Every day is like Sunday

Things I'm happy about:


-- I have the whole day to clean up and do laundry and prepare for the work week screw around and watch Netflix.


-- Remembered, as I contemplated breakfast, that I had eggs. HUZZAH!


-- I got to talk to my friends Vanessa and Luckdragon last night. Yay, impromptu phone calls!


-- Some of my bills are paid! Including the YMCA! Where I haven't been in months! They're going to have to name a wing after me eventually. I mean, it's only $33/month that has recently gone COMPLETELY to waste, so I'll have to start small and claim, like, a chair in the lobby (you can buy a decent chair for $132, right?). But I'll get that wing eventually. Or I could just cancel my membership. Or -- HA! -- go to the fucking gym.


-- I rewatched "The Truth About Cats and Dogs" last night and was glad I still liked it. Janeane Garofalo has denounced the film as being anti-feminist and I was afraid I was going to hate it some 15 years after seeing it in the theater. But I didn't. Might even buy a copy, if only for a glimpse at all the wonderful 90s-ness about it, including landlines, women wearing patterned skirts with dark tights and Docs, tiny backpack purses, and answering machines.


-- Being back on my thyroid medicine (avoiding the long and probably boring story that goes with being off it) if only because I can now look at people, widen my eyes ever so slightly, and say, "I'm back on my meds." And then smile like Herman Cain.

Things I'm not happy about, but mostly in a first-world-problem kind of way:


-- No one is here to make or bring me a vanilla latte. My life is hard.


-- I went to a fancy schmancy art exhibit that King V was a part of and had some fantabulous crab dip that has made my stomach hurt off and on since Friday fucking night. I had two little bread pieces with dip -- no more than a few tablespoons total -- and am still occasionally wincing and wondering when the alien is going to pop out of my stomach. Not fair, crab dip I avoided spreading all over my body and rolling around in -- NOT. FAIR. Selective lactose intolerance is just idiotic.


-- The cost of redoing yoga teacher training. I really like the idea of redoing the training (and ideally being better prepared for the emotional strain I felt the first time) and teaching a class for larger-size people but $2,500 might as well be a million. I don't know. I can't entirely decide if becoming a yoga teacher is a dream I'm putting off or something that just sounds kinda neat but I'll forget about by next Tuesday.


Things I am putting off doing:


-- Detangling my hair. It's just booooooooooring. The alternative is leaving the house again looking like I have drunk wrestling weasels on my head. Fine. Where'sthefuckingcombgodblessit.


-- Figuring out what to eat for breakfast (I have time for this, though, since I have to wait another 30 or so minutes for my thyroid medicine to finish kicking in or whatever it does in the hour I'm supposed to wait before eating. Maybe it does magic tricks. Although *poof* You can now stay awake throughout the day! *shazaam!* kinda sounds like a lame magic show. Like one that would take place at a convention for very literal people.)


-- Getting in touch with Buckethead at Vox and possibly picking up some writing assignments because I am one broke ho (although stumbling across this entry is aiding in my procrastination, as is the wrinkled, I-just-smelled-something-yucky face I made when remembering conversations with Ginger).


-- Finishing a blog post where I talk about A More Serious Issue. No hints. Don't hold your breath; it's slow going with that entry.


-- Taking a nap. I KNOW -- what's THAT about?? Procrastination is only good if it keeps yucky tasks at bay.