I had the best wedding dream on Friday night. I was standing at the foot of the aisle, looking at my bridesmaids - Pixie & Stacy - who were grinning & waiting for me to walk down. They were wearing white blouses, short plaid skirts, green velvet vests, white patterned tights and 16-hole cherry docs. Another thing I remember is that I was wearing a white bonnet instead of a veil, although I never found out what it looked like. Next there was a weird ritual wherein a guy in a tuxedo & sunglasses was uncovered as a groom stand-in by the congregation, and the Boy stepped in to his place.

Then a bus full of freaks pulled up.

All were in strange masque-like costume. Several were wearing wedding dresses, of course, and a woman popped out of nowhere to drive them away. "I'm sorry, I asked you to change, and you didn't. You can't come in." I jumped up & said, "no, it's okay! They'll distract the evil spirits from me!" At which point I ran into the church, bubbling over with joy. I would've done a cartwheel, but even in my subconscious I'm not that agile. Then I woke up.

I still can't get over the way my "bridesmaids" were dressed: like crazy "heritage" dolls with ass-kicking boots. Hmmm.

Not much to report in the last couple of days. On my first weekend off since Agamemnon's ordination (and before that, Labour Day), I plowed through the huge pile of laziness that's been piling up. My torpor actually motivated me to come home today. With no work on the horizon and no pressing commitments, it would've been so easy just to hang around the Final Bachelor Pad (as the Boy calls it). But I haven't changed my sweatshirt since Friday (ewww!) and I'm tired of finding things to harmlessly occupy my time (i.e. I spent 2 1/2 hours alphabetizing the Boy's 300+ CD's), so I ran a few city errands & came home.

We weren't totally lazy, though. We did move a bunch of the Boy's stuff from Froghopper Nook via repeated bus rides and a day pass this Sunday...but there was still a lot of sitting down squeezed in, mostly in the guise of "being sociable" with Pixie & Q. Okay, I'm lying...I would've stayed to chat even if there were no furniture to drape myself over. (Sounds sexy; really isn't.)

Pixie was suitably outraged about my hair salon incident...especially since 3 shampoos with the shampoo they made me buy have washed away almost all of the top color from my roots. It feels good to get sympathy...especially since I feel like such an idiot for letting myself get pushed around & shellacked. Fortunately, I visited the salon this afternoon, and I feel a whole lot better about the whole experience. They brightened up the offending roots & recommended a course that should take me back to my natural colour by the wedding. As I left, a gigantic stone rolled from my heart. I love this salon. I trust this salon (as is obvious, or why would I let them get so far on such an expensive fucking job?) And it hurt to be ripped off. I still feel like a sucker (just paint stripes on my head & give me to ravers), but at least I'm better-coifed sucker.

Today was the day of transcript fuck ups. This afternoon I paid for the transcripts that need to be in Edmonton in 15 days. I'm told it takes 5 to 10 days to print, plus a few days to get to my house in the mail... I'll be courier-ing the SOB to Edmonton, mark my words.

When I got home, I opened a letter from Newfoundland that informed me they were missing my U of T transcript. After checking my desk & records just to make sure that I hadn't fucked up somewhere along the way (it's best to figure this out before calling to rank out the offending institution), I came to the reluctant conclusion that they had disregarded the perfectly legitimate transcript I sent with my package because - brace yourself - it hadn't come directly from U of T. Never mind that there's a fucking official signature across the seal...it's just not trustworthy if I get my grubby little paws on the envelope even briefly. Arrrrrrgh.

Yes, this may be a good time to cut Newfoundland off my list, but I'm a cinch to get in. So I grit my teeth & paid for another copy to be sent to St. John's. Bah.

Spent a little while on the phone, catching up with Stacy & Dav respectively. I've noticed that when I say goofy, foolish things to Dav, he just comes up with a topper until we both start giggling. Yet when I say something stupid to Stacy, she just falls silent, giving me a chance to wonder why I said whatever it was. I think hanging out with Stacy makes me marginally smarter. I'm not sure what the ultimate effect of Dav will be.

Those who remember the late, lamented asylum will understand my excitement at the rumour that Stacy's Valentine's Day present just may get her back on the web. I miss Online Stacy. Offline Stacy is more than adequate of course, but there's something exciting about seeing some of the glitter of a friend's talent. The fact that she's so much better at writing than I makes me that much more inspired.

Finally, I've started the amusing-to-me habit of calling the Boy 'Ike' after everyone's favourite wife-beater. It started innocently enough. I was in the shower, and asked the Boy to pass me the shampoo bottle. "No, sweetie," 'Ike' gently responded. "You should use your special shampoo, or more colour will wash out."

See what I have to put up with?

Well, I suppose it's funnier if you know how sweet and mild the Boy is. The idea of him using his fists on me - or anyone, really - is more than ludicrous. Really.