Weird dreams

I crashed out a little early yesterday - my hair was up in a ponytail all day, and that always manages to give me a headache. Than, of course, the cats kept waking me up, and my dreams got a little... odd.

The most memorable part was when I bumped into Alex Krycek. Alexa Krycek? He makes a remarkably pretty woman, in a pretty blue dress, and long brown hair.

Later in the dream I kept trying to tell Ali about it, and apologize for missing her divorce anniversary celebration last night (which, it turns out, will be tonight, so I didn't miss it after all) but she and Nevada were doing something with pillows and chopsticks, and I really didn't want to intrude, so I wandered off into a twisted fairytale penned by Mercedes Lackey and some other author with three names.

Crap on a stick

Lori was right last night, and my calendar this morning was wrong. It was *last night*.

Ah well. We'll do up a shindig in June for Ali when the last of ex-hubby's hooks will be at last throw free. (Failing a little rat poison in his coffee, of course.)

Sheeple

On the odd occasions when I'm alert at the end of the day, I sometimes sit in the back of the 31 and watch the sheeple. Watch them get on the bus, head towards the back, and then stop, halfway down the aisle. There's still a seat open, often two or three, along the sides, where they're harder to see. But still. There's a seat open, and they'll queue up in the front, sometimes upwards of a dozen people standing, when there are seats still left. Sheep, milling in front of an open gate.

Style

I was complimented today. Said in front of me to another coworker: "She always looks like she stepped off the cover of Vogue."

I thanked her, of course, because hell yes, I'm flattered.

I mean, yes, I eschew makeup most of the time, and I've mastered the art of getting my hair in a bun in only three bobby pins, but I like pretty clothes, and I'm proud of my sense of style. I'm proud of finding clothes that look good without sacrificing either comfort or utility.

Of course, at the same time, I'm snickering a bit in disbelief, because I'm in my slumpy $10 clearance grey pants with elastic on the back of the waistband, a dark green turtleneck off of which I've ripped the sleeves, and over it all, my long black sweater which desperately needs de-pilling on the inside around the waist. It's not what I wear when I'm feeling stylish. (well, except the sweater)

That, and I haven't been a size 6 since high school, so cover-modeling isn't exactly in my near future.

But still. I'm a Vogue model! Whee!