1. Something long-awaited arrived in the mail this week. No, it was not the winter White House Black Market catalog, nor was it a check from Publisher's Clearinghouse...this was...my massage therapy license!! Almost exactly 1 year and 8 months after I applied for it. And approximately 5 months after I began my sabbatical from massage therapy. That means, I started and ended (temporarily) a career before the official documentation ever got here. That has to be a new personal best. Now, to re-assure all of the rule-followers who read this, I did have a license number and have had since before I started practicing professionally because, I too, am an avid rule-follower. But I didn't have the pretty piece of paper with Kentucky's seal to back it up. And even though I harassed the holy living hell out of the gentleman at the KY Board of Licensure, he failed to ever follow through with my request. I understand a backlog...but seriously. And state workers wonder how they got the reputation that they now have. It's a mystery...
2. Apparently, when sung, Queen of Hearts sounds AMAZINGLY like Queen of Farts. Yes, I'm 10...but if that didn't at least make you smile a little, then you've lost all childlike quality and that makes Peter Pan sad.
3. Come to find out, after reading an article in the New York Times, I share my birthday with the Ft. Hood shooter. While people will not forever link September 8th with a murderer (as people do with my unfortunate friend whose birthday falls on 9/11), it still bothers me. It's a good thing I don't believe in astrology and numbers and all of that...oh wait...I do get pretty Hooah, Hooah about being a Virgo. Yeah, strike that. I'm bothered.
4. What I learned last weekend about moving a hoarder:
- Wear clothes that you are willing to donate to Goodwill when it's all over
- Use gloves that you don't mind to trash when it's all over
- People will voluntarily live in the most absolute filth without a second thought. This will make you go home and clean your house like Monk just moved in.
- I thought I had a deep-seeded disgust for men who repeatedly call me "sweetie", "hun", and "darlin". As it turns out, if they are willing to move awkward and unwieldy furniture so that I don't have to, I am infinitely tolerant.
- Conversely, I have ever-lessening tolerance for men who cannot lift anything due to a bad back, knees, elbow..whatever..and choose to instead stand in the path, chain-smoke cigarettes and make inappropriate comments about how big my arms are (yes, they're big. Thanks for pointing out my struggle against The Curse of Fitted Sleeves.)
Now I'm off to finish preparing for tomorrow night's festivities: The Brain Injury Association of Kentucky's Brain Ball. I have created an all-Swarovski crystal necklace and earrings set, which I will sell right off of my body if someone is interested. Check or cash and it can be yours.