March 31
The current cold snap we're having only further validates what I've said my entire life (or, at the very least for as long as I've been aware of such stuff), which is: Nothing Good Ever Happens in March. If I could cross stitch or if I had some puffy paint or something, I'd make it into a plaque and hang it up in my kitchen, next to the latchhook "Bless This Mess!" and below the "Oh Lord, Let My Words
Be Tender And Sweet, For Tomorrow I May Have To Eat Them" suncatcher.Anyhow, for the sake of actually getting an entry up,I'm going to resort to some writing trickery I've resorted to previously--wherein I give only the beginning of my thoughts, without having to find any time-wasting closure. Here goes:
I fell in the shower the other day. I was standing there, attending to my showerly business and the next thing, I am on my ass with the shower curtain pulled down over my head. How did this happen? Suddenly, I felt about 90 years old, just a hair away from "I've fallen...and I can't get up..." As a reward, I have a giant bruise on my rump and a bump on my head. What 32 year old falls for no reason in the shower? I have no idea.
Saturday night, I dreamed that I was at the beach, floating in water. I fell alseep (in my DREAM. How random is that?) and when I woke, it was dark outside, and I was in exactly the same spot. I stumbled out of the water and looked off in the distance. I guess I was in New York, because the Twin Towers were there. I told myself that it was entirely impossible that I was seeing the towers because they weren't there. The dream took on a super creepy quality, and I woke myself up. Feh.
So, there's going to be an article in this Sunday's (4/6) New Haven Register about Online Journals (do the words "Online Journals" need capitilization? Probably not) and I happen to be one of the people they're showcasing (Rob is another, along with some people I've never heard of. They're bloggers). I tell you this inc ase you're wondering where some of my archives went, or why some of my text has been edited [if you're a reader coming because of the interview, you don't need to know why the archives are edited. You snooze, you lose]. Know who reads the Register on Sunday? That's right. Angelo and Eleanor! Online world, meet real world. Wacky outcome to follow?! We'll have to see.
So, if this is the last entry I manage to write this week before it comes out, and you're here because you read the article, greetings. If you see me, say, walking through the hall of my building to get to my office, please do not tell me how much worse I look in person. If I happen to be sweating embarrassingly at the gym, please don't punch me in the face for something I wrote that you happen to disagree with. If you share an office with me, well, put my pen down and stay out of my supplies!!! I see you!!
Will I be stalked and killed at eaten because of this interview? I hope not. I'm taking a chance that the good people of New Haven have very short attention spans, and that you all have no interest in little ol' me.
Of course, this will change some of the things I write about, and definitely the way I write about things. I decided to do it anyhow, because to live is to take chances. And plus, if I have anything super secret to tell, I'll start a mailing list for all the old school bobofett readers.
Nicole and I took Yoga Class (again, what's with the capital letters?!) last Tuesday night. Do you know why I did it? Do you think it's because I was under the impression that I needed to find some inner peace? Because stretching and taking cleansing breaths is the kind of thing that I'm into? Because I'd like to put my foot betwixt my forehead? Peh. Of COURSE NOT. I took it because I thought it would be funny. Certainly not because I thought I'd get anything out of it. Don't be foolish.
I knew things would be bad when we got there and everyone had their own mat. I knew it would be VERY BAD when the Yoga Instructor started lighting candles and incense. I knew it would be VERY VERY bad when Nicole leaned in and whispered "Doesn't Yoga make you fart?" I knew it was going to be VERY VERY VERY bad when I started laughing and just couldn't stop, and the skinny freak (notice to the Skinny Freak if you are now reading: Perhaps you were not a freak, and me calling you skinny is all jealousy. Your feet did not smell delightful, though. So, there.) next to me shot me the dirtiest look EVER.
It was bad. From the first cleansing breath to the constant touching of my own smelly feet [note: I'd done cardio for one hour before the class] to the end of the class, where the Yoga Instructor walked around SQUIRTING SMELLY SHIT into the air for some kind of aromatherapy bullshit, the whole thing made me want to smoke a giant bowl of crack.
I guess I'm just not cut out to be limber and mellow. The most I can hope for is angry and muscular.
I'm going to be in New York for a few days, starting Sunday. Believe it or not, I'm NOT going because that's the day the story is being published. It just worked out that way. One thing has nothing to do with the other, but I know that if I come back to work and find all of my stuff in a giant heap in the lobby, I'll know why.
I'm pretty sure I'll write another entry before then. Maybe one complete story! Maybe not! Talking about my dreams. What's next? Maybe lengthy explantions of tarot card readings or the transcript of my session with a psychic!!!!!!
the other day - home - email - tomorrow