Slush, Sloth and Stamos

     My day started out productive (I taught, then filled out a quiz evaluation and turned in the final copy of a quiz I'd written and made transparencies for next week, then came home and wrote a letter of recommendation.), then sloped down into sloth territory when I started watching "Buffy" and "Frasier" episodes in my room while snacking the afternoon away (I'm being relatively healthy, though, e.g. carrots and fat-free veggie dip and baked chips!).  

     During my period of slovenliness, a building maintenance worker came by to change my air filter, while I stood awkwardly in the kitchen clipping apart those plastic rings that hold pop cans together.  Our "conversation" was one of those social/asocial moments when you talk to someone who is performing a service for you, and you don't know much about his field, but he feels he has to talk to you as if you do (guys are good at this and are generally more willing to play along).  So, the repair man showed me my lint-laden air filter, declaring that it sure needed replacing, and I laughed agreeably and continued standing about awkwardly.  At some point he informed me that it was "too nice a day" to be cooped up inside, and, consequently, I felt like more than a shut-in than usual.  If your repairman thinks you're a shut-in, you have a problem.

     I did go out eventually with some friends, and had some pretty awesome thai food followed by a couple of drops of alcohol that led to my general insanity unleashing itself on (un?  no, probably not)suspecting victims.  I remember quite vividly gesturing wildly in attempt to explain the embodiment of hunkiness and sex appeal that is John Stamos (I ushered for the Beach Boys last summer, and Stamos played with the band.  I have no words by the way I was affected by that man's presence on stage!).

     There is slush and there are puddles all over the ground here!  Great, the snow is melting, it's getting warmer, but (a) I was wearing a huge puffy coat and boots and was still shaking in the cold, and (b) no matter how dirty/salt-encrusted my Uggs already were, I hate getting them even more mussed up by virtually unavoidable mud puddles. (c) I am no longer weirded out by the fact that I own Uggs, but I sometimes wonder if other people judge me for my contribution to the Ugg-wearing population (d) Maybe the judgers will see my salt-encrusted take on the Ugg fashion realize how "tragically hip" and "edgy" I am.  (e) I don't think many people care--these boots have become so widespread that they're pretty much the Mead five-star of winter footwear.  (f) I don't really care anyway.