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In the end I went with the bank that was currently offering the most substantial bribe, and used part of it to actualize the metaphorical toaster. Which means that I've just spent the last 8 hours getting fuck-all done while I was waiting around for UPS, and also that I have managed to inflict upon y'all the linguistic violence of "actualize the metaphorical toaster", which Google believes may well be a unique achievement. Product notes on the actualized toaster possibly to follow once I'm hungry enough to be arsed to find some bread.
In other observations, I was apparently one of the few people who bothered to show up for yesterday's primary. I voted for the shrink, because god knows Congress needs one, but alas, the universe did not agree that this was funny. I had actually gone to the trouble of dragging myself and Mum out a couple of weekends ago to a 'candidate forum', where we sat for three hours in backache-inducing chairs to get at least some vague idea of who any of the two dozen candidates were in the first place (the guy who won the Green nomination was actually wearing a sweater-vest!) and in exchange infected several with my cold, so I am now in the privileged position to report that this Quigley dude is a girly-man who can't get the cap off a water-bottle but was nice enough to go and fetch a Little Old Lady a replacement and doesn't appear to be actively insane, so I suppose I can live with the result. (Although I reserve the right to call him "Quiggles".) Oh, and my pink hair was on telly the other day when they showed a clip of the event. So, go me and my recognizable coiffure.
And a rant I've been meaning to work myself up enough to remember why I cared in the first place: I ended up having to sit through the last hour and some of "Stephen King's Storm of the Century" the other day when I couldn't convince Mum that she'd seen it before (we have these arguments frequently, and they usually end with her acknowledging that after it's too late and I've had to sit through something for the third time that I was never interested in in the first place) and I got to musing that one could in fact have made an interesting if very different movie if the payoff had turned out to be that all the lottery stones were white and the point had been to show up what fools these mortals be. But Rod Serling is dead, and so is a general audience's capacity to appreciate subtle irony a la "The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street", apparently.
Now, to clip the cat's claws, because she is stuck to my blanket and looking rather distressed. Such is the never-ending whirlwind.
In other observations, I was apparently one of the few people who bothered to show up for yesterday's primary. I voted for the shrink, because god knows Congress needs one, but alas, the universe did not agree that this was funny. I had actually gone to the trouble of dragging myself and Mum out a couple of weekends ago to a 'candidate forum', where we sat for three hours in backache-inducing chairs to get at least some vague idea of who any of the two dozen candidates were in the first place (the guy who won the Green nomination was actually wearing a sweater-vest!) and in exchange infected several with my cold, so I am now in the privileged position to report that this Quigley dude is a girly-man who can't get the cap off a water-bottle but was nice enough to go and fetch a Little Old Lady a replacement and doesn't appear to be actively insane, so I suppose I can live with the result. (Although I reserve the right to call him "Quiggles".) Oh, and my pink hair was on telly the other day when they showed a clip of the event. So, go me and my recognizable coiffure.
And a rant I've been meaning to work myself up enough to remember why I cared in the first place: I ended up having to sit through the last hour and some of "Stephen King's Storm of the Century" the other day when I couldn't convince Mum that she'd seen it before (we have these arguments frequently, and they usually end with her acknowledging that after it's too late and I've had to sit through something for the third time that I was never interested in in the first place) and I got to musing that one could in fact have made an interesting if very different movie if the payoff had turned out to be that all the lottery stones were white and the point had been to show up what fools these mortals be. But Rod Serling is dead, and so is a general audience's capacity to appreciate subtle irony a la "The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street", apparently.
Now, to clip the cat's claws, because she is stuck to my blanket and looking rather distressed. Such is the never-ending whirlwind.