Went to run off prints this morning, and discovered that the printer, after long and faithful service through the holidays, has begun flicking ink all over stuff. Generally, this happens because cat hair has worked its way into the little ink bay thing and is screwin' stuff up, at which point you have to Clean The Printer, which involves getting covered in ink halfway to the elbow and probably voiding your warranty.
After about two hours of this, during which time I became so splattered in black that I looked as if I'd been milking an indignant squid, near weeping with frustration, I slotted in a fresh sheet of paper, ran a test pattern and...clean. At this point, Freddie Mercury appeared in a puff of smoke and sang "We Are The Champions." I suspect I hallucinated that bit, but I dunno, he was a little squirrely and my backyard may have the Vortex Power to reach beyond the grave in times of special celebration.
I celebrated myself by going to do laundry. I arrived at the laundrymat and discovered that I had neglected to bring both soap and laundry. Had a lot of quarters, though. And my book. (I got the essentials, damnit.) I considered trying to buy someone else's laundry with the quarters, but decided against it, and went back home. On the absentminded scale, this may be a new low for me. I now suspect I'll go in for my next pap smear and discover that I've left my cervix at home.
And I have PMS. And I am feelin' it. It's spontaneously weepy PMS which is deeply annoying. I expect to tear up a bit at tales of tragic love when reading Juliet Marillier, which of course is the only thing to read when one is in weepy mode, because it just feels so good. I don't expect to suddenly turn on the waterworks while watching "Survivorman." (God, I love that show.) Fortunately for him, James is working until midnight for much of this week, and so will escape the brunt, and it will pass in another two days, but still.