RAWR!

Single Men Shouldn't Even Have Cars

Woman in my Babies Storytime: I'm sorry I was late. It's hard to find parking in the garage!

Me: Yeah, I know. Our storytimes are so popular that it can get crowded down there...

Woman: But it's not fair!

Me: I'm sorry...

Woman: You know what's disgusting? These single men, 35- or 36-years-old, parking.

Me: Um...

Woman: They're healthy, by themselves, could park anywhere. They're men, and they can park out on the street. But they park in the garage! Here I am, with my fat belly and my fat baby, and I can't find a spot in the garage. Somebody should do something! Tell them to get out!

Me: I'll...let my boss know...about your suggestion.

Samoas Rule! Thin Mints Drool!

If someone were to make me these, I'd just melt.

RSVP

I’ve taken a vow. Now, I take vows all the freakin’ time, so it’s hardly—wait, what’s the difference between making a vow and taking a vow? I’m going to go look it up….

Okay, there doesn’t seem to be any difference except it doesn’t appear to be grammatically correct to take a vow. But both terms are used a lot, casually. Like, here’s a site that guides you in taking a vow of celibacy.

ANYWAY, I’ve made a vow. I made it a few days ago and have already struggled with it, but maybe blogging about it will make it come true. Like throwing a penny in a well or seeing just one headlight and yelling “padiddle.” Actually, nothing like that. I’m flagging—please ignore everything in this post up until….right now.

I’m forcing myself to take a break in organizing social events. Several occasions this winter have made me seriously re-evaluate whether I’m even any good at putting together social affairs and activities. I’ve tried to synthesize several people’s desires and schedules—and accidentally pissed half of them off. I’ve slapped groups of people together without asking all parties if they’re cool with that. I’ve stressed over minor details and spaced on major ones. I’m an anxious hostess, a forgetful caller, and usually broke. Where do I get off trying to convince people to follow my social lead?

I wrote a friend about this: I had an epiphany a couple of hours ago…I need to stop organizing so much stuff…It's an instinct, occasionally a skill, but more often than not a compulsion. A dumb one. Pushing people together [or just pushing], hyperactively trying to make sure everyone is happy and taken care of, socializing with as many people as possible, as if it’s a quantity issue…Because really, what's important? Connecting with people, not collecting people.

For awhile, I’m taking a deep metaphorical breath and letting others suggest stuff, plan stuff—invite me or ignore me.

Now That It's Been Pointed Out To Me...

...I'm duly offended. There are no female cereal mascots. Hmph! Not even Pebbles gets to grace the box of her namesake fruity bits.

No No No

Maybe It Was Just The John Williams Score

I went to work four hours late today. I skipped to stay home and nurse a sicky headache. I still have it—I’ve had it for almost 40 hours now. It’s anchored right between my eyes and is a tight, dull pain. As if my skull’s diameter shrank a few millimeters. I mostly napped at home, but eventually flipped on the tv and found myself weirdly engrossed in Superman Returns.

It’s a pretty naff movie, but for pete's sake, I kept fighting the urge to cry. Poor Clark Kent—why doesn’t Lois just love him for who he is? Why is Superman so self-assured when Clark isn’t? I mean, isn’t that, like, a personality disorder? Poor gay Jimmy Olsen, secretly loving Clark. Poor James Marsden's character, so hot, so nice to children, so dismissed. And poor Brandon Routh—will he never have another role?

When I finally fought my malaise and the 20-degree temperature drop to make it into work, a coworker asked if maybe my headache was hormonal. I didn’t even know you could get a hormonal headache but, whoa, my dumb afternoon sniffles makes so much more sense now.

These Two Should Have A Baby, and Then Give It Here

Gonna Make Me Sweat

Besides wanting in general to join the One Chin Only Brigade and skip a diabetic future, I’d like to lose weight for a very specific reason: to be a better dancer. I don’t mean that slender-types automatically dance better than chubsters, not at all. But I certainly dance better without this 45 pounds of extra me. Because…

I have more energy when I’m lighter, and that makes me stay on the floor longer (my moves always get smoother the longer I’m on the floor). I sweat less, too, which makes me less self-conscious. Which in turn makes me more inventive. I wear cuter clothes when I don't have to search high and low for XLs, and cuter clothes means a cuter dancer, sure enough. Also, a lot of dancing is making contrasts with your body, on beat hopefully, and a body with more angles and less, um, planes makes more contrasts.

Finally, I also seem to drink more when I’m thinner, and who doesn’t at least think they’re more of a groove goddess when they’ve had a few?

October 19th's Is My Favorite

Oooo, a modern design blog regularly higlights a Bookcase of the Day.

All Together Now: I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE.

I finally saw There Will Be Blood last night, and was surprisingly surprised by it. I had expected a frightening, epic, world-illuminating, crystalline film but it wasn't any of those things. The story was actually kind of small, fable-like in its shape but made singular by its main character's pathology. DD-L drains land and breaks people, and when he announces he's "finished," so's the movie. I dunno. I think I liked it.