Santa Buffalo

I had to read a short story for my creative writing class, and in it, a man tortured a baby water buffalo. I found the story very upsetting. The next day, I was in the car with my boyfriend. I was driving, and he was in the passenger’s seat next to me. I was babbling at him and singing to the radio, and generally being self-centered and loud, while he nodded and sort of half listened to what I was saying. Then, as we drove up a semi-busy street, he turned to me, and solemnly said, “We have a guest,” and I said something brilliant and witty, like, “Huh?”

I looked over at him (which was safe because I was at a stoplight) and there on his (massive) hand, he had a tiny yellow ladybug. “Oh,” I said. “Huh. Where’d you get him?”

“I dunno, he must have been on campus.”

“Oh.” I’m so clever.

“I’m going to let him go once we stop.”

And that’s why I love him (my boyfriend, not the bug). Because he held that little bug gently (and watched it with the utmost fascination) the whole half hour we were in the car, and then with great care, he put it down on a leaf. I love that he doesn’t even kill bugs, and that he not only doesn’t kill them, but he was considerate enough of it’s tiny insect feelings that he let the lady bug go once the car was stopped, rather than let it go while we were moving.

The waitress at the restaurant where my dad and I had breakfast this morning was way, way too chipper. She really did have one of those I’m-so-happy-I-must-be-a-serial-killer vibes going on.

I am wearing a hat with llamas on it.

I failed at NaNoWriMo and I failed hard. I managed to hit one fifth of the words I was hoping for, which is wildly disappointing to me, but this way, if I get two fifths next year, I guess I’m doing twice as good. We’ll see how that goes.

I have also fallen and fallen hard for Eartha Kitt’s version of ‘Santa Baby.’

Zombie Charms

Today my dad was sitting on our leather love seat today watching a bad super-agent movie. He was also drinking a beer and eating lucky charms dry out of the box.

I love my dad.

I was reorganizing yarn the other day. The yarn is kept in wire-mesh cubby deals, and each skein is wrapped in a paper label. These labels tend to catch on, well, everything, and they tear. They catch on the wires, they catch on the hanging tags, they catch on each other, and they tear. Part of my job was to tape the labels back together after they rip. While doing this, I realized that the yarn is just like the victims of zombie attacks. It would be smarter to have sturdy, tight fitting clothes, rather than loose paper labels.

My socks are crazy stripy today.

I ordered lunch today, and the cashier woman sort of grossed me out. She was, as part of her job, handling the money and cards that people were using to pay for their pasta. She was not wearing gloves, and, without washing her hands, she reloaded the forks and napkins. Now, I know that her hands were probably not teeming death traps of virus menaces, but money isn’t clean. She also breathed on the forks. I know I probably ought to have said something, but I didn’t know what to say.

I made the most delicious quesadilla today. It had goat cheddar, green olives, and salsa inside. It was crispy and nearly perfect. The only way it could have been better is if I had fried the cheese before putting it together.

When I was tiny I walked into more than one rear-view mirror.

I really dig pencils.