture otherwise known as "the gym," I'm perched in front of my PC AT WORK. I still don't have any sort of internet connection at home, and the PC is still knackered. So I sucked up all the courage I could muster and decided that coming into work on a Sunday morning wasn't *that bad* because I was here out of desperation and internet withdrawal and not because I am a workaholic.
Plus I'm not alone. Simon's here doing *something* though at the moment he's out having his 34th fag of the day (he's never ill and will end up outliving his grandchildren). The big difference is he will get some well deserved *monetary* compensation for dragging himself out of bed while I get the satisfaction that there are people out there whose day I might brighten just a little through my witty and uplifting dialogue. Some people might debate the advantages of each. I'm not proud. I need the money.
My witty and uplifting dialogue earns me a feeling of satisfaction and not a penny more. I need a penny or more. More preferable as I've enjoyed my new home a bit *too* much spending half the week (and my pay check) on the razz. I've finally proven to myself that while going out with your mates four days in one week is socially acceptable and a really good time, physically I can't hack it anymore.
While my skin hasn't broken out (yet), and I'm not showing any signs of weight gain (yet) I feel like I've been run over by and elephant carrying a Mack truck. I need sleep and a week at a exclusive spa where beautiful people rub your feet and bring you glasses of freshly squeezed grass-and-mango juice. Barring that, a few nights in with a good book will see me through to the weekend and payday.
In between the exploits of a 26-year-old living the life of a 18 year old, I've been putting some finishing touches on the house (some boxes still remain, but the majority of stuff has homes), cooking (scary, scary - might be starting to enjoy it) and worrying about the fact the hen-and-stag nights are quickly creeping up.
I'm not so worried about the nights themselves (though there is always a concern I might end up at the altar next to a man without eyebrows), but the fact that the following day - July 3rd - I have a party to host in the new home. Haven't planned a thing - nothing, nada, not a sausage. I'll need to run to Tesco any buy up everything in their ready-made-snack line - or possible rely on the generosity of my "foodie" friends to help me sort out a menu. Either way, I need to get my wine-pickled-self moving on the party planning very soon.
As for my parting comment of a verbose blog, I would like to say nice things about my Mom's friends who are planning bridal showers for me. Mom's friends, Jane and Rosemary, are throwing parties for me the week before the wedding. I'm soooo excited. What could be better? A bunch of women drinking wine and eating nice food on a Midwestern afternoon! How terribly civilised. And I got the first invite on Friday. It was MADE FROM SCRATCH. Hello Delia-Smith-and-Martha-Stuart-rolled-into-one! So all in all, I'm terribly flattered and moved almost to tears, but not completely. I only cry when my computer breaks or during children's animated films. But if I was a crier, I'd feel a sniffle coming on about now....
Plus I'm not alone. Simon's here doing *something* though at the moment he's out having his 34th fag of the day (he's never ill and will end up outliving his grandchildren). The big difference is he will get some well deserved *monetary* compensation for dragging himself out of bed while I get the satisfaction that there are people out there whose day I might brighten just a little through my witty and uplifting dialogue. Some people might debate the advantages of each. I'm not proud. I need the money.
My witty and uplifting dialogue earns me a feeling of satisfaction and not a penny more. I need a penny or more. More preferable as I've enjoyed my new home a bit *too* much spending half the week (and my pay check) on the razz. I've finally proven to myself that while going out with your mates four days in one week is socially acceptable and a really good time, physically I can't hack it anymore.
While my skin hasn't broken out (yet), and I'm not showing any signs of weight gain (yet) I feel like I've been run over by and elephant carrying a Mack truck. I need sleep and a week at a exclusive spa where beautiful people rub your feet and bring you glasses of freshly squeezed grass-and-mango juice. Barring that, a few nights in with a good book will see me through to the weekend and payday.
In between the exploits of a 26-year-old living the life of a 18 year old, I've been putting some finishing touches on the house (some boxes still remain, but the majority of stuff has homes), cooking (scary, scary - might be starting to enjoy it) and worrying about the fact the hen-and-stag nights are quickly creeping up.
I'm not so worried about the nights themselves (though there is always a concern I might end up at the altar next to a man without eyebrows), but the fact that the following day - July 3rd - I have a party to host in the new home. Haven't planned a thing - nothing, nada, not a sausage. I'll need to run to Tesco any buy up everything in their ready-made-snack line - or possible rely on the generosity of my "foodie" friends to help me sort out a menu. Either way, I need to get my wine-pickled-self moving on the party planning very soon.
As for my parting comment of a verbose blog, I would like to say nice things about my Mom's friends who are planning bridal showers for me. Mom's friends, Jane and Rosemary, are throwing parties for me the week before the wedding. I'm soooo excited. What could be better? A bunch of women drinking wine and eating nice food on a Midwestern afternoon! How terribly civilised. And I got the first invite on Friday. It was MADE FROM SCRATCH. Hello Delia-Smith-and-Martha-Stuart-rolled-into-one! So all in all, I'm terribly flattered and moved almost to tears, but not completely. I only cry when my computer breaks or during children's animated films. But if I was a crier, I'd feel a sniffle coming on about now....
