PERMANENT RECORD

This is turning into one of those lame-o blogs where I just pop in occasionally to say, "hey guys!" and prove that I haven't forgotten about it. On the up side, though, everyone else seems to be just as crazyass busy lately, so perhaps it's not just me.

And don't think the irony of "hey guys!" is lost on me.

Lots to talk about, not much time in which to talk about it. Presently, my overriding emotion is that I am every-so-vaguely miffed that I have slowly and inexorably become engaged for every single lunch this week, and now it's going to be ANOTHER week before I get to the Furniture Exchange to see if they have any likely antique-y prospects, which, after all my scheming to get there while they're actually open, they probably don't.

I have several trenchant political rants to post one of these days. One hopes that when that happens, they'll not have lost entirely all of their trenchantness. Unless several portions of the country, most specifically Washington, D.C., spontaneously fold up and sink beneath the Earth's crust, though, I think I'm safe.

Shud ub, ad leab be alode.

I'm a miserable, twitching, raw-nosed wreck. I'm experiencing a throwback to the allergies of my youth, and it ain't pretty. After having been lulled into a sense of security by several successive years of minor allergies vanquished by applications of Sudafed, Tylenol, and most recently, OTC Claritin, nothing seems to be working. I'm horribly afraid it's going to get worse before it gets better.

I remember one year, in high school, I couldn't wear my contacts because my eyes were so irritated there was literally a film over each eye. A FILM, PEOPLE. How did I discover said film? Oh, in the grossest way imaginable -- by peeling it off my eye!!!! Thinking I had ripped the contact and missed part of it!!! I peeled a FILM of MUCOUS off my EYE!!!! And it GREW BACK!!!! Oh, thinking about it makes me want to go fetal.

Anyway, I'm thinking about contacting an allergist. Problem is, CJM and I don't even have a family doctor. So how does one go about finding a specialist? Crack open the yellow pages? I mean, I guess that's where I'll start. I wonder if my health insurance covers treatment of NASTY EYE FILM. Here's hoping we can nip this in the bud before it comes to that.

You look so CUTE!

Okay, okay, it wasn't so bad after all. I know. No really, shut up.

I did, at one point, have this conversation:

Her: You look so CUTE!

Me: So do YOU!!!

And then, I died a little inside.

No, I actually found a couple of work/law school friends to go with, both of whom were just as wary as I was. So we swooped in together, mingled and wined together, and swooped out. And I did see some other people that I knew; we actually had a pretty good time.

The ratio of twee purses in that room, though....

That's Sphincter-riffic!

I'm really just checking in; work continues to be work. Home continues to be home.

This evening, I don my best social camouflage and mingle with the other new Junior Leaguers. I'm frankly rather terrified at the prospect. My reasons for getting involved in the JL are many, and that's a topic for another day, as I'm not feeling up to defending myself right now.

Suffice it to say that I am going to smile and chat and try to get out of there as quickly as possible. I hate mixers. I know it won't be as bad as I think; hell, I may even have a good time. I'm just so dismally bad at small talk. And, yes, as stupid as it is, a lot of these women frighten me. I'm just me, you know? I'm not fabulously wealthy (most of them are not, but you wouldn't know it), I appreciate nice clothes and accessories, but I'm not up on the VERY LATEST in monogrammed purses and Lily Pulitzer capris. I like a nice glass of wine, but you could tell me it was a Chateau Sphincteur '98 and I'd say, "Oh, yes, it's very nice!" I don't own a David Yurman bracelet, I don't drive a BMW, and I'm not a member of the Racquet Club.

I know I'm engaging in unfair social profiling, but it's really not all that far from the truth. And I just don't know how to relate to a lot of these women on a superficial level. I feel that a lot of them are probably perfectly nice, beneath the manicured exterior. I just... don't know how to interact with them long enough to get underneath all that. I went to a small liberal-arts college, not the same large state college that most of them went to. I didn't know them from church or "the neighborhood" growing up, and I chose not to join a sorority in college. So many of them already know one another and have these bonds and things to talk about -- even if they are silly, superficial bonds and things to talk about, they still have more in common with each other at this point than I do with most of them. So, I'm really dreading walking into this "drop-in" by myself tonight. We'll just see how it goes. I need to stop scaring myself.

Why am I so much more comfortable with Boys?