(no subject)

I am totally in the middle of slow-cooking a pot roast. Steph and Ryan will be by soon enough to assist in the consumption. I imagine that the usual amounts of copious alcohol consumption and general hilarity will ensue. This is, you know, my first pot roast. We may -need- all the alcohol to get it down.
Dear boys in Seattle: I am such a catch. Please react accordingly. Not that I have any free time for you.
Have I mentioned recently that Douglas Coupland will be here in 2 1/2 weeks to be lovely and canadian and totally fucking awesome? Because he will. Anyone want me to throw their underwear at him or anything?

It's raining and homey and only 3:30. It smells like pot roast in here, and I can't decide if I want to spend the rest of my afternoon knitting or gluing things together. I have medicated my headache into submission. This one's been going since Friday, and it's probably a good thing I'm going to the doctor on Wednesday to see what is up.

(no subject)

Alright, so most of you missed this on Thanksgiving, but it appears that, when drunk, Steph and I are attracted to hunks of meat. Seriously. There is no longer any meat left in this apartment when the two of us are drunk.
I only say this because the pot roast is gone. Totally. And at 7:00--two bottles of wine and a quarter of a bottle of Malibu ago--there was half of it left.

Not that I'm drunk. Or that it's taken twice as long to type this post as it normally does.