I’ve done my share of blogging awards and abandoned them when the attractiveness of the concept wore off for me. Today, though, I was nominated for what is not an ordinary award but a personalised challenge. It’s called the Dedicated Blogger Award, kindly passed on to me by my much appreciated blogging friend Soul Gifts. Before I get any more cheesy, I say a huge thank you (cheesy) and present my completed task: I was asked to produce a stick drawing!
I’m still laughing at the idea that I was drawing on demand. I mean, look at my picture… Pathetic, isn’t it. I feel the need to explain what the picture attempts to represent, in case there is a confusion arising from my lack of mimetic skills. It’s me accepting this award while wearing an evening gown and giving an acceptance speech. The thing emitting rays in the top left corner isn’t a flying saucer but a spotlight. The small thing on the right is my cat. She doesn’t give a meow.
Warning: The following post describes self-harm. Don’t try it at home.
I don’t cut my nails, I file them. I do cut my fingers though. You know the rough patches of skin that form at the fingertips, all the way around the nails? Well, I hate it. And I cut it with sharp scissors. Why, yes, I’ve heard of hand cream (speaking of which, I’m just massaging a generous amount of it into my hands) and of softening oil. But that’s nonsense.
Nothing delivers perfectly smooth fingertip skin as well as just cutting the hard bits off. Of course, you have to wait a day or two until it stops bleeding for the effect to fully manifest itself, but it’s totally worth it. There’s also a bonus to it: I’m gradually erasing my fingerprints, in case I needed to commit a crime and remain unidentified.
Other than that, I don’t cut myself. I have a cat to do it for me.
A family member has been raving about Tinder, the dating app, for so long and so vehemently that I installed it on my phone too. Apart from being under the influence of four glasses of Scotch (small glasses, I promise), I downloaded Tinder primarily because of aesthetic considerations: there is one lonely gaping space on the homescreen of my phone, begging to be filled with some app icon.
I signed in with a fake Facebook account because I didn’t actually intend to hook up with random guys on the internet. While it did occur to me that my intention somewhat contradicted the purpose of the app, I didn’t let that bother me. The app crunched my phone data (I may or may have not been too drunk to notice what permissions I’m giving to it) and it spat out a gallery of horrors in (semi-)human form.
I must acknowledge the divilish deviousness of the device because by default, all suggested matches were drawn from my area and were of reasonably adequate age. At the same time I was disappointed by the primitivity of the app in that it only offered a person’s picture, age and area. Hardly anyone bothered to fill in any personal details. So, that’s it, apparently. A picture is ridiculously little for me to inspire interest. I need more info when selecting my new desktop wallpaper.
Still, I was indecently amused by the guys’ photos, including one snapped in a public restroom and another showing a guy with his back facing the camera and his bottom bared (is that supposed to be funny and I have no sense of humour?). I swiped about fifty people left as nope (none in the opposite direction) and uninstalled the thing. Then I filled the blank space on my phone homescreen with a better version of swiping, a keyboard that allows you to swipe instead of typing. And it’s a match.
I received a proofreading request from my old (but young) colleague today. His email opened with standard salutation Dear Doctor Mara. That’s about right, but three months later, I still giggle and blush when addressed by my title. Classic imposter syndrome.
The text submitted for proofreading horrified me. Not by the amount of errors, but by a lack of them. On page four, I still couldn’t find anything amiss at all. It was frustrating because I know that no text exists that wouldn’t require proofreading. I started to suspect that I turned blind.
Fifteen pages later, though, everything was alright. The text proved to provide a satisfactory harvest of inconsistent capitalisation, missing italics, misplaced commas and messed up alphabetisation. With relief, I returned the proofread text at 2:17 am because my colleague, unlike my former students, never suspects that I’m drunk emailing when I send a message in the middle of the night.
On this pleasant note, I’m paying tribute to fellow night-shift workers (including illicit moonlighters, which is my case) and particularly to my colleague Richard (name changed). I would marry him solely for his knowledge of Chicago Style (though lesser than mine), if he weren’t gay.