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06.10.2002 - 8:08 p.m.

Monday

Well, Saturday JB left for another business trip. A weeklong whirlwind tour of different manufacturing facilities, in Japan and China. This is the first trip that I haven't clung to his pantlegs as he walks out the door, whimpering about how bored I will be and does he really have to go whine whine whine?

No sir. Because NOW WE HAVE A HOUSE. I can't explain it. It's just so much better now. Boredom does not exist, and if it does, it is cloaked in something cute from Restoration Hardware, ok? Plus I now actually have a job - something to DO during the day, unlike the unending stretch of white noise that used to be my 9-5.

This weekend I found a store called Half Price Books, which really should be called Fucking Rad! A Used Bookstore Nearby!. I bought:

Microserfs, Douglas Coupland. This is one of my all time favorite books, and I loaned my old copy to my very good friend Feng. Who NEVER READ IT. Nor returned it, the dorkoramus. So now I bought a new copy so he can always live with the physical manifestation of his shame. It haunts you, Feng!

Horse Heaven, Jane Smiley. I was on a big Jane Smiley kick a while back, and I hadn't caught up to this book. Her writing is so wonderful, somehow soothing and disturbing at the same time.

The Everlasting Story of Nory, Nicholson Baker. Baker is a phenomenal writer, and I am not just saying that because the page edges of my copy of Vox are dog eared from….passionate perusals. His writing gift stretches far beyond erotica; I'm really looking forward to this book.

The Lottery and Other Stories, Shirley Jackson. A whim. For some reason I haven't read much of her stuff. And so I tore through this collection in about an hour, completely engrossed. Really, really great. Must. Read. More. Shirley. Jackson.

Pink, Gus Van Sant. Well, I'm kind of a Gus Van Sant movie fan. Sort of. I loved Drugstore Cowboys. My Own Private Idaho. Pink looks like a mishmash of acid-fueled coolness, at least that's what I'm hoping for. Plus, Katherine Dunn gave him a cool cover blurb.

Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates, Tom Robbins. It's the only book of his I haven't read. If you don't know why he's awesome, shame on you.

Ok, so after I loaded up on things to keep me sedentary, I headed over to a nearby nursery to buy some plants. We have a lot of room in our yard to go hog wild, which is precisely what I plan to do. I want shrubs, ground cover, flowers, flowering shrubs, flowering ground cover, grounding flower shrubs - everyfuckingthing. I've gone too long without a garden, dammit.

On Sunday, the weather got all beautiful and sunny, and I tied my hair into pigtails (the new haircut allows for this, I'm all entranced with the Catholic school girl look laately) and headed out to master nature. Confidently, I plunged my shovel into the earth to hit - titanium.

It felt that way, anyway. What I hadn't taken into consideration is the complicated and pervasive root system from the nearby trees. Digging into the ground means painful chopping and sweat-popping jumping-on-the-shovel action. It sucks. JB will be appointed Dig Boy from now on.

I also mowed the lawn, which made me feel quite burly and capable of performing such actions as opening tightly screwed-on jar lids and scratching my (um, nonexistent) balls.

And so today was Monday, and work was goofy. I had decided that enough was enough with our front lobby being a complete pigsty, so I emailed everyone saying "Hey, pick up your shit, or I'm gonna stash it away, ok?". And one guy got so inexplicably riled up, he came flying out of his office and freaking cleaned the entire building. Just went ballistic, storming around throwing boxes everywhere, dustclouds roiling around him like PigPen. He was like a pissed off Martha Stewart having an ADD moment. I'm not sure what nerve I hit, but the result was a tidy workplace - score.

Right now I'm doing laundry, listening to the shoosh and woosh of the washing machine. Sipping a glass of Chardonnay. Walking out the patio door every few minutes to see my new plants. The cat is slinking around outside getting sand kicked in her face by squirrels. It's all good, baby.

go back ::: forward

06.06.2002 - Bangs are not my hair's destiny.
06.04.2002 -
"We need a fish Lassie. Lassie, save Oscar! Go get help!"
06.02.2002 - Anal Sundry seems the type that might wield a leather whip in her offtime, or something.

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