Delicates everywhere! Invasion of the delicates! And guac!

Heehee. I washed a load of all delicates, but they can't go in the dryer, so my room is awkwardly strewn with bras and underwear hanging out to dry. The Beecave is a veritable panty forest today. Heeheehee... wow, I suddenly feel really dirty for saying that. Uh, yeah, noboby is allowed in my room today. *runs away and hides in shame in the forest* ;-) 

Jared comes back from Chicago today. I'm thinking I'm going to make a batch of guacamole as a nice welcome-back gesture. I picked up a nip of tequila when I bought the Chambord for the pie, so I can make the recipe right, with the proper secret ingredient. :-) As my mother says, if you want to know what the secret to her perfect guacamole is, you'd better go ask Jose.

This is a very silly post. But I'm in a whimsical mood. Whimsical, I say!

My madness

I was talking to morethings5  about this in passing the other day, but suddenly I'm thinking about it again, so I'm writing about it. This is a classic example of my madness. It happens in front of large reflective surfaces, particularly the not-so-clear ones like big windows at night, with several people in front of them. I am of course drawn like a magpie to mirrors due to my inordinate vanity, but sometimes at first I only notice them out of the corner of my eye. On these occasions I have sometimes noticed that there happens to be a hot girl, small, thin, delicate, among the people in front of the mirror. I instantly hate her, because she's so adorably built-- skinny bitch, I think, why can't I look like that? Then I take a closer look and realize-- that skinny bitch is me! I am momentarily pleased, as I've briefly been able to glimpse myself "as others see me," so to speak, because I was in that instant able to look at myself as a disinterested party, and I like what I saw. But that moment is gone in a flash, because now I'm back to seeing me through my eyes. Now, God knows I love my body and the way I look, but that doesn't mean I don't have my own issues that can exist simultaneously with my general good self-image. 'Cause suddenly I'm back to regular old me, the same me that's commonplace to me every day, and suddenly I'm not exceptionally anything anymore. Not that skinny, certainly. Made even not quite so hot, if only because I'm so used to myself it doesn't seem particularly special.

The moral of this story is how we really are our own worst critics. We really are harder on ourselves than we ever are on anyone else. It's kind of amazing, how I can approve of things on a perfect stranger, but judge much more harshly on myself.