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Thursday, Two days until Lyndon is off to Boston. He's spending the intervening time having tests done at various hospitals -- he's had stomach problems since we've gotten here due to the fact that 1) he's lactose intolerant and 2) Swedes have a genetic tendency to be very lactose tolerant, which means 3) they use lactose as a sweetener in practically everything. Bread, cookies, dairy products, instant mash, prepared foods, you name it, all absolutely laced with the stuff. No wonder his tum has been sounding like Mt. St. Helen's. Poor pookie. So his doctor is testing to find out just how lactose intolerant he is, and then they'll work up some sort of Sweden-specific diet, which should make cooking something of an adventure. But hey, I've been thinking of branching out in the culinary arts anyway -- this will just give me more of an impetus. Of course, the beloved's departure to Beantown leaves Tina and me on our own until next week or so. Tomorrow's payday and she's showing definite signs of cabin fever -- maybe we'll dress up all in black and go to that leather club in Näcka again. I'm feeling exceedingly wild and crazy, and I want to get out there and dance. I want to drink complicated cocktails and sing Melissa Etheridge songs to a cheering crowd. I want to stagger home just as the sun's coming up. I want to. . . No, no, no, can't say that, Mel, it's not nice, even though it's true. But I can think about it, and make everyone wonder at the slight smile on my face. But all of that must wait until the weekend. As I type, the snow is coming down again, fine but very heavy. I knew it was too good to last. It doesn't matter anyway -- as usual, I've left stuff until the deadline was looming over me, so Mellikins will be working late tonight, trying to put together a cogent WINE presentation that explains to TBS customers just why they really need to do some background work and find out what goes into their product and whether its presence in a garbage dump some twenty years down the line will cause the birth of two-headed babies in the surrounding area before they make a materials declaration. Such fun.
Hey, I never said I made sense. And yes, I'm a slut for perky, sexy dance tunes (The Romantics' "What I Like About You" will probably be able to rouse me from my coffin, if played at the appropriate decibels). In that case, maybe I should keep Affirmation at work and Is This Desire at home -- if nothing else, I'd be guaranteed to entertain the guys in the factory building across from mine while I dance like a dervish around my office. |
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Oooh. I just realized that I am living a life of contradiction. At work, I'm listening to PJ Harvey Is This Desire. At home, my Mac is currently holding Savage Garden's Affirmation in its CD-ROM holder.