Hell. O.

I’m here folks, here with my one good eye and my one squinty eye, kicking myself for not taking my boss’s advice to “just work half a day today” and tough it out because I’m not really in THAT much pain, and yes, I’m sure it’s character-building to grimace through pin-prick-stabbing in your eye, and not being able to breath out your nose, and freaking out all the faaking time that the tube currently descending from your lacrimal sacs into your nose will suddenly POP. OUT. If you sneeze just right or open your eye a leetle too wide.

But really, I had no bruising (which I was sort of looking forward to in a garner-sympathy sort of way), and I had no bleeding (other than waving goodbye to the Crimson Permanent Assurance for another few weeks), and I can still see out that eye, regardless of the myriad of papers I had to sign that said I wouldn’t hold them responsible if I went Blind. Huh. Yeah. Like THAT would hold up in the Grand Jury Argument of my Mind.

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Tomorrow the kids are having Halloween parties at school, and I get to go home tonight and make cupcakes for Girl-child’s class, and gather raucous games for Boy-child’s class, and get their costumers in order (with names on the tags), and find something halfway resembling pirate garb for myself so I can put that black eyepatch to good use. I will be so glad when it’s Wednesday. Halloween, even the mention of the word, makes me belly-sick with remembrances of candy corn, which I really don’t like, and too many chocolate bars, which I do like. Are you dressing up for H’ween?

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The muffler on my car is making a terrible racket. I just had it replaced last March. It has a lifetime guarantee. I’m hoping I don’t have to resort to flashing cleavage to get the yay-hoos at the Muffler Place to look at and fix my car without having me pull out Ye Olde Credit Card. And the thought of flashing them anything, be it cleavage or credit card, gives me the Very Willies.

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How weird is it, when you see someone else’s hands on you, and then you realize it’s not a stranger but your own hands, and how the hell did they look like THAT? I’ve always had my mom’s hands, that is, my hands resemble hers (I don’t have hers in a box or anything). They’re functional, but more like farm-wife hands than model hands. So imagine my surprise this morning when I was getting ready for work and some model-like hands were on my HEAD. Freaky. Then I realized my hands were still the same stubby digit-filled apples they always were, but it must be residual drugs from surgery that made me look at them differently.

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Sergei and I thought we saw Cynical Girl at Famous Local Pie Place yesterday. So, yeah, uh, CG, if you were in our neck of the nape, email me with details.

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Watched “Monster House” last night. I’m interested to know if anyone else has a crush on Steve Buscemi, and some sort of weird girl-crush on Maggie Gyllenhaal. Just curious. Not “that” way, but…well…ya know….

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I’m sure I have a lot more to say, but my fingers can’t keep up today.