Nothing Ever Happens
Over the last few days, I’ve finished a giant freelance project, a major work project, interviewed someone who only speaks Czech (which is Polish? Is that right?), and just when I was turning a corner, someone pointed out that my zipper was down. And yet, three more times, it came down, because there is a word for people like me, and it’s bloated. For the first time in my life, I took a damn Midol after work, and while it helped a little, I’m still closer to a post-blueberry Violet Beauregard than is natural.
Mmmm…blueberries. We have reached that special time where I can’t get enough food into my greedy little gullet, and I’ve been sitting on my hands for the last 30 minutes, desperately trying not to run downstairs and go Lardass Hogan on the blueberry pie on the counter. And yet I haven’t! Although truthfully the reason I haven’t has more to do with the fact that blueberry pies stain, and since we already have a documented chicken wing/pizza stain from an ill-advised bed dinner, who needs blueberry bed? And I am not ready to get out of bed right now, blueberry pie or not.
Yesterday, my next door neighbor came storming out of her garage screaming like a wild banshee, until she finally announced to no one in particular that there was a snake in her garage. A snake! In her garage! Our snake! And all of us are too chicken to help her, and since my pathetic efforts in sweeping him out resulted in little more than me squealing like a stuck pig, I think he’ll stay there.
In other, completely random news, I lost the outside ends of both of my eyebrows, which gives me a subtle, yet sinister look. And by ‘lost,’ incidentally, I mean that my thyroid hormones were so completely fizzled that I started losing my hair again, which manifests itself first in eyebrow loss. Which, while mildly annoying, isn’t so bad, and sure beats the pants off of going bald, I just really hope they grow back (They usually do! They do! I will not spend my life looking like Malcom Macdowell!) (And also, my fake thyroid stuff has been adjusted, so no more eyebrow loss and also, no more behaving and feeling like a crazy person, although no amount of Synthroid in the world can help with the blueberry feeling and/or pie craving. Or Triscuits. And an apple with honey and peanut butter. Nope, still not getting out of bed.)
Perhaps most importantly, though no less random, I am addicted to Top Chef, and the entire time I’m watching this, all I can wonder is who in the hell is this Padma person, why is she so damn vacant and what on EARTH gives her any kind of qualification to judge Marcel’s cherry reduction foam, other than looking vaguely like a bobblehead doll with a Madonna accent? And then I realized with horror that this strange Padma person is married to Salman Rushdie, and, well, consider my mind officially blown to smithereens.
And finally, I hope y’all have a nice long weekend. I’m too fried to construct anything even a little coherent, and given that I have a 7 a.m. root canal/crown fitting (7 a.m. I scheduled it. Can someone tell me what I was thinking?), I should go. The weekend will be a welcome respite. For my part, I plan to sleep a lot before embarking on yet another week packed with projects, Czechoslovakian expats and maybe a juicing machine run by Oompa Loompas. And although Sundry’s got the corner on this one, what are you doing this weekend? And do you have MLK Day off, as I do?
*Pavement
19 comments January 11th, 2007