a buch of short clips
Several relatively interesting things have happened to me lately. In no particular order:

I was stalked by an 18-wheeler driver on the highway. At first I thought it was in my head. I already am nervous around big trucks because when I was learning to drive, my grandfather took me on the freeway (too soon) where I knocked off his side-view mirror against an 18-wheeler. Normally, I pass them or let them pass me. I never travel alongside one. This one I couldn't seem to move around. I thought perhaps he, like me, was going the speed limit. I would try to pass him, and he would seem to speed up. I moved over one lane to the left; so did he. I slowed down; so did he. I was very nervous and frustrated, but I still wasn't sure I wasn't making it up. So I began to speed up, waiting till he was beginning to speed up, too, and then went back down to the speed limit as his momentum carried him forward. Then, to my horror, he waved to me as we passed.

This truck-stalking incident happened on my way back from a deposition in Asheboro, over an hour and a half from Raleigh. The deposition was to start at 1:30, and I was supposed to leave at around 11:20 to get there in plenty of time. For reasons unbeknownst to man, I wrote "12:20" on my directions instead. At ten to noon, Lynda walked upstairs and asked, "Aren't you going to Asheboro today?" I responded that I was leaving around 12:30. "It takes only an hour to get there?" she asked, at which point it all clicked, and I ran out the door. I, compulsive speed-limit follower that I am, went five over the whole way (for which I've been applauded by roommie supermer and friend Melanie). I arrived at 1:20, hurried into the lobby, announced myself, and said that I was running late. The receptionist replied that no, I wasn't, because the witness, a surgeon, had canceled due to an emergency surgery.

I've not enjoyed working long hours and over the weekends, but I'm looking forward to my next paycheck. I promised myself I wouldn't bring home work over the weekend, but I did. It's not that much, though. And this is my last rush order (for now).

I've noticed that my new dancing addiction has influenced my taste in music. I've been a Harry Connick, Jr., fan for a while, but taking up swing dancing has interested me more in Frank Sinatra, big band, and jazz. I'm now officially a Michael Buble fan (even though I spent several weeks making fun of his name). That boy can sing! And "Fever" is now one of my favorite songs. It is usually played at least once at swing dances at the Durham armory, and I try always to have a partner and dance to it. I like Romeo's line: "Fever, yes, I burn, forsooth!"

Just to let all the guys out there know, dancing is mad attractive. A newly-converted-to-dance friend of mine firebreatherjen has commented that otherwise plain-looking men become attractive when we discover that they are good dancers.