If anyone is wondering why I am daylogging it is because my own site is temporarily down. I normally don't daylog here because I see it as repetitious and I want to keep those noders who check out my site still interested.

I woke this morning from a dream where a big bug flies right into my face. The shock of this was what woke me up, one minute before my alarm would have gone off. I had to get a new fake nail put on at 9:30 because I chewed it off. You can imagine the tenacity it takes to pry a sheet of acrylic that's been cemented to your living tissue. You can also imagine what I would do if my fake nails weren't there: bloody stumps.

I drove by a branch of my bank in the hopes that their lobby would be open on Saturday, but it wasn't. I really think it's time I got a savings account. I was told that I have been put on another probationary term before I can be considered a solid employee, which pushes back any hope of a raise for another 30 days. I'd just broken my 90 day mark and was giving myself my first self-examination. It seems that the only part of my job that got me an extended probation was the proofing I'd done for various proposal documents. I was to make the corrections from a paper copy to an electronic one and e-mail it back, but there were always errors I'd missed. My manager is cool, though, and knows I can do better. When she told me this the first time, I was defensive and angry. But once I had re-proofed a document I was working on, I realized she was right. This frustrated me more, because she knows how broke I am and how hard I'm trying to stay afloat, but I see her point too. This is the only way that I can say I have matured at my job. Well, anyway, she was the one that suggested I get a separate account and send money to it with every check. I know everyone here would think that this is pretty simple, but I guess it never occured to me. I was always so good at avoiding responsibility with my non-budget. Even the word budget makes me cringe.

I actually worked my part time job today, catching up on a month of backlog for the quilt store owner. Five hours and $40. Not bad, but I spent it already plus some. I got some tiger balm and some kick-ass spinach and feta chicken sausage from Whole Foods. Nummy stuff, even if it's not beef.

I am making chicken tortilla soup for this pot luck the women from my Bible Study are having this Tuesday, to conclude the closure of a study on the first half of Proverbs. We will pick up our new study next week, as well as exchange our Secret Angel names (the church verion of Secret Santa). We are all to secretly give our chosen Angel little gifts and encouragement through the holiday season and, close to Christmas, we will all go out to dinner and reveal our identities. I love doing this when I get a person I know. Last year it was Terri, whose main gripe is having to work with some smug nuns at Mount Carmel Academy. One of the gifts I got her was one of those "Fighting Nun" puppets. She still talks about that. The year before last, Brenda made me an advent canlendar with all kinds of cute little things in the pocket for each day. It's acts like this that make me less annoyed about being female and getting to hang out with some cool females.

There is a guy who lives in the building next to Carson's apartment. He is nice and shy and seems to not have many friends, so when I pass our shared alley way I say hello. At one point I talked to him at length outside. It was nice to talk to someone, and I had nothing better to do. Then he shows up the next night and knocks on Carson's door. Carson is away in Egypt for drill. This kind of makes me feel awkward, because I want to be nice, but I have also stressed that I have a boyfriend, using that term and Carson's name to reinforce this fact. The thing that makes it hard to talk to him is the fact that he isn't articulate and seems to feel odd in his voice; he lets me do all the talking, which is the easiest way to make a conversation last longer than is appropriate. Just now he asked me if I wanted to go with him for a sandwich and a beer. I declined. Earlier tonight, I had turned down Ken, who was going to the "Art for Art's Sake" shindig in the Warehouse District (where all the galleries are) because it's gotten too cold with the front moving in. My back is still tender from last night's massage and I just want to stay home. Also, for me, I don't think it's appropriate to go out with a guy I do not know and who is not a friend of mine. It would be too awkward. Now, however, it is hard to escape him. I feel bad feeling this way, but I feel bad for him too. New Orleans is a horrible place to be lonely.

I made a mix for Shanoyu which I hope will be enjoyable. I've made quite a few of these in the last few weeks and people seemed to like them. This makes me happy.

I am still smoking and still hating myself for still smoking. I've looked at nodes from this time last year, and I was trying to quit back then. I look down at the hand that holds the cigarette when I'm driving and I want to cut that hand off. I feel cursed and yet it isn't even a unique curse. Every time Carson goes away for drill, I say to myself that this will be the time. But I know I will smoke when people come for the gathering. I will likely, depending on the ratio of smokers to non, let people smoke in my house. I know that my smoking upsets Carson and I also know that I have to quit for myself. I know I'm just saying this, but I want to believe I could do it if I could join that gym I can't afford. I am improving my diet, drinking more water, exercising, but can't seem to shake smokes. Cursed.