There were firemen standing on the median of the shopping center where I usually take my lunch (the shopping center, that is, not the median) carrying around big black boots for donations for the MDA. I threw in two dollars because, you know, I love Jerry's Kids, and I got a very nice racially balanced sticker in return. I only wish that the firemen were like the ones you see on all of those calendars (or in low budget adult films) because I am just shallow enough to break out my checkbook when I see some fabulous dents. Alas, the firemen in my hometown are only slightly trimmer than the people who work in my office building, which is kind of sad, considering that the people who work in my office building think that dragging and dropping files from their desktop to their trashcan constitutes "strenuous physical activity."
Speaking of my vocational wunderkinder, I've been invited to my first bachelorette party this weekend, by a co-worker who's tying the knot in two weeks. This is very big for me. Whether through choice or circumstance, I don't have a lot of female friends who come without screen names. luuser
doesn't count, because I consider us to practically be sisters, plus she lives in another time zone. I'm sort of thrilled by the prospect that my company has been asked for, especially because a bachelorette party is one of those things I should have been old hat at by now (if anyone I knew in college was a.
interested in getting married, and, b.
interested in anything but smoking pot and parsing out the existential meaning behind The Talking Heads' "As The Days Go By"). Anyway, said co-worker is getting a trolley to take a group of girls around to the various bars and haunts in town and, by jove, I'm kind of looking forward to it.
Tomorrow night, Todd and I are going to a fancy restaurant for steaks and wine, which will necessitate the use of The Little Black Dress and her favourite companions, The Let's Hope I Don't Break An Ankle Getting Out Of The Car boots. We figure that we should spend the money we have while we have it, because in a couple of months we're going to be living bowl to bowl on Fruit Loops. I finally told my boss that I'd been accepted to graduate school and I'd be leaving the job at the end of this year, so there's some finality in the decision now. With school starting back up the last couple of weeks, I've got the pang for academia in my gut. I fully believe that I'm meant to be in that environment for the rest of my life and I can't wait to get started. I will earmark this post and refer back to it when I am in the middle of writing a long dissertation about the significance of footwear in Robert Browning's lesser poems. Formidable years, indeed.
I have also been on such
a fandom kick lately. At about two or three o'clock every day this week, I've gotten the uncontrollable itch to watch The X-Files
or season two of House.
I've heard relatively little patter about the fifth season, and I'm trying to keep as spoiler-free as possible before September 16th. One piece of information that I wish I would
have known: the stinger at the end of the credits of I Want To Believe
! The theaters around here were already shuffling the film to the back theaters by the time I got around to seeing it, so it's unlikely that I'll be back for a repeat viewing before the DVD comes out. I'm kind of bummed because, as much as I was disappointed in the movie overall, I really, really loved
the movie. There is no room for shame in fandom, even when it cheats on you with bad scriptwriting.