formerly a fearless temp

Check it out – I have a new LJ layout. I even figured out how to create a sidebar! I feel like Michaelangelo after completing the Sistine Chapel, people, and all I did was change a couple of font colors. But visual design is one of a number of things on the long list of Stuff I'm Not Good At (other items: cooking, dancing, singing, applying eye makeup, knowing what shoes to wear with an outfit), and I consider figuring out how to get an icon to go up with each of my entries a major accomplishment.

And! A sidebar!

I don't really have anything to put in a sidebar, of course, which did nothing in preventing me from desperately wanting one. I sat staring at it for long hours (okay, ten minutes) this weekend, trying to come up with a clever About Me blurb, but failing miserably (I have had the same content-less user info blurb for four years now for that very reason), and instead I have created a Totally Awesome Item sidebar, which I hope to update weekly, but will actually be updated biannually, knowing me. This week's item is Neutrogena Norwegian Hand Cream, and it is AWESOME.

I would go on about it more but there is a small section of my personality that can still recognize when I'm entering soul-crushingly boring territory, and it's beginning to set off warning bells now. Moving on.

I missed The 4400 last night, which is very upsetting for me. It's not a very good show, but it involves people with superpowers, and I love people with superpowers. Yes, I am that easy. Will have to catch a rerun, clearly.

In other news: We are experiencing our first massive rainstorm of the season and I, naturally, have left my new spring raincoat at home. Macy's calls it an all-weather jacket, which is even better because it justifies me wearing it more – you can look at it here, only mine is in yellow. The kind of yellow that calls for all-caps: this is a YELLOW coat. I love it, even if it is one of those items that either looks great or hideous: there is no in-between. Am hoping it's the former, not the latter.

Oh God, just remembered that I have to count change in petty cash to make sure it reconciles. Joy. Joy joy joy. And so I end the most pointless LJ entry ever.

Today's scorecard: My skirt fits funny and I have two runs in my stockings, both of them above the hem of the skirt right now, but they're moving fast. I had to scoot over to Rite Aid on my lunch hour to buy another pair, which I'm going to change into the second one of the runs sneaks by the hem.

The question of the skirt's funny fit is one I tried to solve in the bathroom earlier today by taking off my slip and then putting it on again to see if it was better with or without. I did this twice while standing in front of the bathroom mirror before realizing that anyone could open the door at any moment and see me standing there with my skirt hiked up, shimmying into the slip, since this was a three-stalled office bathroom and not my own little one-seater at home. I then became convinced that someone was going to burst in Right That Moment and hid behind where the door would open to fix my skirt, which was a ridiculous solution because (a) if someone opened the door at all, they would have nailed me and I would have had to explain why I was hiding in the corner of the bathroom, and (b) there was a private little stall just a few feet further away in the opposite direction.

Anyway. I am a mystery even to myself.

The verdict on the slip thing: Doesn't make much difference. The problem is my hip-to-waist ratio, which makes almost all not-completely-A-Line skirts problematic. Most that fit on my hips are too big on my waist and then fall down and sit funny. Note: The problem is less that I have a narrow waist (ha! Almost) but that I have far from narrow hips.

Also: I feel like my octogenarian Latin teacher from high school whenever I discuss wearing a slip, since I'm pretty sure I'm the only person under sixty who wears them. Mrs. R. had a tendency to put on the wrong slip in the morning and spend the whole day with three inches of the slip hanging below the hem of her skirt. Occasionally she'd comb her hair in the morning with one of those black thin barber's combs, stop halfway through with the comb in her hair, and then forget about it, only to discover it sticking out of the back of her hair halfway through her third class of the day.

I sometimes think Mrs. R. and I are spiritual sisters.

I got an invite to an alumni luncheon thing this year, which is featuring as its centerpiece yet another ceremonial award for Mrs. R. She got one last year and I'm pretty sure she got one the year before; she graduated from my high school sometime around 1930 and had been teaching for a few years when my grandmother had her in high school – and my grandmother was the class of 1947. She sticks around because she is from a wealthy family and is such a big financial supporter of the school that they're afraid to let her go, even though she's been having senior moments since the mid-eighties. I think they keep giving her these luncheons hoping that eventually, in one of her acceptance speeches, she'll announce her retirement, but no luck yet.

She was a character. I was one of four students in her Latin Culture and Vocabulary class, which was pretty much a joke. The night before the final exam she called each of us with mysterious messages like, "Think about Sparta...and Athens...and how they're different..." which then turned out to be the major questions on the exam. I think she was afraid that we were all going to fail because we'd all been so spacey and bored for the entire duration of the class. It was a legitimate fear; I was taking the class pass/fail, I think, since I was a senior approaching graduation with my college acceptance letters under my belt. I knew I would squeak by with a pass even though I'd been asleep for half the course both because I was a good test-taker and, also, I had a rep in the school as a Smart Kid, which, as everyone knows, cuts you a bit of slack at the end of your high school career.

She taught public speaking as well, and an odd assortment of other classes. Sometimes she would come in and spend the entire period talking about the dry cleaner down her street when she was growing up, and other times she'd tell us about the proper pronunciation of "often" (the t is silent) and the value of enunciation. One day she came in and taught me one of the most important things I learned in high school: what it really means to be a classy individual. She asked us what we thought it meant to be a classy individual, and we sat there, all fifteen and clueless, and said stuff about Audrey Hepburn and Jackie O. and expensive silverware. None of us had the right answer. Class, she told us, is not a set of clothes or good lighting; it's a way of treating people with respect and kindness. It's making your first priority, in any given situation, that the other person is feeling comfortable. The classiest person at a dinner party isn't the one with the best dress who knows the right way to use the flatware; the classiest person at a dinner party is the one who sees someone nervously pick up the wrong fork for the salad, and picks that one up herself.

Anyone can do that, she said, in any situation. That's the way you should be.

My cousin Mike is a classy guy. I have a sweet story about him that I'm going to share here, even though it would embarrass him if he found it. Even though it may come off as kind of corny. It made me smile and so I'm sharing it.

( mike and dan )

Thelma and Louise has been in heavy rotation on my cable system lately, so I've been watching bits and pieces of it on and off the last few weeks. Today I actually sat down and watched the last hour and a half or so in one sitting and, well. So that's what all the fuss was about! Holy crap, that was an excellent movie. I say that in a way that's devoid of any real critical or intellectual thought. All I know is that I got that funny feeling in the pit of my stomach when I'm watching or reading something that moves, surprises, and impresses me all at once. It doesn't happen often and whenever it does I just canNOT shut up about it. I spent the rest of the night trying to talk to my parents about it, and since they had seen and talked about the movie when it came out, oh, fifteen years ago, they weren't as eager to go on and on and on about it as I was. They were ready to lock me out of the house by the end of the night.

Also: Brad Pitt? Wow.

I also appear to have started watching Stargate for some strange reason. As of now have only seen, like, five episodes and don't quite understand most of the intergalactic goings on. But. MacGyver! And Scully's Dad! It kind of reminds me of seaQuest, only not as bad. You could say that about almost every science fiction show, though.

Yesterday while driving to the mall with my mother, I issued an unjustified rude hand gesture. I still feel guilty. I thought this SUV was ignoring our expressed need to switch lanes via blinking turn signal when, in reality, said turn signal was out. I had forgotten this fact, so when we couldn't slide over easily, I gave the SUV driver and passengers (including a small child in the backseat who I did not see until I'd already pumped my fist a few times) the finger in the most emphatic fashion. I realized the broken turn signal thing about two seconds after the I'm Sorry hand wave became impossible, since the SUV had gunned their engine to spare the small child in the backseat any further vulgarity, I'd guess. This is why you shouldn't flip people off. An additional cautionary tale: the only time my mother issued a flip-off while driving ended with her realizing mid-gesture that the driver she was waving at was her boss.

Molly the cat is currently curled up on her side in the most adorable way on the bed next to me. I can't express how cute she is, but I will try: So! Cute!

Other accomplishments yesterday: Dropped waaaay too much money at a series of stores on clothes I don't really need. I did need the sandals I got, but beyond that? Totally unnecessary purchases. But. Black pants! How can a person resist nice black pants reduced sixty per cent? And a nice white blouse on clearance? These are fashion must-haves! Right?

The other items purchased were so not fashion must haves. They were more fashion really want to haves. The two items I am most excited over: SKORTS! That was not a typo. I totally bought two shorts that look like skirts, a.k.a. skorts. They are so fantastic, and by fantastic, I mean most likely hideously unfashionable. After I'd picked up my two skorts to try on in the dressing room, I walked to another section of the store and watched -- this is not an exaggeration -- four senior citizens descend upon the table of clothes I'd just left. I have a sinking feeling that the clothes I bought are totally over-seventy swinging single cruise wear, people. But honestly? I don't really care that much! Because they are so incredibly comfortable! Shorts! That look like skirts! All the way around!

As with most foolish clothing purchases, they had little to do with the person I am and more with the person I'd like to be, namely, a person who plays golf. The Jess who plays golf would wear skorts on the course. And I am determined to play golf! Determined! Some people would take lessons or go to the driving range -- I buy a wardrobe. Different strokes and all that (and dude, totally did not see the pun there till after I'd run the spell check).

Bedtime

90% of the reason I spent twenty minutes digging my sorry car out of the mountain of snow my brother had so kindly buried it under (Never let a younger brother snowblow a driveway your car is parked in. It is just not a good idea) was so that I could wear my Truly Awesome Tights, which are black with little shamrocks on them and therefore only appropriate for today. I bought them last week for 75% off, and I'm wearing a green shirt that doesn't quite match the green of the shamrocks, but I don't care! I'm festive! I can't decide if the tights are cute or if they're a sign that I'm fast on my way to being a person who wears puff-paint sweatshirts with Christmas trees on them during the holidays.

In short: Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Century City, that show about lawyers in the future, premiered last night and watched part of it and taped the rest and I'm pretty sure it was everything I dreamed of (and more!). ( do i really need a spoiler cut tag? just in case )

A source of stress right now is the fact that I think I'm going gray. I've always had a few stray gray hairs, ever since I was sixteen or so, and there have always been three or four I could see in the part of my hair, and I thought they were kind of a quirky localized incident so I left them alone. Then I started noticing them more and pulling them out, and then yesterday in the car on my way back from lunch, I thought to check the rest of my head and OH MY GOD they're EVERYWHERE! I'm only 23! Isn't this young? Or isn't it? My mother says it's normal and I'm overreacting and she's probably right, but watch me still freak out. I mean, you can't really see them from a distance, and I have a lot of hair so you have to be looking for them, but I really don't want to go gray! My grandfather was completely gray by the age of 25. I'm nervous. My hair's super-dark (a coworker called it a "soft black" which is how I'm going to describe it from now on) and I've never dyed it and I don't WANT to and grrr.

I'm getting old! Wearing festive legwear, sprouting gray hairs, looking for logic in cheesy sci fi lawyer shows! What is happening to me?

To end on a less neurotic note, I leave you with an Irish Blessing:

May those that love us, love us.
And those that don't love us,
May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn't turn their hearts,
May He turn their ankles
So we will know them by their limping.

I should have known today would be a wash when I woke up this morning and couldn't find my short slip. Because of my utter laziness when it comes to laundry, I'd reached the stage where picking an outfit was no longer a casual, "Ah, I feel like this today" but instead a manner of searching high and low through drawers and my closet to assemble a clean, somewhat-matching outfit. A clean, somewhat-matching outfit with a knee-length skirt which I usually wear with my short slip and I couldn't find it ANYWHERE. Still can't find it. Naturally, I blame the cats. Why? Because I can.

The Case of the Missing Slip wouldn't be so big a deal if I didn't always, without fail, oversleep by at least fifteen minutes. This means that my mornings are spent with my brain on a constant loop of "Oh my God! What time is it? Why didn't I get up earlier? Why? WHY? Oh my God! What time is it?" and the slightest foul-up in the morning routine messes everything up.

Like today, I only got to eat half of my oatmeal because I was running late! Isn't that a tragedy?

Arrived at work to find more stupid things I'd messed up, and spent the morning alternately loathing myself for said screw-ups and obsessing over my dental appointment later that morning (I hate hate HATE the dentist). During a particularly intense Loathe Patch, I heard my name called and turned to see three of my bosses and a strange woman descending upon me from down the hallway in a manner not unlike the power shots at the end of the Buffy/Angel credits.

First thought: Oh my God! I'm so fired. Strange Woman is totally here to escort me from the building!

Second thought: Oh my God, did she say she was from my temp agency? She can't be --

Third thought: Please let the earth open up and swallow me whole.

Yes, yes indeedy. They sent someone over to Acronym Company, to my department, and had them make a spectacle of the Temp of the Month accolades. Wanted. to. DIE. I hate hate HATE being the center of attention (almost as much as I hate the dentist) and to have everyone in the department stop what they were doing to see me pull out my new Temp Agency Lunch Satchel and Temp of the Month Certificate (ready for framing) -- well, it's in spitting distance of my worst nightmare.

Luckily, after that Embarrassment Explosion, I had the fun of my dental appointment to look forward to on my lunch hour. I'd planned just to get this random, occasional twinge in one of my teeth looked at, and once Dr. Pain had looked at it, he quickly decided part of my filling in one tooth had fallen out. And then he fixed it right there! I had totally planned to have another visit to deal with the drilling and all that, but no! Right there! Today!

Naturally, the first shot of novocaine didn't completely work, so after the Traditional Swat of Hey! Ow! he shot me up a few times more (to the proper dosage for a bull, I believe) and it worked, I got the new filling. The only problem was that because of the massive influx of novocaine, the entire left side of my mouth/cheek and lower lip were completely numb. COMPLETELY. To the point that when I got back to work, I sounded seriously drunk because every sentence and word took so. much. effort. to say properly. Not to mention the fact that every time I took a sip from my can of Diet Coke, I had to put a finger under my lower lip to make sure it didn't slip off and cause me to spill soda all over myself. Talk about presenting a positive image of the company! They should put me on the website, complete with too-long slip showing beneath the hem of my skirt! (Note: I did roll up the top of said slip so that to my knowledge, the slip did not show all day. But still. There's the possibility of unknown slipping of slip. Always dangerous.)

I'm now suffering from Post Traumatic Drilling Disorder, where I keep flashing back to the sensation of the second drill they use -- you know, the big one that sounds like they're just spinning a boulder they picked up off the ground around in your tooth or something? Hate that! Hate that so much! Gives me the heebie jeebies hours later!

Anyway, my jaw isn't as ouchy now as it was before, and look! it's my designated bedtime. With that, I'm off.

This is why I don't go hiking. Also, all the hills! And rocky terrain! If I wanted to go off the beaten trail, I'd buy an expensive SUV like any self-respecting American!

I kid, I kid. Mostly. I just say no to both hiking and SUVs at this point in my life.

In other news: Am at work, suckily not working because it's Friday afternoon and my brain shut off about an hour ago. And!!! This monster case that has been eating the law firm and that was going to cause me to have to come in and WORK on a SUNDAY (I know, I know, LOTS of people have to work on the weekends, I just don't want to be one of them!)? IT SETTLED! Wheee!

In yet other news: You know how some people are red/green colorblind? I've recently come to the conclusion that I'm ugly/cute blind. Like, most of the time? I really can't tell! Which is why I usually dress really, really boring. Solid colors, nothing too daring or different. I usually try to get interesting cuts to tops and layer things so it's not too boring, but really? Totally unimaginative. Because if I ever buy anything totally crazy (like, say, the pants I have on now, which are black, capri-length, and with this tiny narrow pattern around the hem consisting of little red flowers and black and white gingham and red trim)? Whenever I wear them, I spend the whole day staring at them going, "Look at my cute pants! Wait. Are they cute? Oh God! They're ugly! THEY'RE HORRENDOUSLY, EYE-MELTINGLY UGLY! Or are they? Hm. I do like the red." Etc etc.

But regarding today's outfit: Have gotten independent verification from two (2) people in office that ensemble of aforementioned pants, black sleeveless shirt, red button-down shirt, black sandals and red toenails is not, in fact, ugly. Good to know, since the outfit is completely at odds with the weather conditions (rainy and cool), and can only really hope to have merit visually.

And now I and my ambiguously cute pants are going to go get our work on.