The Sweet Smell of...Chlorine Bleach

Today has been, in context, a smashingly productive day. I mailed a birthday package to a certain be-hatted gentleman in New York (without the wailing and gnashing of teeth that usually accompanies a trip to the University's Postal Station), I had a checkup at the Student Care Center where they did take a blood sample for Mono (no wailing, some gnashing of teeth) and I simultaneously ran into the lovely Miss Pam and one of my favorite fellows of the Compton House variety. Then I went to University Market for Ginger Ale and a frozen organic/Vegetarian pasta dinner and took a long route home. When I arrived, 4/5ths of the items in the mail were for me. I love mail. I am a mail glutton. Sukie (or, if you want to be Welsh about it, Swci)'s postcard from Assisi has been added to my desktop decorations. I watched Chinatown and knitted the scarf some more (I'm at 17 out of 19 stripes. The end is in sight!). Oh, and I've been reading a spectacular novel. (Don't buy it on Amazon...go to your local independent. It's better for your soul/karma/soul's karma.)

Oh, and I cleaned the bathroom. This was because I was shamed into it when Everyone's Favorite Metrosexual Marxist (A.K.A "Dan") commented on the state thereof when he stopped by to check up on me yesterday. I was horrified that he said anything... I mean, I knew it was bad, but I'm pretty finicky. Today, though, I figured out what was so bad about it. Dan, you see, is male, and so had been required to lift the toilet seat. The residents of this apartment are all female, and no-one had thought of doing such a thing since the most recent male residents moved out (and those boys probably hadn't cleaned in there, either). I'm going to have post-traumatic stress dreams about cleaning that bathroom. Victory, however, is mine, as confirmed by the smell of cleaning supplies wafting through the hallway.

Plans for the rest of the evening/until I get tired? Eating ice cream, movie watching, and trying not to let the antibiotics get the best of me. (Dan: "I hate antibiotics. They give me Kafka dreams.")

ADDENDUM: (12:12 am) One of the few benefits of postponing my trip to see Emily in Toronto is that I get to attend the "Theology on Tap" talk on Sunday evening about Benedict's Eucharistic Theology. I'm trying to decide if it's worth my while to toss aside both Gilead and The Worm Ourobouros to try to read some of his Eucharistic writings so that I can be both non-bored and informed during the talk, but given that I just realized that my plan to finish the scarf by Friday really means that I need to finish it by this coming Monday, given hopes to travel to Toronto and Vanessa's Tuesday arrival, there's a good chance that such a project could result only in the aforementioned wailing and gnashing of teeth and/or spiritual indigestion on par with reading all of Story of a Soul on a four-hour plane flight from Chicago to San Francisco. Not that I've done that. That was...um...this friend of mine...a girl I know...yeah.

Also, I think I need to return to Loopy Yarns to buy a darning needle in order to sew up the numerous ends in this scarf. I'm hoping to avoid having a yarn-buying accident, especially since I realized today that I do hate the yarn I bought for the hat and perhaps the hat pattern and don't really care what it turns into so long as it doesn't fit me. I don't think the yarn (Gedifra "Donatella") is spun so much as pulled-- it feels chalky and the thought of pulling it over my hair gives me shivers down my spine. Okay, that's probably more than any of you cared about my handcrafts. (Also, after a documentary on Ocean Life: 17.5 out of 19. I'm rocking this scarf.)