-Don't call her your wife. We can tell. -Give a travel-based reason for the stay. You are passing through or here for business or on your way west. We only ask so we can make sure you're not having a medical appointment with a doctor who has a negotiated rate with us. -We can tell when someone is receiving a blow job. It neither shocks nor titillates us. It just makes us feel weary. -No, really. We can tell. Told you. -It is never worth it in the long run. -Always ask for two queens. No wet spots, some small amount of deniability. -Misspell your name very slightly and blame us. Or give a different middle initial, or go by your middle name. -Prepaid debit cards foul up the works. Most hotels do not accept them. -You are neither as common nor as unique as you think.
Thank you for not nonconsensually roping us into your sex life. Remember to tip your chambermaid. Do not flush condoms. Do not leave condoms in the sheets. Wrap them in toilet paper as if they are sanitary supplies and throw them in the wastebasket.
I was thinking of hitchhiking, but, although I'm not scared, that's a lot to ask of some kind stranger when it's not an emergency.
A cab/ Uber would cost about $150.
Public transit is not an option.
ETA: okay, I can do this. Eight miles of walking, four transfers, six-hour total transit time. If I DO show up at the con, you are invited to think a moment before you call me a "fake geek." I am an imaginary geek. There's a difference.
I woke up from a dream where Katie was calling my coconut pie from 17 years ago "problematic," because it was a banana creme pie, but had overtones of cinnamon, flavors of coconut, and even a few shreds of carrot, and the various flavor combinations were distracting. I said it really did not sound like my pie at all. Nevertheless, an horchata creme pie, or a sweet carrot pie, maybe in a cinnamon shoofly or chess pie base, sounds AMAZING.
I am pleased to announce that I have gotten my underwear to work with the polka-dot dress. Also, the dress, which was flatteringly-but-worrisomely snug in some places,has loosened up considerably. Either the "pound a week" thing is working, or I'm infested with fabric-creating gnomes. Both possibilities seem impossible and delightful.
Current Music:"This Is How It Feels," South Pacific
So much to do, and so little time left. (Yes, this includes replying to thoughtful replies to my LJ comments.)
I gave in and got some caffeine. I hate, hate, hate how dependent I am upon stimulants to break free of the paralyzing effects of ADHD, but I hate the effects of ADHD paralysis worse. I feel an old friend murmuring in the back of my head "a suitable spouse will have no addictions, and coffee and cigarettes count," and I hold out a copy of Infinite Jest turned to the page of the old addicts laughing at that notion at their recovery groups, and I grit my teeth and remind myself that this is medication of a legitimate condition, and my own self-definition of addiction*. I also point to all the unquestionably healthy things I do to fight off ADHD and make coffee or large doses of tea a "last stand" product of maximum potency.
Yet I still feel like a broken and defeated subhuman who can't adult if a stupid alkaloid doesn't get out and push, on occasion.
*I feel that a lot of people's definition of addiction doesn't really draw a line between the DT's that will kill you when you stop taking alcohol without medical support and the insulin withdrawal that will also kill you if you stop shooting up. In my mind, the difference is the problem with one was caused by the use/ improper use of one, versus the net problems being reduced by the other, and the treatment problem still being there and getting worse if you don't medicate. The brainweasels would like me to tell you that I consider myself addicted to: synthetic thyroid hormone, water, food, oxygen, and exercise sufficient to ward off major arthritis flares, but I would like to add that when I hear myself starting to beat myself up for this, I know I need to turn bass down on the "crazy" boombox in my head and listen to a bunch of, God help me, Louise Hay.
I am working a much earlier shift than usual today. I thought I would get a walk in before dark, but my cat decided it was snuggle time, so I am eating Count Chocula and seeing what Warner Herzog movies are on Netflix Instant Gratification. I feel pretty good about my life.
For my E.C. costume, my lovely daughter highlighted my hair. I am quite pleased with it, even though I am definitely showing my age in it. NOTHING wrong with being my age, though. It's quite a pleasant age to be. Pic after cut.
If you want to know how that affected me, well, I woke up from a dream wherein I'd gotten written up for gesturing like a choir director telling the choir to fade to quiet, woke up, and groggily thought, "Well, there's no way for work to know about my write-up. I'd better call them and tell them to put it on my record."