the party starts promptly at genius o'clock
If you and a friend were thinking about splitting three bottles of wine between the two of you, let me just say that I tried it out yesterday, just for you, sort of like a wet dry run, and while it will make you cheerful and loquacious it's a bit bad for the brain. LT and I pretended it was a Friday night, sitting at the dining room table in the dark, drinking wine, and talking about stuff, but really it was Thursday night. Damn it. I seem to have escaped the main hangover symptoms, except that now I have the loquaciousness (loquaciosity?) without the cheerfulness (cheerfulonia?). I also have weird pansexual urges, on the train I kept wanting to put my mouth on things for the sheer sensual enjoyment of it, and if this keeps up I'll be licking my keyboard by the end of the day. My god, I'm even getting all worked up about fasciated stems.
Best way to start a sentence: “Kenneth Fitzgerald, an attorney for The Chicken….”
Ever since I adopted a penguin from the Lincoln Park Zoo (his name is Rod, and he's the largest and most hyperactive rockhopper in the exhibit: if you're in Chicago, go and visit him!) I get tons of mail from them. The best so far was yesterday when they sent a letter detailing the improvements that are scheduled to be made to the zoo in the upcoming months. According to the letter, they are going to remodel the petting zoo and put in a “goat contact area.” Yippee! I loves me some goat contact! Three! Two! One! GOAT CONTACT!
All of downtown smells like cake batter today. And there are new, and baffling, anti-terrorism signs in the subway, reminding you that terrorism in the subway is a crime, and they say “All threats or hoaxes—whether real or implied—will be prosecuted by the CTA to the fullest extent of the law.” The idea of an implied hoax is rather the mindfuck.
Cool article about being double-tongued.
I've always thought that people should have a (preferably laminated) checklist card with what they like to do in bed. It would save you from finding out about someone's penchant for fisting or yen for grandma porn late in the sexual game, so to speak. I'm still working on implementing that idea, but here's an insanely detailed relationship questionnaire specifically for polyamorous folk. File under P for pedantic.
I was cleaning out my wallet and noticed that my CPR certification has expired. I don't think I'll renew it. I am unclear on exactly why I took the CPR class in the first place; I think it was just a nice way to spend an afternoon away from the office. I remember the dummies, though. The CPR dummies (I wonder if they resent that term?) are now a lot more spare and utilitarian than the old-skool Resusci-Annie mannequin: ours were mostly just a head, torso, and a set of plastic-bag “lungs.” It came in a kit and you had to rubber-band the lungs to the torso and attach the head, and the instructor kept referring to this as “assembling the victim.” I kept thinking that, in most real-world instances of using CPR, the victim would probably come pre-assembled. One would hope.
—mimi smartypants is resting comfortably.