Rotate the foodstuffs!

I'm sitting here on my bed reading blogs, wearing boxers and a long-sleeved T-shirt.  Somehow this feels very New England to me.  IT's not the boxers as such, nor the long-sleeved T-shirt, it's more of the short-bottoms-plus-long-top combination.  It's always felt like an upper-class Yankee thing to me, all crab cakes at the Hyannisport Club with Buffy and Sport Jr. and did we remember to pack the extra pairs of sandals and light sweaters for our trip to the French Midi this weekend?  I'm weird, I know.

My mommy bought me shirts!  Heh.  There was a package waiting for me when I got home from the conference; Mom had gone to Beall's during a sale and bought me 5 dress shirts for under $10 apiece. I had mentioned that I might have to *gasp* invest in slightly more grown-up clothing, since it's not terribly professional to show up to teach in cargo shorts and some Tshirt I got for free eons ago, so I guess she decided to take matters into her own hands.  She knows me pretty well, actually: she stuck with the dark, rich colors.  Only misstep was a maroon light sweater with strange texturing, not to mention a total lack of proper fit.  Now I just need to come up with some pants I like, since I pretty much despise every pair of them that I own, jeans excepted.

Kregg came in just now to complain further about hair in the bathroom.  This, after he knocked on the bathroom door during my shower, necessitating me shutting off the water entirely to be able to hear him, just to tell me to PLEASE wipe out the bathtub.  I realized when he said that that I had forgotten to do so yesterday, having been out of the routine for a few days, which is my bad, but... timing?  Now, though, we have apparently expanded our madness to include all surfaces in the bathroom, which are apparently covered in my filthy hu-man hair.  "Like, your towel hangs over the toilet, so whatever falls off it ends up on the back of the toilet."  I pointed out, pointedly, the liberal coating on the entire sink area of small hairs from his clippers, which frankly is rather grosser than hair in the tub.  I'm not putting things in my eyes from the tub area, nor am I sticking my face down to within centimeters of the tub to see myriad trimmings pasted to the faucet like panko crumbs on coconut shrimp.  We agreed to both work at it.  I still think the hair obsession (with blind eye to other cleanliness markers, like the endemic soap scum) is symptomatic of serious mental skewedness, but I'm going with it to prevent major altercations.  Right here, though, among friends, I'd like to say: I am a hairy motherfucker.  I shed.  Deal.  It's not like I collect it and sprinkle it on your pillow like some kind of hair fairy.

Also, while I'm bitching?  Dear vapid blonde chicks in the driveway two houses down at 3:30 in the morning last night, what the fuck is wrong with you?  I shouldn't have to put on clothes, exit my house, walk down the street, and tell you to turn down the music from the car that's been idling in the driveway for an hour or so, because the bass is coming across loud and clear enough that I can't read, much less sleep.  And in the unfortunate event that this should become necessary, the appropriate response from the girl sitting in the front seat is not "This isn't my car."  I give a fuck, seriously.  Turn down the music, or even better, go home!  Go to bed!  It's 3:30 on a Thursday night, and you're in a neighborhood with families!  Don't you have anything to do tomorrow?  And if you don't, did you miss out on those years in childhood when you were supposed to have learned basic social skills and respect for others?  I really don't get it.  Next time I'm not even getting out of bed, I'm just reaching over to my cell phone and mentioning a noise violation to the police.  Maybe a visit from somebody in a uniform will knock some sense into your idiot heads.

Christ, I need to actually do something productive today.  First thing's first: food.  I have none, and have eaten none.  This is not a good recipe for shit-getting-done-ness.