Pants!

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Yeah, this image really grosses me out.  But there you go... Spaghetti pants.

Punchline first, then joke.

My sister: Do you want to come over and get a pizza and watch tv?
Me: no, I'm anxious and I wouldn't be comfortable. I just want to be at home where I can do my stuff.
My sister: Ok.  I hope you get the ants out of your pants.
Me: Imma put these ants in YOUR pants.
My sister: Ok!
My sister: Pants!
My sister: Spaghetti!
Me: You're spaghetti pants!
My sister: I like that one.

So, clearly I have been shirking my responsibilities with this blog.  Meanwhile I have been focusing on tumblr, which requires less typing.  And before you think about how LAZY that is, think about tendonitis.  I think it's been exacerbated by packing and moving big boxes of books.

Mr. Cereal and I are planning on cohabitation.  In a deconsecrated church.  In upstate New York.  When I put it like that it sounds an awful lot like squatting.  But it's not.  The place we're going to live is really beautiful, and I will have enough room to DO things, like making things, and organizing things.  I'm really excited. 
I am less excited about all the moving and the packing.  I love my books.  They seem to love me a lot less.  Unless they are into sadism, in which case they are showing their love the only way they know how.

This is my bad time of year.  This is the time of year where I want to hole up and do nothing but hibernate.  So having to DO THINGS like organize, pack, look for a new job, look for a new car, organize a car loan, be pleasant, leave the house, all of it is draining and daunting, and TIRING.  I'm freaking exhausted all the time.
But not too tired to call my awesome sister spaghetti pants.

Jeans are a type of trousers

Today's trousers: unsuitable for work, but I am wearing them anyway.  I'm a rebel! 
They are green, with patches.  PATCHES.  (I did not, despite my sewing prowess, install the patches myself.  They came pre-installed.  A strange concept.)

 

Now, part of my quiet and insubstantial rebellion at work is that I am in pain.  I'm in a little physical pain, and a little emotional pain, and a little existential pain.  I'M IN A LITTLE PAIN.  And so I express my pain in a healthly manner, like wearing inappropriate clothing and turning up for work JUST on time (not early! take that, work!).

This is a face in pain.

And not just because of the birds' nest hair going on. 

Anyway. Mr. Cereal has a sewing project for me-- something I have not attempted ever!-- jeans.  I'm a bit worried, but more because I see it as a challenge.  Luckily there is a ton of help on the internet.  And Mr. Cereal seems to believe I can do it.  (Though his words last night were less encouraging-- "you're my only hope!")  Ah, worth a try.  And I do like to have a project.  Plus, success would be incredible.  And jeans are, after all, a type of TROUSERS....

(I just can't say PANTS.  Pants = underpants.)

Not my monkey

This is not my monkey

This, also, is not my monkey

Brilliant!  I love Polish! I love Poland! I love pierogi!
I love the fact that the phrase is "not my circus, not my monkey!"  I will be practicing saying it in Polish.

You may not know this, but as Scotland had an influx of Polish people in the early 2000s, some people learned some Polish phrases.  I was one of them.  I can say hello, how are you, thank you.  And now I can say, "not my circus, not my monkey."  Watch out, Polish bouncers, prepare to have your socks and/or trousers&pants knocked off!