Flotsam

• I began the week in keeping with my long tradition of making an ass of myself. On my way into work yesterday morning, a woman ran up behind me in the parking lot. It was a beautiful morning, and I was striding ahead of a group of people on my way towards the shiny glass doors of my workplace.
“Excuse me!” said the woman behind me, “Excuse me, Ma’am?”*
I stopped and smiled back at her, fairly certain she was about to ask me where I had purchased my lovely handbag.

“You still have the size sticker on the back of your pants!” she murmured helpfully.

Sure enough, a sticky strip of plastic ran down the back of my thigh, shrieking “Size VAST!” over and over again.
How charming. Incidentally, my mother is fond of saying “You know, Alexa, no one would never guess you were a Size VAST just by looking at you!”
I think this is supposed to be a compliment.

• I am on day four of 1000 milligrams of Metformin, and I feel perfectly fine. My lack of desire for alcohol, however, continues. I keep trying to tempt myself with different drinks–I have sampled sips of dirty Martini, four kinds of wine, and something that had vodka in it. It is no use. I am broken inside.

• As I have mentioned before, my landlord and I have an ongoing debate regarding whether heat is a luxury or a necessity. When it is bitterly cold, and our radiators stand icily in the corners of our rooms, actually making things worse with their cold-metalness, the Nearly or I will call The Landlord and request heat. Or rather, we will call The Landlord’s answering service and request heat. The Landlord’s response to this is invariably to ignore it. Well, not invariably, because the first time it happened his response was to LEND US A SPACE HEATER. Which I found offensive, as we pay for our electricity, while heat is allegedly “included” in our rent. I try to be understanding, as I realize it must cost The Landlord a lot of money to keep himself in black turtlenecks and suit jackets, not to mention the quantities of product he slicks through his hair. Probably all the fire and brimstone down where he lives keeps him nice and toasty, and he genuinely doesn’t understand why we are complaining.
Anyhow, it is now the season which occasions the opposite problem. We are having a bit of a heat wave—by which I mean temperatures in the high 40s—and our apartment is like a sauna. I think The Landlord waits for this time, waits and then says nastily to himself: “They want heat? I’ll give them heat!” and stokes the boiler, laughing maniacally as sweat drips off his face and flames flicker on the walls. Of course now we will call, and ask that the heat be lowered, and there will be a snit wherein I am compared to Goldilocks/The Princess and the Pea, and The Landlord will say “I thought you liked heat.” And I do, but within reason. I woke up every hour last night, panting, and was too hot to put on my winter coat this morning. I was out scraping frost off my car coatless, and it felt WONDERFUL, that is how hot it is in our apartment.
Here is a picture of Irma a few months ago, when it was bitterly cold inside. She tries to keep herself warm by standing as close to the space heater (see above) as possible. Or sometimes she crouches in the bend of the radiator pipes.

• It looks like the next Twin Cities Confabulous will be Sunday, April 23rd. At noon! Chez Moi!
As god is my witness, I will have a glass of champagne and I will damn well enjoy it, Metformin or no.

*“Excuse me, Ma’am?” Ma’am? So…what is she saying, that I look old from the back?