Came home last night and Keith was perusing all the juggling links I had forwarded from Rob of Nine, who seems to be under the impression that I can learn how to juggle. Three balls, two hours. (But what do the men attached to them think?) I know that juggling is exceedingly good for your brain – all the studies say so – very integrative, don’t you know – but these days my thought processes are a lot like a time lapse mpeg of a whacked beehive. I am not sure juggling is the right therapy.
I am typing with a grimace this morning, as I ‘unnecessarily mutilated’ my left index finger last night while slicing biscotti. (And I should learn how to juggle? Let me start with knives, or fire at very least). At least Paul will have biscotti to take in to his coworkers- that was the plan.
I suspect that the only thing wrong with me is hormones. I am at that weird twilight state where I am still a girl, but the testosterone is starting to kick in very hard and ugly from time to time; not that there’s necessarily more of it, there’s just less of the girl stuff. Perimenopause sucks a mop!!!! There, I said it.
More Buffy. We are now officially at the end of season 4. To deal with the fact that that kids raced on ahead I’ve now read all the synopses of the episodes up to the end of season 6.
I’ve only lost 5 pounds since my most recent foray into attempting to be healthier but all of my clothes fit better. I calibrated that hideous bathroom scale against the one at the pool and was pleased to discover that I had been unduly harsh on myself. No tattoo until I hit 155 pounds and stay there for a while. That’s my reward, at least one tattoo. I know that once upon a time I weighed 132 pounds (oh, and you should HEAR Katie roar on the subject of how unfair it was that I was ever skinny, which is pretty funny) but I have studied all the health stuff, and the goal is to get myself thin enough that diabetes, stroke and heart attack are removed as being red alerts and stay plump enough that (this line deleted, and you can probably guess why).
Tori, a goddess among women, has agreed to sell me the Glorious Nosebleed, her visual meditation on Edward Gorey, for an undisclosed sum and valuable considerations. Sue and Elizabeth are smiling, wherever they are. They are the folks who got my family into Gorey in the first place.
Off to Mike’s for a soak this evening; hope I find two minutes to work on my bits, I need another three for tomorrow night. “I see that the Vancouver cops have arrested a whole bunch of Hell’s Angels. I hear jail is just like the clubhouse but the TV isn’t as new. I mean, all the guys sitting around the TV are the same. The lawyers will argue that it was all a terrible mistake; how were they supposed to know they were bribing the wrong cops?”
“Valentine’s Day is hard on married people. After twenty-five years it’s hard to find a new way to say, “Thanks for helping with the mortgage. PS Did you take out the trash?”
I am getting campaigned on here, the kitties are demanding breakfast. Why don’t you just evolve hands and leave me alone?
