I have had a sinus headache so bad that my eyes may very well pop out of my head. Plus, I had to meet with The Walrus yesterday afternoon. He has a habit of guessing the ending to your sentence and saying it in tandem with you. It is very, very annoying. So I wasn�t in the greatest mood by the time I got to the florist. And then she kept asking me to specify minute details that I don�t want to think or have an opinion on, like what sort of greenery do I want with the boutonnieres. I really, really don�t care, and � even if I did � I wouldn�t be able to name any floral greenery beyond �fern�. So she and I went over my order, detail by detail.

When we got to the father�s boutonnieres, I repeated (same as last time) that I will only need one. She made a comment about how my father must be dead (like I said, she talks a lot so she just added this into the running commentary). I just smiled. I told myself at the time that I didn�t correct her because I just didn�t have the energy to get into it. That was true, I suppose. But I should also get used to this; I imagine that it will come up again and again.

The only thing I could think to say was �No, my father isn�t dead, he is just busy� which sounds really lame. And it is lame. I suppose that I would just sound bitter if I said that, when I told my dad the date of the wedding 9 months in advance, he weakly answered that he�s pretty sure his wife has to work. This is clearly an all out lie, as he couldn�t possibly know her schedule and she is not, most likely, working the Saturday before Christmas (it�s not like she�s working retail). So I�ll have to come up with something else. I suppose that most people will just assume he�s dead anyway. And, anyone who knew him when my parent�s were married will already know how flakey he became so they won�t ask. It�s just the people who know me well enough to ask but have only known me since their divorce that might question it.

My headache isn�t any better today. I often say that I was genetically engineered to live in a bog, which relates to my complexion more than anything else. My sinuses were engineered to exist in a clean-room in the desert. Perhaps it�s not all bad that it seems like I spend all my time in a windowless office building. I just wish there was some sort of air filtration system.

I noticed how scary the doors are to my building yesterday morning. I use them all the time (obviously) but I rarely give thought to them. They are long concrete tunnel sort of things that terminate in a steel entry door marked �Employees Only�. Really, a rather cheerless and uninviting entrance. Shannon picked me up yesterday to go to lunch and I got to have this conversation:

Shannon: �Where are you? I�m by the scary concrete entry tubes with lots of fat smokers�

Me: �Oh, I know right were you are!�

Frightening.