So here's something interesting that happened. The other day, I left my space heater on at work when I left for the day. The building is just too cold during the day with the air conditioner cranked all the way to subzero temps, and I often have to keep my space heater on to avoid catching pneumonia. I leave my space heater on all the time but, I'll admit, have often pondered over the irony of a three-time winner of the annual fire safety poster contest in grade school (okay, I never WON, but I placed, which is close enough) breaking the number two rule after "No smoking in bed." You never leave a space heater on high while unattended. Never. But, still, I do it almost every day.

Around ten o'clock at night, the alarms all went off in the building, and the manager who lives closest was called to investigate. She got there at the same time as the police, who went into the building only to find that my space heater had set a small, smoldering fire in my plastic garbage can. The way it was described to me was that, while there were no shooting flames per se, there was smoke and embers. They unplugged my heater, did whatever they needed to do to take care of the smoky situation in my plastic garbage can, and then the manager issued an apology to the police for wasting tax payer dollars.

I came into work the next day to find the area underneath my desk in complete disarray. "What happened to my desk?" I asked Gigi, who sits next to me and had already been at work for thirty minutes by the time I casually rolled in.

"Um, you almost burned the building down," she said, and then she told me the story that everybody else had already heard that morning. For a moment, I sat there, stunned. For yet another moment I sat there, daydreaming, and wondered what kind of compensation package we employees could have received had there be an actual, devastating fire. If there had been an out and out fire, would they have traced it to my space heater and thus to me? Would I still get a compensation package? It would have, after all, been a completely innocent mistake on the part of the kind of woman who is usually very careful about fire safety and never, ever smokes in bed.

Regardless, everything is a-okay, and after apologizing a few times to the manager who had responded to the call (and making sure that my direct boss never had to be privy to the situation), I sat back down at my desk, plugged in my semi-defective space heater, turned it on to high, and started my usual morning business.

I bought $5 worth of Mega Millions lottery tickets for tonight. Chris is fond of telling me that, statistically, I have the same chances of winning the lotto regardless of whether or not I buy a ticket. I'm fond of telling him that you have to in it to win it and that he should go f himself. Usually, I'll admit, I am the kind of person that doesn't bother with ventures that yield such terrible odds. Lately, however, I am feeling as if desperate times call for desperate measures, and the only way I can think to escape my current situations is to purchase a lottery ticket and hope beyond hope that my numbers come up.

Will I go to work tomorrow if I win the lotto? I think I would work just long enough for my check from the lottery commission to clear, because heaven forbid I come in to work, tell everyone off, and then find out that the lotto is broke and my winning ticket will not be honored. What a kick in the teeth that scenario would be.

I have decided, though, that I'm going to play out the rest of today's work day on the assumption that I'm going to win big tonight. That means not doing any more work and having an overtly clear disregard for any inquiries or instructions that come my way. I like the way this attitude feels. And, strangely enough, it's not the worst feeling in the world to know that, regardless of whether or not I do actually win tonight, my presence here at the office tomorrow most likely won't be requested or required anyway.

We finally went to one of those Mystery Dinners, the kind where actors intermingle with diners and eventually somebody gets shot by a gun loaded with blanks. It was really cool, and I'd love to do it again. Unfortunately, I did not solve the mystery, but this is not to reflect negatively on my powers of logic and deduction. Instead, let me just say that although the mystery made sense once the solution was revealed, it was constructed in such a way that it was damn near impossible to solve with making several far fetched assumptions first. Nonetheless, it was a great time.

The weekend, which was spent at the resort that hosted this dinner show, was full of several mysteries. The most memorable mystery may be the Case of the Stinky Water, which I've kind of solved, but not really. The water from the faucet in our hotel room smelled so rank and rotten that I gagged from just turning on the water and breathing normally while sixteen inches away from the tap. At first I didn't realize that it was the water itself that smelled so badly, and I made the ever crucial mistake of beginning to brush my teeth without continuing a proper investigation. I just about threw up in my mouth from the taste of what I can only describe as bad eggs and the arm pit sweat of an athletic bum. The solution, I suppose, to the mystery is that it's just really bad well water. But the larger part of they mystery is why an expensive resort would not DO SOMETHING about what is potentially a deal breaker. Chris and I could not even stomach the idea of showering in such awful water the next morning. So, instead, we got out of bed, wiped off our faces with dry towels, brushed our teeth with a bit of bottled water, and went downstairs to a fancy brunch whilst reeking a bit like winos from all of our drinking the night before. We are one classy couple, we are.

Overall, aside from the obstacles to cleanliness, the weekend was pretty great. Good mystery dinner, drinking and dancing afterwards at one of the bars in the resort, and even a dip in the pool. Strangely enough, the pool water smelled just fine. Yes, very mysterious indeed.

Earlier this week, an old man pulled into the bank parking lot and attempted to brake as he maneuvered into a parking spot. Instead, his foot got tangled up in his iPod cord, and he ended up somehow accelerating and smashing into the bank sign.


This would not be an amusing story if he had hurt or killed someone. But he didn't, so it is. What makes it so amusing is that after decimating the bank sign, he backed up, put the car in park, and then came into the bank lobby and calmly made a deposit before approaching a banker to tell him that his foot had become entangled in what I can only assume is a ridiculously long and unsafe iPod cord and, yes, he rammed his car into the sign.

I'm baking bread today. I wanted to do the whole thing from scratch, but I couldn't find yeast in the grocery store. So, I got one of those pre-mixed kits with the flour and stuff and the little yeast packet. The mix is made by a company in Oregon and costs about a dollar more than a good loaf of fresh baked bread at the store. Nonetheless, cost-effectiveness aside, I've been wanting to do this for a while now. I must say though, even cheating with the prepackaged mix, bread making is exhausting. There's a lot of kneading and pounding and waiting for the dough to rise and double in size. I've been making bread for about two and a half hours now, and I've yet to even bake the damned thing.

Maybe exhausting isn't the right term for bread making. Let me think for a minute. It's a process that is basically fraught with fear and tension. What if the dough doesn't rise? What if I didn't knead enough? What if I screwed up royally by purchasing the ten whole grain mix when I generally don't even like whole grains? It's a lot of nail biting, a lot of second guessing, a lot of wondering. And, actually, the whole process reminds me of another kind of process. Maybe that's why they call it "a bun in the oven." Anyway, what is it the kids say these days? That's right- TMI.

This is my last Sunday of being 28, and here I am, spending a gorgeous summer day inside, baking bread and reading. But fear not, my life's going to be much more exciting tomorrow. Carole and I (and her dad, the ever-adorable Steve!) are going to the Tori Amos concert tomorrow evening, to be followed by a leisurely Tuesday of hanging downtown and finally checking out the new modern wing of the art institute. I can't wait. I need to break up the routine a little, and tomorrow and Tuesday should be just what the doctor ordered. Now excuse me while I go peer at a ball of dough to see if it's made any progress in the rising department.