*ho ho hum.

I don't know what's happening to me lately, what's sucking every sprightly molecule from my soul and making the thought of having to create something—anything—feel like a Herculean effort.

Though if I had to guess, I'd probably blame it on that pesky job o' mine, with all its "duties" and "tasks" and "expectations of productivity."

I do know that I am lucky to have a job, any job, pesky or otherwise, and I can't in good conscience overlook its perks: I haven't purchased a cosmetics item in the seven years I've worked here, preferring to greedily pocket all sundry giveaways of eyeshadows, nail polishes, and face cleansers. This means sometimes settling for DayGlo shades better suited to '80s costume parties or '90s raves, but I prefer to approach the world with an aggressive "What? It's a statement" rather than actually spend money on makeup.

I also tote home weird crap, which I generally dump on TFin and JBSH with a self-satisfied grin and the hopes that they'll forgive my randomness in favor of my great generosity. I'm all, "Look! An oyster shucker!" and they pat me on my head and shove the sharp object into the darkest recesses of the nearest junk drawer.

Today, though, there were cupcakes. Possible fodder for an upcoming story on coconut, I believe. And though I am not an avid coconut eater, nor an avid sweets eater, nor an avid frosting lover, I ate the damned thing because it was pretty. This is unrelated to the numbers on my scale, I feel comfortably certain.



Isn't that delovely? It was even nicer in person, for the 10 minutes it lasted before I hoovered it. Like a glossy hill sprinkled with snowdrifts by a heavy hand. Just right for the season.

You know, on the Woodside. Where it's currently 68 degrees and foggy.

Because when TFin and JBSH put their tree up before Thanksgiving, they had no worries that it would dry out.



Santa sails into Alabama on a wave of 94% humidity.