Bee persistent

1. There's a bee who clearly has heard what a wonderful, sweet person I am and is determined to meet me. Or the flowers on my houseplants. But I'm pretty sure it's me.

Every day, once I've been awake for a few minutes and am enjoying my not-quite-coffeeshop-quality-but-definitely-more-affordable latte on my sofa, the same bee comes buzzing up to my window. He tries the left one first. Then the right one. Back to the left one.

Bump. Bump. Bump against my windows.

He only keeps at it for a minute or so, and I watch with a very amused look on my face (seriously - why would you want to be friends with someone who smiles and benignly watches as you beat your head against their window?) ... and then he buzzes away. 'Til the next day.

If I wasn't near-phobic of all stinging insects, I might be more open to meeting this persistent, fuzzy little fella, but I am near-phobic of him and his kind ... so I don't see a friendship forming. In the meantime, it's a good distraction from the pain and stiffness of my waking-up routine.

2. In other news, I'm not necessarily jogging better, but I'm definitely getting faster. My 30-minute three laps took 27 minutes last night. Watch out, Usain Bolt. Unfortunately, my knees aren't anywhere near as excited about this as the rest of me would like to be, and they log their objection in rather painful ways. Stupid knees.

3. In a week's time, the hours that I spent typing I-have-no-idea-what for 800-plus flashcards to help Matt study for his MCAT will, I hope, pay off. If I didn't mistype alkane, alkene and alkyne. I haven't spoken to my brother in almost a week, so I'm assuming that he's simply studying like a mofo. Either that, or his colossal tower of books and notes and flashcards and used-up pens collapsed on him while he was annoying the fine Panera folk drinking his umpteenth free coffee refill, and they just haven't notified anyone about it yet.

4. Pandora. Love it. 'Nuff said. Why I didn't find it and marry it sooner is beyond me.

5. I'm paginating a 72-page football section this week, which is why I'm actually here, writing to you fine folk. Procrastination dies hard, and it rears its ugly, time-squeezing head at the most inopportune times. That, and I simply hate doing the football section. I hate special sections. Period.

6. My personal economic meltdown has hit: I'm having to buy Folgers instead of the nice, bagged stuff that I like. Like, the big canisters of Folgers - not the froo-froo Folgers upgrade-in-a-more-expensive-bag. This is a depression, really, in my book. I feel like such a hypocrite, and I'm afraid to go into Coal Creek now, as though the lingering smell of Cheap Coffee will be clinging to my hair and will waft into the discriminating nostrils of those whose java snobbery I used to share ... until I couldn't afford to be a snob anymore.

7. I never thought that a Texas-based sex columnist (or any sex columnist, for that matter) would rank among my new favorite writers, but The Bloggess does (I can hear my mother blushing from way over here). I can't take credit (or blame) for finding her all on my own - my brother sent her wittiness to me with the suggestion that I print the page and take it to soundproof room before reading it, and it was good (unheeded) advice. She's irreverantly, graphically hilarious.

Unfortunately, William Shatner doesn't think so, and he blocked her on Twitter. She's harmless, especially when she's on her meds, so I don't see what the big, hissy problem was (it started with a comment about hookers and asking The Shat to save her marriage), but he's unleashed a firestorm on Twitter in the form of the #unblockthebloggess movement and the subsequent campaign to #blamewilliamshatner for everything from drowning polar bears to STDs, menstrual cramps, broken appliances, pissy bosses and rotten love lives. It's almost as hilarious as the Bloggess herself. Alright, fine. It's hard to keep from snorting tea up my nose sometimes while I'm reading it. The Shat has no idea what he started.

8. I'm not allowed to get sick for, like, the next three months, which would explain why a sore throat keeps creeping up and threatening to become a full-blown, very inconvenient something-or-other. I'm convinced there isn't enough vitamin C in the world to outsmart Murphy's Law on this one.