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2002-02-13 - 12:41 p.m.
Thursday I have a lunch date
with my pals Peachy
and Feng.
We have all recently become enamored of the phenomenon that is
online journaling, so probably after a nice chat about our journals/blogs
we'll scurry home to our respective computers to type up entries
about having lunch. Heh.
Well, I probably will, anyway.
Because I am a dork like that. Sometimes late at night, half
asleep, I think of these great entries. Really. Tomes of wondrous
essays float through my head and I think - yes! - tomorrow I
will stun myself with the sheer penetrating sagacity of
my words. And then I wake up and go back to only using .02% of
my brain and I can only write about cat fur, or whatever.
Oh, and Thursday? Is Valentine's
Day, if you've missed the 90 skillion billion various media reminders.
I feel vaguely guilty about Valentine's Day. I mean, JB and I
are planning to have a nice dinner at home, there will probably
be a nice exchange of homeade cards, and that's just perfect
- and yet I feel as though I should be adorning the house with
heart-themed d�cor. You know? Because Fred Meyers and
Pottery Barn and Living magazine are all FULL of heart-shaped
crap right now, shaming me with my non-romantic-home self. I
seriously have an inner Martha Stewart that has been oppressed
all my life by a lack of creativity and a conflicting sense of
reason. She's clamoring "Let me out! You could TOTALLY make
your house look like that one room in Moulin Rouge! Using only
twigs and gold leaf!"
I am seriously the ultimate
sucker consumer, the market that gets all gooey for scented candles.
I think if you buy scented candles, you are automatically in
the target demographic that will ALSO buy such completely pointless
things as: Swiffer mops, Ab Rollers, clumping cat litter, whitening
toothpaste, and overpriced shampoo. Or� maybe it's just
me.
:::
Today, my arms are killing me.
I dragged my sorry self to kickboxing class yesterday and the
instructor had us do "Armageddon." That's where he
makes the class stick their arms up in the air, like we're all
part of some weird aerobics holdup ("Gimme all your water
bottles NOW!"). Then we lower them slightly or raise them
slightly on his command. This is fine at first. Then, ow. Then,
OW. Then, holy god I cannot do this any more oh please stop OW
OW OW. It sucks. Everyone has their face screwed into a rictus
of agony, sweat rolling, and Mr. Muscles just smiles serenely
and says stuff like "Is it starting to buuurrrrn?"
See, if I would just go to that
class on a regular basis, I would be all proudly holding
my Linda Hamilton-triceps in the air, sneering at the flabby
wimps who have to drop their arms halfway through. But nooooo.
Sadly, it is I that is the wimp, currently.
I have to go get sand kicked
in my face now.
go
back ::: forward
Did you want to read about:
2002-02-12 - freaky
tea, hiking
2002-02-11 - Mondays,
library fees
2002-02-08 - a
falsehood
ARTIFACT: Ab roller, shamefully covered in dust.
0
comments so far.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004
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