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[get yo' testifyin' ass in the trunk]
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This weekend I decided to be social and attend, not one, but two ten-year reunion events: Friday night at Christy's Rathskeller and Saturday night at the Pavilion. Both nights, ample drinkage was consumed, and there was not a lack of drama. There was an argument between a former bride and the maid-o'-honour who dissed her. Then there was some shit involving a girl I had run with third year, which was understandable considering she had, like, thirty-seven glasses of chardonnay. I felt bad for her husband, who--as she proclaimed aloud--was "a great fuck."
Good for her, I say. And the rock on her hand...
That was one thing I was doing: Checking out the rocks. I've come to terms with the fact that I will never be given phat bling in the form of diamond and platinum. But, I'm not beyond judging the bling of others.
[[And, no, Heather Mitts was NOT there. She graduated in 1996.]]
Oh, and get this, it fucking snowed Saturday night. Oh my poor flowers (did I mention previously that I've gotten into gardening?)
Oh, and apparently, I offended L.'s husband J., when I insisted that Blue Moon was a girlie beer on Friday. As a result, he drank, for the rest of the night, exactly what I was drinking, because I'm such a man, I guess. He got over it, but it took a few beers. L. ensured him that I was "a riot," so that made up for it. We hung out Saturday night in the so-called VIP area in the Pavilion (which used to be a stage before the bar become "clubby") and he showed me a whacked-out picture of his one-year-old. Apparently, he never sits still. |
[I know this is a bit late, but....]
[Because I have nothing productive to say or do:]
[Hey Mr. Donuthead Man, who's trying to kill you?]
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This is going to be one of those Fridays where I stay home, as per usual, and do nothing but drink cheap merlot out of plastic cup. I wanted to go see Macbeth, directed by my lovely and talented friend Joe at Ovation Theatre Company tonight, but I was just too wiped out. I haven't adjusted yet to the whole "spring forward" thing. Without the sunlight pre-wakey time, the serotonin production doesn't get in motion until after I step outside. And that is not good, especially since before last Sunday, I was having great mornings thanks to the early sunrises. This will all change though, and soon the sun will be creeping through my east-room's windows before my alarm sounds in the a.m.
I started running again this week. My goal is to lose ten pounds before I leave for Florida in May. I've also made a point of eating more raw veggies. Two salads a day keeps the system movin', in several ways, and it probably keeps the scurvy at bay (for a while, I thought I had it, no joke). Today I ate a low-fat granola bar for breakfast, a small salad (no cheese or any other funny business, just a small dollop of fat-free dressing), a bowl of fruit, and cup of vanilla yogurt for lunch, and another salad, a half cup of pasta from the produce store up the street, and a half cup of baked beans, with no meat (also from the produce store), for dinner. To drink, I've had one cup of coffee (decaf), three or four cups of tea (cinnamon and apple, which is good for the metabolism), a can of lemonade, and red wine. Tomorrow morning, I plan to run to the park and run on the track before the sun gets too high.
In other news, an unfortunate event will be taking place in the near future. I don't mean to alienate, like, everyone I know, but it must be said. There are two words that make me throw up a little: Star...Wars. Yes, I said it. And, is it this month, or next that, (see, I don't even know when this blasted thing comes out, if that tells you anything) I will be taken to the theatre against my will, to sit through two hours (possibly longer) of Star...Wars. I just don't understand how Star...Wars gives all of y'all boners, I really don't.
And, in further news, I've decided to no longer watch movies with gratuitous special effects. I think I will rent Vera Drake this weekend and perhaps bust out the Gosford Park. I miss...films... |
[Hens and Chicks and Conclave Madness]
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Yesterday at work, C. disclosed to me, in an odd secretive e-mail, that he had a slight fixation with Paris Hilton. I guess that explains his "that's hot" response after nearly everything cynical, sick, or religious that I say. "That's hot" is always the phrase of the day.
"Hamma Time" was the phrase for last Friday.
Apparently, M., thinking the pope was already dead on the afternoon of the first, e-mailed us ["us," being the group o' grad-school-slackers who have remained great pals and continue to dish dirt about former professors who are shagging students and classmates who mispronounced words like "Antigone" and "Donne"] and talked about the hammer, which has been used on popes past (not JPI or JPII) to determine whether they have, indeed, expired. I replied with something like, "he's not dead, yet," very quickly, as my Friday at work was a whirlwind of March-Is-Over Madness for various reasons.
M. replied: "I guess it's not 'Hamma Time' at the Vatican yet."
L. replied: "I just snorted Dr. Pepper out of my nose."
I say, "That's hot."
---
This weekend is for working on the yard. My poor daffodils, transplanted from a national forest, are already dying [they will return next year, yes] as the whole transplanting process is harsh on bulbs in bloom. As soon as they retreat to the ground, I shall plant annuals in the front yard around ye olde oak. Weeding is mandatory in the back, especially along the fence where my daffodils, tulips, and irises are cautiously blooming. They must be wise to the ways of the Cincinnati spring months (it could snow any day now!), as they are far behind others on my street despite the fact that my back yard gets plenty o' sun. My rosebushes are budding, as is the still-unidentifiable tree. What I thought looked like red claws coming out of the bed in my side yard, my mom identified, but I forgot what they are called already. And last, but not least, the Sempervivum soboliferum are adorable.
---
And just so everyone knows, my dibs for pontiff are on Oscar Rodriguez and Claudio Hummes. |
[...and I wanted to like it.]
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Sin City tried to be film noir. But it failed. The "cool factor," I guess, is there, and the film will do well at the box offices, and in fim critics eyes. But, folks, there more to pulp fiction than black and white and bad weather. Sure, there was plenty of "high heels on wet pavement" but it was just so wrong. There was no tact, no glimmer of critical thinking on behalf of the "heros," no guts, other than the ones being spilled.
Seriously: There's more to crime than the crime itself.
Here's a tip: Stay at home and watch Double Indemnity or The Maltese Falcon. Or, better yet: Read the books. |
[and in other news...]
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I ordered my kitchen cabinets yesterday, and my kitchen wallpaper Wednesday. Tomorrow, more work on the walls: sanding and joint cementing (the dust is atrocious!). Primer will soon follow...
The last step, of course, will be measuring--CAREFULLY--for my countertop, choosing an appropriate color/pattern of formica, and ordering, which will be, I think, the final chunk of change I drop in my house for quite some time!
That is, until I replace the floor in the upstairs bathroom, which reminds me of a Motel 6.
Oh happy! |
[a note for the road.]
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Dear Holy Father:
As millions and millions of people--Catholics, non-Catholics, non-Christians--hold vigil tonight, praying for a peaceful end to the suffering you have endured, I hope you are at peace, and "serene" as Vatican reports say. I pray this is true. And I pray that your hour will come, whisking you off to the next leg of the journey that awaits you, whatever it may be.
For how you firmly stood by the opinions you preached over the nearly twenty-seven years you served as head of the Roman Catholic Church--those opinions that I and many others do not hold, that many loathe, even--I respect you.
For your stance against war, your love for the unwanted, the poor, the sick, the dying, I celebrate you.
For that chaotic day in the Vatican, where I, as a small girl, witnessed your once strong countenance, arms, and voice deliver the weekly Angelus, I will always remember you, and talk of you and the indellible marks you made on my life, both small and immeasurable.
And for all these things, people will forever, with you in mind, sing, "Viva il Papi!"
Indeed, viva il papi... |
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