Aha. I just found Macster, a Mac application that lets me grab MP3 files. You Napster people can stop bragging now. I'm downloading all kinds of songs from the Internet. You know what's great about this? I can listen to guilty pleasures and no one but me has to know. That's right, no more pretending I'm buying a CD for my "daughter" or facing the withering scorn of a twentysomething black clad hipster sales clerk who sneers at my proclivity for shallow happy pop music. I'm free to be cheesy!
Uh, that didn't come out right.
Algebra is going extremely well. I'm starting to dream in algebraic equations which is not exactly restful, but it means I'm thinking very, very hard about what I'm learning. We have quizzes every class and I'm getting B's. I'll get an A or two before I'm done, but honestly, if I simply pass the class that's good enough for me. It's not easy, though. I've been dog tired for two weeks from too much unaccustomed left brain activity. Maybe I should eat more fish.
A wacky industry story, for a change. My boss received a call from a local hotel who wanted to warn us they were hosting an "alternative lifestyle" convention and since we had clients staying there we might wish to warn the clients.
"Really," said my boss, bemused. "How alternative are we talking, here? Piercing afficionados? Fetishists? Amway?"
The hotel rep said no, it was a group of lesbians. My boss was temporarily bereft of a snappy comeback.
"Women lesbians," the rep clarified.
"Oh, good," my boss said promptly. "Because I certainly wouldn't want our clients going near any male lesbians."
The hotel rep didn't get it, which is pretty darned sad. Honestly, what is the world coming to when a hotel has to warn guests that they might be exposed to other guests? And anyone who believes lesbianism is an alternative lifestyle is, well, let's say working with old data. Time for an upgrade to Worldview 2000.
I've been working through my pile of birthday books, having consumed Joyce Tyldesley's dry but interesting biography of Hatchepsut, and the Portable Dorothy Parker in the last two weeks. I have come to the conclusion that I am no fan of Mrs. Parker. I can see that she is a fine writer but my word, what a depressing collection of stories about bitter, jaded, unhappy people. If I were to study her as literature I might be willing to read her again, but for entertainment? Never.
Tomorrow I'm starting on Michael's present, a biography of intrepid explorer Freya Stark called Passionate Nomad. I found it while trolling through amazon.com for something to fill out my Wishlist. This was at Kymm's behest, I'll have you know. She, who has approximately a googol of items on her own Wishlist, was appalled that I'd only managed to put three things in mine since, oh, Christmas. I just got out of the habit. However, I love getting presents, so I must remember to throw the occasional hopeful request in there.
The three day weekend can not come soon enough. I'm strung out from too much worrying over Dixie's failure to eat after starting her newest medication, giving a large party, going back to college, and juggling an unwieldy workload. I think I'll plan on some therapeutic shopping this weekend. Spike and Tom gave us a gift certificate to Smith & Hawken. It's going to be wonderful to go in there and actually be able to buy something. Gardeners, you may all envy me. I have friends who know how to spoil me. I think about them whenever I use the shovel Denise brought me, or write on the garden stakes Steve knew I needed, or water the new houseplants.
For those who are celebrating Labor Day Weekend, have a great holiday.
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