(no subject)

Okay, this SAG Awards business is pretty unspeakably cool. As if I don't go to enough screenings already, I'm not gtting passes for nominated thigns and even screener DVDs in some cases. Amazingly, these are by and large for films I never got to the screenings of first time around due to my schedule, so I will in fact be catching up on The Departed, The Queen, Babel and LIttle Miss Sunshine at no cost to me.

Meanwhile, I'm about to go see Letters from Iwo Jima (still not in the mood) so I can write that review late tonight when I get home from Contra dancing. Then tomorrow will be teh day of many jobs. I don't like to go into the office on Sundays, but it makes far more sense this week than to do it today as I usually would.

Last night I was pretty sick to my stomach, but, and this is the exciting part. It wasn't a celiac thing. I just ate something that didn't agree with me, which is a very different sort of pain. And, sadly, this was good and exicitng news.

I am really, really enjoying 2007 so far. there's some internal tug of war stuff going on -- there always is -- but it's been an astoundingly realization of all of my fanficul lives so far this year and it's only the bloody 13th!

laundry science

So I did my laundry yesterday. In the bag coming back, I put my green Indian suit, still damp, next to a bunch of white shirts. All of the white shirts are fine, but one, which is covered with dye from the suit, eventhough the suit didn't shed dye onto anything else. What's up with that? I am consoling myself by saying that shirt was getting too tight in the arms anyway, but finding white shirts (which I love) that I don't hate, is an ordeal and this is seriously, seriously, irksome to me. My fencing shirts are thankfully pristine, but this thing is splattered with green and gold. Which come to think of it, does sort of put this in a "I know what I did to deserve this" category. Grrrrrr.

And I have no idea what to wear to the damn contra dance tonight, and no idea why I seem to be exhibiting self-restraint about it. Okay, fuck self-restraint, but I really wish the dry-cleaner wouldn't put creases into my billowy sleaves.