Year: 2002

I don’t know if I should be making this out to Laura, or to to $14 socks everywhere, but I’d like to write up a formal public appology. $14 socks are not just for weak minded shoppers at outdoorsman shops like REI. Instead, it turns out $14 socks are really nice, thinner than my usual 6-pair-for-$6 socks, and warmer too!

I’m sorry for ever putting you down, $14 socks. I was wrong. Quality over quantity, always… always. I was a fool for ever straying from that old standby.

On a related note, our heat went out again yesterday. They’ve already fixed it, but I owe the safe non-frozen state of my ten very warm toes all to Laura’s $14 socks, which I am still wearing. I’m affraid she’ll make me take them off tonight… I never want to return to the land of $1 socks again.

Well, it was just before 5:00 in the AM on a Sunday. All the lights in the house were still on, and the last guest has just left. AJ doesn’t count, he had just went upstairs to pass out on the futon.

In the thick of it, there were over 30 people packed into this de-house-party-virginized party-house. There were approximately 50 guests total, although I think only about 3/4th of the ~40 evite “In like flynn” recipients were in actual attendance. (I should do the actual numbers on that). I would have thought it would be more crowded with that many people, but only about 4 people ended up using the upstairs chill-out room — and only for like half an hour, max.

On ICQ this afternoon, Ryan agreed that the house was small, but “snaky”, so as to easily fit lots of people.

Toward the end there, Nate was getting pretty drunk. His “I (heart) my penis.” t-shirt wins the “best dressed” award.

I was in a daze the entire night. I had just tried some of the irish cream that was a housewarming gift. (someone else opened it, which was just fine, really.) My teeth were coated with the stuff. (It’s good, but I don’t think it’s quite as good as bailey’s.) What with all the house-warming alcohol gifts, I think we ended the party with more than we started. This is especially true of beer. Before party: 8 cans of Guiness. After party: nearly a whole fridge-shelf full of crappy bottled beer. (Laura exclaims: “What do you mean? There’s newcastle!”)

The party was decidedly a success.

We may do it again just after christmas. We probably won’t buy as much shit next time, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to clean for 7 hours straight again… ever.

Of course, we won’t have to unpack as many boxes next time either.

I locked the door, headed upstairs, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. The end.

well, the party is tomorrow. The mouse smell has, inextricably, disappeared. The house is much cleaner than it was (although we anticipate spending all day tomorrow cleaning). It’s friday afternoon, close to quittin’ time, and I just ate (a very late) lunch. I feel good.

I’ve been feeling jittery about the party. I shared this with at least one of you already (sorry peter), but this morning I woke up and started imagining disaster scenarios. Maybe this is a sign I’m not suppose to host parties, I don’t know.

Basically, I was walking around upstairs in my room, which has a creaky floor. I suddenly had this vivid scenario run through my head where the “breaking the elevator by trying to see how many people we can fit in it” thing happened to our house. My room was full of people, and suddenly it collapsed. (Strangely, I didn’t imagine all the people in the kitchen downstairs crushed and dying, just the ones upstairs falling to their deaths. But even more chilling was the rest of the horrific fantasy, where we lived out the rest of the winter with giant opaque plastic sheets between the livingroom and the snow outside. *shudder*

I have to clarify that I was not consciously fantasizing about this. It was more like one of those dreams you have while just waking up. After you’ve opened your eyes, but before your brain makes that jump into consciousness.

The evidence is impressive!

An interesting article about David Sedaris at Chicklit.

I feel dumb for not remembering where, exactly, but at least twice in the last week, (I think once was in this month’s Wired) I’ve read articles about individuals making technology predictions. In both instances, the individuals were referred to as futurists.

Well, along about 2 years ago, I was calling what I wanted to be when I grew up a futurist. I wanted to be the one making these spectacular predictions about the future! (And then I wanted to write novels based on those predictions, which I still want to do, but that’s for another blog entry.) The point is, I found a webpage about the futurist movement. When you call someone a futurist, by dictionary definition (one of them) you’re calling them an adherent of that movement. Unless you’re a racist, chances are you do not want to be associated with that movement. I stopped calling myself a futurist.

Consider this a segue. (But not a segway.)

I’ve been reading Steven Johnson’s blog this last week, and he linked to two different future-predicting articles today. Connectland got me all worked up about seamless technology and transparent UI. I’m a sucker for that transparent tech argument. I can’t wait until all that’s left is to think about what I want to do, rather than how I want/have to do it. The other one was Doug Miller’s blog post about his library of the future. It made me want to buy a palm or something, just to read e-books! The point is, I now have two new blogs to read regularly.

I’ve managed to dress the same as two other co-workers today, so at our boss’s insistence, we took pictures. Of course, even if I had access to these pictures, no way in hell would I post them.

The office is being shaped-up (read thrown into disarray) due to impending visits from big clients. For some reason, this involved shuffling everyone’s seating arrangements. My new cube has a window that faces south (instead of east) and now I can’t leave the blinds open without squinting. Oh yeah, and they’re also incapable of moving my phone, so now it’s the only thing at my old desk, and I go over there every few hours to see if anyone has called me. (ETA on the phone move is Friday. :P)

At a co-worker’s recommendation, I’m listening to The Pizza Tapes, which is the last recording session with Gerry Garcia. It’s pretty good folk, actually. Not really what I expected, but then I was pretty open to whatever. (I’m not a big fan.) Believe it or not, I needed a break from Lali Puna. (six tracks later, I think my break is nearly up — this is a long cd.)

I won tix to see the new Bond movie tonight. Nobody really seems to trust my taste in movies but me, so I’m not promising to post a review or anything, just stating the fact. (or e-babbling.)

One of my favorite words is Flibbertigibbet. I’ve particularly admired it since I first saw it used in the movie Joe vs the Volcano. I don’t know what this has to do with anything, but if I were a female, and I could verb the word, I’d be flibbertigibbetting right now.

One mouse to eat the poison. One mouse to die then. One mouse to smell behind the wall… and in the kitchen gag them.

Nate bought the new Fellowship of the Ring DVD, so I’m all in dramatic fantasy mode… I’ve also had a few too many cups of Bailey’s, and now that I think of it, this may be my first snuckered blog post…

Last time the mouse was dead behind the refrigerator. Nate and I have already moved said refrigerator, and not found the damn thing. It smells. Hopefully we’ll find the carcas before the party next week, otherwise, we’ll be investing in some kind of incense… I just hope it’s strong enough.

Last night was the new Harry Potter & the Chamber of Secrets movie, midnight at the MOA. I thought it was good, but it seemed to aim at a bit younger audience than the previous one. There were a bunch of girls actually dressed up in Hogwarts robes, which I thought was awesome, but otherwise, less festivity than the midnight showing of the first one. I didn’t see any reporters until after the movie was out.

On the way home, we talked about how slow the characters talked in some scenes, which is contrary to this article about how sitcoms are increasing word-per-minute rates because it’s thought to appeal to a younger audience. (Link courtesy of Seth, who was in the car for the discussion.)

In cubeland news, someone higher up has decided that because there are clients visiting next week, our cubes should be mixed and matched, shuffled like a deck of cards, and somehow (inextricably) cleaned at the same time. No big deal, I guess, but I have work to do, and packing things up, moving 20 feet and unpacking again is going to cut into that valuable billable time. Damn the fates and their lack of administrative prowess! Why couldn’t we do this last week, when I was able to read blogs 90 percent of the time?