Iron Fist

Sometimes you’ve just about given up and you console yourself with, “You know, this single thing ain’t as bad as all that, I can totally rock this for the next twenty years or so,” but then the improbable happens and your secret blog crush turns into your imaginary girlfriend and then moves to the Northwest and then I still can’t really explain to people how we met or why it makes sense at all that I should meet someone who lives in California and we should date for months before she moves here (this alternative lifestyle that bloggers live being pretty confusing to others) and anyway, what I’m trying to say here in my ridiculous roundabout way is, Happy Birthday, Sarah. I’m glad that you were born, and that you are in my life now.

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Road trip time!

Today finds me on the road to Vancouver with Sarah and Jenny and Dave and Dustin, where we will take in the sights before completing the preparations for TequilaCon.

For those of you are going to be there — can’t wait to see you!  For those of you who aren’t — d’oh!  Hope I can see you soon!  And for those of you who are all, “Are they still doing the SHARK EXTREME thing?”, look at it this way — it means we’ve stopped making jokes about herpes and goatse.

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Good morning, internets.  This year I got you some wild flowers.

My coworkers, being both lazy and not very good at keeping details straight, decided to recycle the half dozen Mylar birthday balloons gifted to our accounting manager on her birthday at the beginning of the month by taping them to my cubicle walls.  This is pretty annoying, but they got bent out of shape when I took a scissors to the one they had tied to my monitor so I left them up.

Towards the end of the week one of the girls across the way in another department asked when my actual birthday was and how old I was going to be.   “This next Monday,” I said, “and…thirty-two?”  I scratched my head.  I can’t keep track of these things.  “Yeah, that sounds about right.  Thirty-two.”  I shrugged.

“Cool.  I’m turning thirty-one in a few weeks.”

“Oh, sweet!  Stop by my desk later, I’ll give you some pro tips.  I’m pretty good at this thirty-one thing.”  And you know, I guess I am, though this is more by accident than design.  It’s been a pretty good year.

Anyway, here I go around the sun again.  Thirty two, here’s looking at you.

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As I am fond of telling anybody who will listen, I live in the House That Science Forgot, wherein the laws of thermodynamics seem to be suspended so that this place is like a brick oven all through the summer, retaining the heat even at night when the temperature drops outside — yet in the winter it is chronically colder indoors here than out and I occasionally find myself freezing to death.

Right now, for example, I find that I am dripping in sweat from the normally low aerobic impact task of typing out this blog post.  So much so that this is probably as far as this post goes.  So in case anyone gets to wondering what it is I’m up to this week, the answer is:  sweating, profusively and unattractively.  That, and eating strawberries.  If any of you take pity on me and want to send a frozen margarita bucket my way, I will definitely not object.

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Just, you know, busy.  The sun has been out and I have been soaking up as much radiation as I can.  But I admittedly have been slacking off here, even for me.  So, here’s checking in.

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