Pseudotherapy

• I got to work this morning and discovered I had my blouse on inside-out. Seriously? My husband couldn’t have noticed this little flaw in my attire? Okay, it’s just a peasant top, but still. Seams on the OUTSIDE?!?!
• I mentioned awhile back that Pseudotherapy’s design has become butt-ugly to me. I’ve got a concept in mind that I LOVE. However, I am a graphic DESIGNER, not a graphic ARTIST. I have neither the skills nor the talent to create the image I need to build my design around. I finally located a graphic artist whose style is exactly what I’m looking for (and who even has similar images in her portfolio), and contacted her. It’s been three weeks now, and she hasn’t even bothered to reply to my query. I guess that means she’s not interested. Damn. So the search is on again. Any recommendations? (NOT Dave2. I adore his style, but don’t want my blog to look like his blog. We already get mistaken for each other enough as it is. [insert winky here, because they're apparently NOT WORKING]
• Yesterday our VP arrived at work just as I was walking back to my office from the kitchen. He roared into the parking lot in his Porsche, top down, golden surfer-boy hair tossing madly in the wind. Exuberant as always after an early morning on the waves. **SWOON** Yet another benefit of living in California.
• Our youngest cat, Data, is the epitome of a toddler. She had a harsh life before we adopted her, and sometimes has nightmares I suspect stem from her babyhood. Last night she had a particularly bad one, crying out in her sleep loud enough to wake both herself and me. She then jumped into bed between us, and curled herself up in the curve of Bret’s arm, her head resting on his hand. Even though he didn’t wake, she felt safe against Dad. I know the feeling.
• Finally, what can I auction off to raise the money for a trip to Floida in, say, late October?

I don’t understand what people have against memes. In the past couple of years, I’ve read numerous diatribes maligning them. Some bloggers have stated adamantly that “you will never see a meme here!” It always puzzles me. What’s so bad about a meme? Let’s take a look at a few of the complaints.

Memes are for lazy people. Are you kidding me? I’ve done memes that took me hours to complete. I’ve done memes that required me to do research. I’ve also done some that were quick and easy, but so what? Posting a photo in five minutes doesn’t make a blogger lazy; why should posting a quick meme?

Memes don’t tell you anything about someone. HUH? I love the process of getting to know someone, and very few memes have gone around that didn’t give insight into the blogger posting them. Don’t you feel like you know someone a bit better when you’ve seen what kind of music they listen to, or what their favorite movies are, or chuckled at seven weird things about them? For that matter, in my opinion, even what memes a person chooses to participate in tells me something about them!

Memes are boring to your readers. I suppose that depends on the reader. I usually get a decent response to the memes I post, and I always enjoy reading other people’s. Besides, even a “regular” post can be boring if it’s not written well. A good writer makes a meme entertaining and interesting. And I don’t read any bad writers.

Clearly™ I like memes, both as a doer and as a reader. To me, it’s no different than a poker night with your neighbors or playing Scrabble on FaceBook. They are games we play on our blogs. And they are a damn sight more fun than the drama games that often play out in the blogosphere arena.

Speaking of memes, below the fold I’ve got the recent Foods I’ve Eaten meme. Because I want to. Because I have many comments to make thereon. Because it was fun.

[We are grateful to Miss Britt for permission to use the trademarked word Clearly.]

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• Well, it’s looking like maybe I was right about my musical preferences being too off-the-wall. So far, only three people have offered guesses on my music quiz. Remember, you only need two correct guesses to be entered in the drawing for a $20 Amazon card. The deadline is tonight at midnight PDT, so you still have time to play!
• Last Friday, five minutes after dropping me off at work, Bret was stopped at a light when someone plowed into our car from behind. They struck the car so hard it was knocked into the middle of the intersection. Bret has a bad case of whiplash, and the insurance company says they’ll probably call the car totaled, since the repairs would nearly equal what we owe on it. So we may be getting a new car. Pretty cool, since Bret has just quit smoking! The interior of our Sentra looks and smells like a giant ashtray.
• Fellow WordPress users, do you use tags? If so, what benefit do you get from them?

Crap! Forgot to include my sister’s birthday (August 6th) and COMIC-CON!!! [Note to self: No more graphics at midnight.]

Dave Diego artwork created by the legendary David Simmer II

Last Friday I lost my wedding ring. About 11 a.m. I became aware that it wasn’t on my finger. Assuming I’d simply left it on the sink edge when I’d last washed my hands, I didn’t panic. My office has its own private restroom, so I immediately stepped inside fully expecting to see my ring in the soap tray. It wasn’t there.

It also wasn’t on the shelves, or in the cupboard where I keep my toiletries. It wasn’t on top of the soap dispenser or the paper-towel dispenser or the seat cover dispenser. It wasn’t anywhere on the floor. Getting frantic, I took every single thing out of the trash bin, shaking each paper towel in case my ring was wadded up in one. Nothing.

I moved the search to my office itself, systematically giving each section a thorough search. Drawers were emptied, furniture moved, papers shaken, trash bin examined. No luck. Not in the office kitchen either, despite numerous officemates and me working the premises like a crime scene. That’s when I broke.

Oh, I’d been weepy and sniffling for some time, yet still harboring expectations of locating the missing band. But I’d run out of possibilities, and my heart broke with the acknowledgement that my wedding ring was gone. Alone in my disheveled office, I cried myself sick.

This is not my original wedding ring. My first one is a white gold eternity band with channel-set diamonds. About two years into our marriage, I developed an allergy to all metals except stainless/surgical steel. My finger beneath my wedding band became itchy and red, then puckered up in tiny, painful blisters. I tried only wearing the ring for limited times, but soon discovered even one hour would produce the reaction. For several months, I was forced to go ringless. Then my sister sent me a link to Accessory Row, which carries a selection of stainless steel rings. I hoped that would be safe because I could still wear surgical-steel-wired earrings. We ordered a plain band that exactly matches Bret’s wedding band, and I’ve never had a problem wearing it. Because we’re mushy that way, we even made a private little ceremony out of Bret putting it on my finger and saying vows he’d made up specifically for the occasion. So yes, while not the original wedding ring, the one I lost Friday has actually been on my finger longer — and is deeply precious to me.

I cried off and on throughout Friday, and this was not the first time I’ve been grateful to have such a secluded office location. I pretty much dragged myself through the day, heavy-hearted and angry that I’d been so careless. By the time 4:00 rolled around and I started prepping to leave the office, I was functioning under a black cloud of gloom. Even though I’d continued re-searching all day, I found myself checking again as I shuffled papers and put things away. Nada. I stepped into the bathroom for a quick pre-departure pee, pulled down my panties and … plink! I jumped up to look, and there in the bottom of the toilet bowl was my ring! It had, inexplicably, been in my underwear the whole time. I have no idea how it got there.

After the ring had been rescued, thoroughly washed and was safely back on my finger, I rushed out into the hallway and announced joyfully, “I found my ring!!!” Everyone ran over, exclaiming, “Yay! Where was it?”

“It was in my underwear!”

I guarantee you cannot fully imagine the hysteric hilarity that ensued. Not to mention the jokes.