Too busy to blog...

I'm just posting to say that I'm sorry for not posting lately. I've been all busy with work. Work. Whatev. I'm so over that.

I did find out today that I'm thought very highly of at the channel we're working for now, so that's nice. "Oh, if Alice is working with you, then you'll have no problems. She'll sort it out. She's good stuff". I'm paraphrasing, but that's the general gist.

Almost makes up for the fact that I was at work by 6:30 this morning. Almost.

Self Realization 101

I’ve realized something about myself. It came as a bit of a shock, but I think I’ve come to terms with it.

I may, in fact, be a little impatient. And I can, in fact, lean slightly towards the paranoid at times.

I know, I know. It came as a shock to me too.

Of course, my paranoid impatience doesn’t apply to everything. I have no problem waiting in line, or being on hold. I’m easily able to entertain myself for ages. I don’t have a real problem with horribly slow service in restaurants and I don’t really mind waiting for the bus.

But if I had to wait for a response to anything, I go a little insane. It can be anything – a returned call, a response to an email, or a reply to a text message. If any of these is even slightly delayed, I don’t just accept that things are delayed. My mind goes a bit crazy. I immediately begin thinking of all the reasons for the lack of response.

- I have done something horrible to offend the person I’m expecting to hear from without realizing it.
- She hates me.
- I broke some kind of unwritten rule by replying to his email too late, and now I’m being punished.
- I broke some kind of unwritten rule by replying to her text too soon, and now I look like a freak.
- He hates me.
- I accidentally sent the text to the wrong phone number.
- My email got sent to her junk mail folder because I’m not important to have inbox privileges.
- She hates me.

It’s at this point that I send a “safety” text to someone else. Y’know, to make sure that my phone is actually working.

Of course, invariably there is some kind of delay in their response. My mind, which you have to remember is already working in overdrive, steps up a notch and begins to reach truly frightening speeds. I go through all the reasons why I haven’t received any responses at all.

- My phone is broken.
- The internet is not working.
- I have inadvertently done something to offend all my friends.
- Everyone hates me.
- My phone isn’t broken, but my text messages aren’t getting through.
- I have entered some kind of parallel universe and although I think I’m still here, I no longer exist.
- I am invisible.
- Should I use my invisibility for good or evil?
- Wait, if I’m invisible I should still be able to operate a mobile phone.
- Okay, I’m not invisible.
- But it is likely that everyone hates me.
- What did I do?

At the point that my mind is truly spiralling out of control, my phone makes the friendly little noise that it makes when I have a text message. Or my computer makes the happy little noise that it makes when I have an email.

It seems that I have two text messages. Or two emails. Huh. Weird.

Aaaaaaaand relax.

Until next time.

ExtravaGANza!!

I may have mentioned that I officially entered my late twenties last week. Well, to celebrate, I had a little party on Saturday night. A little party that I like to call the extravaGANza!

(Just so you know, when the "gan" part of that word is said, it should be accompanied by a slightly raised voice and an expansive hand gesture)

Because I can be ever so clever when I set my mind to it, I remembered to bring my camera. And, because I am sometimes not ever so clever, I don't actually appear to be in any of the photos. But, I promise. I was there.

Now, I obviously missed the action in this photo, as Bette, Buffy and Amber are clearly fascinated by something juuuuuuust to the left of the photo. But, I choose to believe that I made an artistic decision here.

At one point, the party seperated into a male/female divide. It was just like a dance in the seventh grade. The boys are just waiting for Groovy Kind Of Love to come on so that they can get the nerve to ask a girl to dance. Ooooooooh!

And, now we have the girls. Clearly anxiously awaiting the Phil Collins and the potential for feet-shuffling slow dancing. Awww, romance!

Bette made a new friend. She looks a touch tipsy. But I'm sure Tom isn't afraid. That's a look of glee on his face.

Hannah thought that Nathan looked fat in this picture. Hee. I'd also like to clarify that Sarah isn't drunk. Well, she is. But she's also jet-lagged. She flew in from Fargo, North Dakota especially for the extravaGANza!

Jet lag + red wine = the pitching of film ideas tentatively titled things like "The Adventures of Sammy the Speculum" or something very similar. In this photo, Tom is definitely afraid.


Woo hoo! Things are getting frisky now! Matt and Jenny are sharing a few little kisses. But in a purely innocent seventh grade kind of way. Get those dirty thoughts out of your head! Dirty!


Cheers! Adam and Tom are certainly looking jolly. And why wouldn't they be? It's the extravaGANza!


James looks a little bit eeeeeeevil in this photo. And I can't remember if Jess, Jamie & Madeleine were actually talking, or doing the "pretend to talk so it looks social and like everyone's having fun" thing. I think they may have been really talking. The napkins on the table were because "someone" (I'm not naming names) spilled a full pint.

And you know what they say. It's not a party until someone falls out of their chair and ends up sitting on the floor. Thanks Kobrinsky!

It was a lovely party. And I had a great time. Thanks to all of y'all that came, cause it was a really good time. (We'll ignore the nasty and mean thoughts I'm thinking about all of y'all that weren't there. Except those of you in other countries. You all have an excuse.)

Now, to plan next year!

Everything I know, I learned from musicals

How to go crazy and live under an opera house? Phantom of the Opera
How to be a French revolutionary? Les Miserables
How to fall in love with an American GI in Vietnam? Miss Saigon
How to have prophetic dreams? Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat
How to cause trouble with a capital T & that rhymes with P & that stands for pool? The Music Man
How to manage as a blind kid in a tough world? Tommy
How to be a freaky hippie? Hair
How to string together songs with no relevance? Mama Mia
How to suck? We Will Rock You
How to be a cool aunt? Mame
How to wash that man right out of my hair? South Pacific
How to catch a man by learning to be slutty? Grease
How to be less human and more cat? Cats
How to be tough and yet dance at the same time? West Side Story
How to be a matchmaker? Fiddler on the Roof
How to be the boss of a whole country? Evita
How to sing the body electric? Fame
How to bring Western culture to Siam? The King & I
How to manage if your town sleeps for a hundred years? Brigadoon
How to be a showgirl on a floating casino? Show Boat
How to ride in a surrey with a fringe on top? Oklahoma
How to be the first Bow Street Runner? Oliver!
How to exploit the media to my advantage when in jail for murder? Chicago
How to rise out of the slums of Bombay to become a Bollywood star? Bombay Dreams
How to betray the son of God? Jesus Christ Superstar
How to lose my Cockney accent and fit in with posh people? My Fair Lady
How to manage as an HIV positive artist in New York? Rent

Seriously! It's like a "How To Live Life" manual!

Irrational Hate #2

Clearly, everyone hates people on buses. Hating other people on public transit is part of living in a city. Chances are the person next to you is talking too loudly on their mobile, or they’re slightly smelly, or they’re crazy or they keep trying to engage you in conversation despite the fact that you’re ignoring them and have your face firmly planted in a book.

I am totally fine with all those people. They are normal bus passengers. I expect to see them, and if the woman with the screaming child isn’t on the bus with me, I find that I’m a little bit shocked. (Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying I’d prefer to have here there. I’m just saying it’s a bit of a surprise when she and her whiny brat of a kid aren’t annoying me.)

The point is, if I was that devoted to a peaceful ride, I would bankrupt myself and take taxis everywhere. Public transit is just that. Public.

It’s the other people that I hate. You know the ones.

Imagine, if you will. You’re on a crowded bus, most of the seats are filled, people are standing, it’s getting a little squishy. And there’s that one person. The one who is sitting on half of a two-seater seat. And, instead of sitting on the window side like a normal person, they’re sitting on the aisle side. Effectively blocking access to the coveted bus seat.

And, not only are they doing that, they’re also staring blankly directly ahead of them, desperately ignoring eye contact with everyone trying to gain access to the seat.

That would actually all be fine. People are annoying, I get it. And who knows? Maybe they’ve got some weird phobia about sitting next to windows. Maybe they can’t look another person in the eyes because they’re afraid of stealing souls. Really, who am I to judge?

It’s what they do after they’re politely asked to let someone slide past them to the unoccupied seat. That’s what really pisses me off. They sigh. And they roll their eyes. And they make it seem like it’s the biggest imposition of all time, ever. And poor person who just wanted to sit down is made to feel like the bad guy.

And they're not the bad guy! The seat hog is the bad guy!

I hate these people. So much that I can’t even truly express the rage I feel when I see these idiots. In fact, I’m getting all angry just talking about it. Jerks. They’re just jerks.

Now, all I need is a plan to make them pay.

Fashion Avenger #1

Dear Man I Saw On The Way To Work This Morning,

Look, I know that we don’t know each other, and I really have no business sticking my nose into your business, but there’s something pretty important that I feel I have to tell you.There’s no nice way to say this, but it’s about your jeans. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but they’re turquoise. Turquoise.

Seriously, what’s up with that?

I can kind of see how it might have happened – you’re cleaning out a wardrobe and find a pair of jeans you’ve forgotten about. You think “hey, these still fit! Great!”, and you proceed to make them a part of your wardrobe.

Now, that would be fine under normal circumstances. We’ve all done that – just the other day, I found a great black sweater that I’d forgotten about. But these are not normal circumstances. These are turquoise jeans circumstances. And, you may be shocked to find, it is not 1987. You’re not co-starring in a teen movie with Corey Haim or Emilio Estevez. You’re not in a wacky sitcom about an alien moving into your house, or a drama about being an undercover narcotics agent. You are not in the New Kids On The Block. You, sir, are no Joey MacIntyre.

You are a middle aged man. It is 2004, and you’re walking down the street at 10:30 on a Sunday morning. And you’re wearing turquoise jeans.

I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I really am. I want to believe that you’re just running to the shop to buy your girlfriend breakfast. Although, I have to believe that if you had a girlfriend, she wouldn’t let you leave the house looking like that. Or, maybe you’re colour blind. But again, someone should have some kind of colour veto on your wardrobe if that’s the case. I’m getting distracted. The point is, I want to believe that the turquoise jeans are a mistake. A one-off. That it’s something that won’t happen again.

I can’t quite convince myself, though. You looked more like you were off for a day in town, or something of the like. And if that was the case, I think you probably looked in a mirror before you left the house.

And if so, I just wanted to write to tell you that it’s not okay. I know fashion can be hard. But you don’t need to read magazines, or watch Queer Eye, or anything elaborate like that. You just need to have a little common sense.

You’ll be fine as long as you put the turquoise jeans where they belong. In the garbage. No, I know that you’re thinking. Don’t make the mistake of giving them to a charity shop. You’ll just be putting some other poor soul in the same position that you’re in right now. And if I get blinded by these jeans again on the street, I’m going to be pretty annoyed with you.

I know you can do it. Good luck.

Best wishes,

Alice

P.S. We’ll talk about the green loafers next time.

Happy birthday to meeeeeeeeee!

It's my birthday today. Yay!

Welcome ..... to the world of Tron

Tired of the post-election stress?

Well, Kobrinsky sent me the best link ever today. And, as I'm ever so fond of y'all, I decided to share it with you.

This man is awesome.

If you're normally too lazy to click on links, trust me. This one is worth it. You'll especially want to scroll down to the bottom to hear his "lessons learned".

Tron always makes me think of Wendy and our trip to California in the summer of '93.

We went to Disneyland, and naturally tried to go on as many rides as possible. Our favourite was a somewhat unconventional choice.

The PeopleMover. Now, tragically, the PeopleMover closed for good in 1995, but thanks to the magic of the internet, you can still experience the wonder of it here.

The best bit was when you drove ever so slowly into this darkened room with lasers everywhere, and then a voice dramatically announced "Welcome .... to the world of Tron!".

I can't even truly express how fabulously horrible it was. We went on it like eight times, and took photos of ourselves on it. Good times, good times.

Sigh.

Well, that's just depressing isn't it?

Stupid Ohio. To think that the state that was home to WKRP in Cincinnati could let me down like this.

Nice work, Ohio. Nice work.

Oh, and nice work Minnesota, North Dakota, Idaho, Wyoming, South Dakota, Nebraska, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Indiana, Kentucky, West Vermont, Vermont, North Carolina, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Arizona, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina and Florida. Thanks.

For some more depressing information, look here.

I don't understand American voters. 22% of voters thought that "moral values" were the most important issue in the election? And 32% of voters "strongly approve" of how Bush is handling the presidency, although 34% "strongly disapprove" of the decision to go to war in Iraq? 47% of voters were either "enthusiastic" or "satisfied" with Bush's administration?

Who are these people? America is one huge, confusing mystery to me.

Pirates, voting and food poisoning

American elections get me all stressed. I can’t ever remember feeling that way about Canadian elections, and to be honest, I’m not even sure if there’s been a British election since I’ve been here. Maybe, but I honestly have no idea.

That’s not to say that I don’t care about politics. Because I do. And I’m certainly not short of opinions. But, in Canadian politics, there’s not really ever a “bad guy”. Sure, there are parties I feel are less desirable and there are certainly parties that have done damage to Canada. But I can’t think of anyone who, in four short years, has proven himself to be scarily inept and assy. And I have a real fear about the blindness of the American voting public. Stress!

I was looking at the CNN website, but I can’t check it too often. It freaks me out a little. I don’t like being this stressed about something I have absolutely no control over.

Enter the Daily Show’s election blog. Apparently, according to their no doubt scientific information, 9% of people voting for Bush will be 17^th century pirates. Awesome.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I spent the day at home today (food poisoning, long story, kind of boring), so that gave me lots of time to stress about the election. You know, the one I have absolutely no control over.

Stupid elections.

And stupid time zones. I may have to get up at 5am to check the results. Or, you know, I could sleep like a normal person. I haven't made my defcision yet.

Apparently, this is me

Thanks to Kobrinsky, I have found the best website ever.

It's called facade.com, and it rocks. Need to make a decision, but don't have a coin handy? Never fear! It's got a coin flip feature! Awesome.

According to their Personal Profile, this is me:

*********************

Tarot Card

(Equivalent of "11/05/1977")

The Empress: The essence of femininity and matriarchy. Creativity, productivity, and the foundation of civilization. Initiative and practical actions that promote prosperity, comfort and luxury. Fruitfulness and motherhood.

Rune

(Equivalent of "Alice")

Ansuz refers to a god or the spoken word of God. It is the voice of reason, law, prophecy and truth. It is the truth heard in the wind. This rune represents wisdom obtained or knowledge delivered. It is the rune of absolute good advice and true council - the message we all must strive to hear.

Birth Mates

(Equivalents of "11/05/1977")

Ariel Sharon, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bill Gates, Brad Pitt, Butch Cassidy, Donald Rumsfeld, Enrico Fermi, Hugh Hefner, Jennifer Garner, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jet Li, Joseph Stalin, Mike Myers, Nicole Kidman, Oprah Winfrey, Pamela Anderson, Paul McCartney, Richard Branson, Robert A. Heinlein, Rudi Bakhtiar, Russell Crowe, Sarah Jessica Parker, Sigmund Freud, Wassily Kandinsky

Public & Private Persona

(Equivalents of "Alice")

Words that embody your presence are "Asia, Axe, Baby, Beer, Bread, Day, Fact, Fear, Gin, Peace, Web".

Words that embody things that you may be a part of are "Fulfillment, Industry, Television".

Words that embody people or things in your periphery are "Chemistry, Fortress, Illuminati, Mercenary, Oyster, Periphery, Question, Security".

*********************

Interesting.

Apparently, I'm a feminine voice of reason, truth and law (read: bossy) who can relate to Freud, Kandinsky and Oprah (read: crazy). I'm fulfilled by my job in the television industry (read: actually, that's a bit weird), can appreciate fact, beer and gin (read: I'm a pub quiz wizard) and am in close proximity to the Illuminati and oysters (read: um, oooookay).

Dude. It's like they can see into my soul.

Alternate Identities

In case I ever decide on a new career, I've got a list of possible alternate names.

PORN STAR NAME (Name of first pet / Street you live on): Cleopatra Harvist

MOVIE STAR NAME (Name of your favorite snack food / Grandfather's first name): Doritos Denison

FASHION DESIGNER NAME (First word you see on your left / Favorite pub): Weeks Warrington

EXOTIC FOREIGNER ALIAS (Favorite Spice / Last Foreign Vacation Spot): Cinnamon Prague

SOCIALITE ALIAS (Silliest Childhood Nickname / Town Where You First Partied): Allie Haliburton

"FLY Boy" ALIAS (a la J. Lo) (First Intial. First Few Letters of Your Last Name): A. Huz

ICON ALIAS (Something Sweet Within Sight / Any Liquid in Your Kitchen): Sugar Olive Oil

DETECTIVE ALIAS (Favorite Baby Animal / Where You Went to High School): Kitten Goderich

BARFLY ALIAS (Last Snack Food You Ate / Your Favorite Alcoholic Drink): Pringles Vodka Tonic

SOAP OPERA ALIAS (Middle Name / Street Where You First Lived): Elizabeth Fort Creek

ROCK STAR ALIAS (Favorite Candy / Last Name Of Favorite Musician): Bounty Bon Jovi

Thanks to Megan for the idea!

Ha HA!

I knew I hadn't made it up!

It may not be a Webster's dictionary word, but I didn't make up the word "skeeve".

Thanks Aaron!

Happy Londoniversary!

Yesterday was the third anniversary of my arriving in the UK.

That seems very strange - it really doesn't feel like that long ago.

I've lived in three flats since I moved here, in three different post codes - four if you count my brief housesitting stint for Clare & Jamie last year - five if you count the hostel I stayed in when I first got here. I've had three different flatmates, and two fish. I've technically had the same job for the whole time, although what I actually do has changed. I've been back to visit Toronto about four times, and I've been kicked out of the country once. Good times, good times.

I've only been to visit three other countries in Europe. (I think - Portugal, France and the Czech Republic. That's it. I'm pretty sure.) I've only been to visit one other city in the UK other than London - and that was two months ago. I should work on both of those.

I've made some really good friends here, and only lost contact with a few of them. I've been bad about keeping in touch with my friends at home, but I'm trying to be better. I haven't seen my family as much as I'd like to, but I've spent time with family that I haven't seen in fifteen years, so that's nice.

I've found that I use the word "home" interchangeably, depending on where I am. When I'm here, it means Canada generally, and when I'm in Canada it means here.

I've found a city that I love, in a country that has delightful accents. I haven't lost my accent - I hate it when people do that. I have a great hairdresser, a cute flat and lots of fabulous shoes.

I've made a life for myself here that I'm pretty happy with. Naturally, there's room for improvement, but things are pretty good. I miss things about Canada (my friends, Cheetos, Creamy Cucumber Salad Dressing, Kraft Dinner) but it's nice to miss things and go to visit - it makes them more special.

So, Happy Londoniversary to me.

Three years. Weird.

The Skeeves

Every once in a while, I meet someone who for no particular reason, gives me the skeeves.

(I know that many of you are unfamiliar with the term “skeeves”. Or to be “skeeved out”. This may be because it is a word I have invented. I have a habit of doing that. But it essentially means to be creeped out by someone who is slightly inexplicably sleazy.)

There’s an old man that I keep running into at the Laundromat (or Laundrette, for you Brits) and he definitely gives me the skeeves. I could be all The Gift of Fear and say that he’s evil and creepy and out to do horrible things. However, I suspect that's not true. But I can’t quite figure out the reason for the skeeves.

Sure, he’s a creepy old man, but there are lots of creepy old men. And I'm not skeeved out by the majority of them. He does wear nail polish, and that’s a bit unusual. It was gold this week, but I’ve seen him in black and red. But that in itself is not the reason for the skeeves. He doesn’t appear to speak – he seems to communicate with a signal of hand gestures and noises. But he tries to talk, so I’m not sure what that’s about. I think he can, but just chooses not to. Again, though. Not the reason for the skeeves. Both of things add up to just a weird old man.

I think it’s the fact that he’s very friendly. Very friendly. Not in a creepy way. I mean, I don't think he's hitting on me or anything (ew!) , but there seems to be something slightly off about him. And he seems to think we’re buddies now that we’ve done our laundry at the same time more than once.

He just gives me the skeeves.

Maybe I should start doing my laundry on Saturdays now.

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?

Apparently, I'm Charles VI. I've often suspected I was the King of France, but I couldn't be sure.

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?

There's a lovely description. This is my favourite bit:

"In 1405 you stopped bathing, shaving or changing your clothes."

Good times, good times.

Photo-tatsic!

So, on the main page of Blogger, they have all these ideas for people who can't think of things on their own.

Normally, I shun this as I feel it's cheater talk.

But I liked this the other day:

Ask your readers to think of three photos they'd like to see posted to your blog. (Things around your house or whatever.) When you have enough requests, post them!

Despite the unnecessary use of an exclamation mark (which I would never do!), I like this idea. So, I think that you, the reader, should suggest three things. When I've got enough requests, or some sort of consensus, I'll post them.

Thwarted Love

Yesterday the man of my dreams failed to fall in love with me. Tragic, no? Our recently thwarted romance began when I was twelve. That’s when I fell in love with him. He was all moody and passionate and romantic and dangerous and ever so dreamy. Super dreamy, one might even say.

Sure, he lived in California and was seven years older than me and was dating a celebrity. But when I saw him for the first time, that all meant nothing. I just knew.

I was sure that Christian Slater and I were destined to be together.

He’s in several of my all time favourite trash films. Including, of course, his pivotal role of Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh in the classic Young Guns II. That, my friends, is love. (That also segues us nicely into my other secret love, but let’s not go there right now. Let’s just say I had the soundtrack and leave it at that.)

Sure, my love faded over the years. He is, of course, a criminal. Which isn’t really my thing. And he has appeared in several movies which makes me really cringe. And he named his son Jaden Zach Haddon-Slater. (Jaden? Really? Ooookay.)

But you never forget your first love.

You can imagine my shock when I arrived at work yesterday and heard Steve say “guess who I just saw eating outside at Raoul’s?” (Just to clarify, Raoul isn’t a person. It’s a restaurant around the corner from my office.) And yes. It was Christian Slater.

As you may or may not know, he’s in London right now in a production of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. And, apparently, decided to have breakfast in the restaurant around the corner from the very place I work.

Only one word comes to mind. Destiny.

Jess and I decided to take the only logical course of action. We strolled by the restaurant, ever so casually, to take a peek. And there he was. Looking exactly like Christian Slater.

Surprisingly, he didn’t look up and after meeting my gaze, stride over to me and declare his love.

Which was clearly odd.

So, Jess and I went to the newsagents, got her weekly copy of Heat and then strolled back past him, just to give him a second chance.

Again, he seemed engrossed in his phone call and didn’t notice us.

I was hurt, obviously, since destiny had failed me. But I’ve come to terms with it. It probably wouldn’t have worked in the end.

After all, he was in The Wizard. And that is two hours of my life that I will never get back. I don’t think I could forgive that.

Irrational Hate #1

Okay, here’s the thing. Toilet paper is not a decorative item. It’s functional. It doesn’t need to be pretty. It doesn’t need to be pink or orange or lavender or green. White is just fine.

I do not understand the appeal of coloured toilet paper. In fact, I find it vaguely offensive. I don’t feel the need to match my toilet paper to my bathroom. And even if I did, it’s 2004 – not 1974. My bathroom is not avocado and I do not need green toilet paper to match it. Even if I did have lavender walls, I would not require the exact shade to be matched by every single item in the room. Realistically, most sinks and bathtubs and toilets are white, so a normal white toilet paper is going to be the best match anyway.

I know what you’re thinking. “Dude, relax. If it upsets you that much, then just don’t use it.”

And I would be fine with that. If the freaks with whom I share bathrooms wouldn’t keep buying it. But they do! If they realized how much it pissed me off, they’d probably stop. I have mentioned on occasion that I prefer white, but they never seem to understand that by “prefer”, I mean “really really really hate any other option”. And clarifying that might make me seem a little crazy.

I try to avoid that whenever possible. The looking crazy. I try to at least look sane.

I could try to get over my hate. However, I choose to embrace the irrational hate. It’s my thing. Besides, in the long run I think it’ll be easier to just try to pre-empt the coloured toilet paper buying. And it’s best to not let freaks buy important household items like that.

(These people have some very educational information about toilet paper. If you’re interested. And I suspect you are.)

Stupid Glasses

I lost my glasses today. Those of you with 20/20 vision may not really understand, but this is a big deal. I have very bad eyesight. Sure, my glasses are supercute, but I need to wear corrective eyewear. It’s not a fashion choice.

“But, Alice” I hear you asking, “How could you possibly lose glasses that you wear all the time?”

That’s a very good question. The answer? I just don’t know.

I spent the day at home today because I was ill, and at about 2:30 in the afternoon I fell asleep while reading. Now, obviously I was wearing my glasses to do the aforementioned reading. As often happens in similar situations, I took my glasses off and, in a dreamlike state, placed them on the bed beside me.

When I woke up from my little nap (in which I dreamed I was going to school at Hillman College and I’d had a falling out with Dwayne over Freddie moving in with boy roommates – he didn’t approve, and I thought he was being old fashioned. And then I think I may have had a dream about pirates, but I don't remember details), I reached for my glasses, and they weren’t where I expected them to be.

Now, this happens all the time, so I wasn’t alarmed. I checked the usual places – my bedside table, the bookcase beside my bed and the floor on either side of the bed. But, no. No glasses.

It’s time to take the search to the next level. I’d previously been at Level One, or the “blindly groping” level, which consists of mainly looking by feel, as my eyesight is so appalling.

Level Two, or the “getting very close to what I’m looking at” level, consists of crawling around on the floor, checking every inch of my bed, lifting my mattress to make sure they haven’t fallen on the floor.

Level Three, or the “crap, where the hell could they freaking be, I should put in my contacts” level, consists of me putting in my contact lenses to better aid the search. I check all the previously searched places again. No dice.

Now, just to let you in on the amusing bit – my flat is approximately the size of an average bedroom. Maybe a little bit bigger. So, there’s not a lot of places that these stupid glasses could be.

Level Four, or “okay, take a break and then look again before you freak out” level, consists of me taking a break before looking again, in order to prevent freaking out. Because where could they have gone? It’s at this level that I begin to construct very elaborate situations to explain what may have happened to them.

Level Five, or the “intensive search undertaken while vision is good” level, consists of my doing a very intensive search of the area surrounding my bed, including inside my pillow cases, cause you never know. This is also the level at which I realize that there are quite a few cobwebs in my flat. Ew. I should do something about that.

And, finally, after about half an hour of serious searching, I found them. In a tiny space between my bookcase and my fabulous chair. How did they get there? Absolutely no idea. Maybe during the dream about pirates, I knocked them off the bed.

It’s a little more plausible than the theory I was developing in which someone had snuck into my flat while I was asleep and, instead of stealing things that are actually valuable, actually stole my glasses.

But no, I’m just a dumbass. Remember, Alice. Always put your glasses on the bedside table. Always.