I probably should have guessed what kind of week it was going to be when I split my pants on the way to the BP for a midnight snack.

Well, not split so much as *worn through*, right below my right butt cheek. I walked through the store, grabbed my saltines, my dark chocolate frappucino, paid my regular clerk (who chatted with me for a few minutes about how my new job was working out) and walked back out to my car -- walking backwards the entire time.

Well, at least now I know which pair of pants I'm going to be wearing to Pridefest in two weeks.

So I've been wearing my hippie journalist soldier gear the past four days: my olive drab cargo pants and combat boots with a variation of tank tops topped off with an open cardigan sweater. Grandpa hates the pants, my neighbour Norma says I need "a tan", Matt from work had some interesting things to say about the boots, some of it vaguely coherent amid the caveboy rambling. And it's only going to get more interesting because -- being busy updating the text for a client package, outlining a sales proposal for vendors, putting together an article for Vital Voice, wrestling with my computer over some new software, dealing with family crap, trying to get through Father's Day without throttling the hell out of the several people -- I haven't shaved in a few days.

*ticks off fingers* Combat boots, hairy armpits and legs... Am I turning into one of *those* lesbians??

(Possibly not if my recent crush on Tom Baker is any indication.)