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[Just a note.]
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Tom Cruise has just taken spot number three after Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston in the race for MOST FUCKED UP CELEBRITY OF THE 21st CENTURY. |
[Beep, beep, get on board]
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Today, in an attempt to accrue money, I am-once again-opening a savings account, in hopes that no unexpected events cause me to drain it as in times past. I am saving for a car, hopefully to be purchased before, though I wince to think about it, next winter. The poor Dodge, with its cracked water pump, leaking oil pan, and mysterious radiator woes will not make it through another three or four months of stalling in traffic. Miraculously, I was only involved in minor accident on the way to work, where my car stopped suddenly and an unsuspecting tailgater hit my rear bumper and drove on. It could have been much, much worse. I almost feel guilty donating the car to Good Will and receiving a tax write off for its Blue Book value-for something that I don't think I could pay a normal person to take! I can't hate the poor thing too much. It's gotten me from point A to point B for over ten years. I just pray that whoever wins it via Good Will auction is willing and able to put a little bit of money in it.to make it safe.
This afternoon, the funtrain arrives. Tricia and her boy Seamus will be in town through the weekend. Sean and I plan to party with her family on Saturday. My liver is quivering in anticipation.
As long as T.'s mom doesn't offer me mysterious blue pills this time, I think things will be fine. I'm looking forward to seeing her and, perhaps, actually having some fun. Life has been in the bland for quite some time. I work too much (after all, I have a mortgage and property taxes to pay)-in fact I generally prefer to stay home on Saturday nights to put in hours for my part-time job. When I do go out, I'm very tired, from work and from house-related jobs (I will have a kitchen soon!). To top it off, I've become increasingly antisocial. At clubs, I tend to plant myself at the bar and talk to as few people as possible. There are rare exceptions.
And they are becoming rarer and rarer. I'm not big on starting conversations, even with people I know and recognize, and I tend to only be talked to and flanked by idiots. When there is that rare conversation, it generally consists of two people explaining what they're "doing" and nodding in agreement or affirmation at words, hardly heard, rarely understood, and always muddied by whatever music is polluting the room. I'm tired of people's petty accomplishments and their drunken b.s. I'm tired of cool hair and spackled eyeliner. It's all so done for me.
[[I'm at the point where I hope they pass the smoking ban in bars and restaurants. I think that's the icing on the cake for me: having my hair and my dry-clean-only clothes smell like an ashtray when coming home. Will non-smoking establishments cut down on the b.s. and idiot factors?]]
This was the perfect time to join a gym-perhaps my mood will lighten with more physical activity-and that's what I ended up doing last Saturday. I figured the Fitworks in Norwood was the closest and best deal. I've worked out three times this week and I have a session with a personal trainer this evening. I fear for my comfort, my lungs, and everything else. I will make it through in one piece. I will.
I picked up on running again, just a couple-few miles at a time, and will probably take a class or two once I feel in shape enough to not make a total ass out of myself. My abs are starting harden already, and I think I'm on my way to losing the weight that has crept up on me since grad school and acquiring a job where I sit for eight hours a day. I think I've been inspired by Lauren Ambrose, who-if you've seen her so far in the latest (and last) season of Six Feet Under-looks fabulous. The collar bones and defined facial features say it all! Sure, she's always been pretty, but she looks more like an adult now and not an angsty twenty-something. Not that I don't love my angsty twenty-something friends.
In other news, I didn't vote Tuesday. In fact, I haven't registered to vote since moving to a new city (yes, technically, I no longer live in the 'Nati). I could have voted at my previous station, but going to jail is not worth voting for someone I wouldn't really want in congress anyway. I promise to take care of this soon, before elections that matter (yes, I know, they all matter) take place here. After all, this little city I'm in actually has quite the progressive party from what I've heard.
And another rare blog post comes to an end. |
["Pass Me a Beer Truck"]
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Yes, yes, I have returned from vacation, without--surprisingly--sunburn or blistering and without--even more surprisingly--having to deal with a pesky vacation hangover despite the fact that alcohol was nearly always in my presence and in my belly.
[[Last year, I did, however, waste a good half of a day clutching a bathroom floor after two nights of debauchery. The whole thing was criminal. After all, I had told Sean that we couldn’t afford to mar our precious vacation time with after-party conversations with Ralph. So, yes, I broke our agreement--the one I set in motion. But that was last year, not this.]]
Did I mention that I received paid vacation while gone, a first for me?
We left the morning of the 20th. After car-rental woes and miscommunication issues resolved and with breakfast consumed, we finally exited the Greater Cincinnati area around eleven. Sean drove the entire way down (and back for that matter), while I was in charge of the radio. Heading south is always a treat. The blue wildflowers flanking the highway, the billboards for peanuts and plantations and nudie bars where truckers can shower for free, the white crosses and signs warning passersby of approaching End Times--all excellent conversation starters, particularly needed during a fifteen-hour haul.
Once past Macon, Georgia, we stopped at a Comfort Inn for the night. Driving straight through was never an option. Besides, our condo wasn’t available until the 21st. What is there to say about Macon, Georgia? Nothing. Except that it was quiet and satisfactory after driving through Atlanta, where we witnessed (and nearly participated in) a car wreck on the I-285 bypass right in front of us. It resulted, of course, from the indiscretions of idiots: one watching a car pulled over, the other a tailgater, most likely a “broad” (as Sean would say)--face it girls, we can’t drive and we love to tailgate.
The morning of the 21st, came and we were off again down I-75. Once in Florida--I think in Lake City--we stopped at Shoneys and filled up on saturated fat and carbohydrates. We arrived in Fort Myers Beach in the late afternoon, unpacked and briefly settled in before heading to a party in Cape Coma, or Cape Communism (Cape Coral, actually).
Unfortunately, we never made it to the party. We drove around for over three hours before giving up. Apparently, taking an address and phone number with you when you’re far from home, looking to get somewhere, and all the houses look the same is a good idea. So, yeah, getting lost in a suburban nightmare was the theme for the evening--that sucked.
So, rather than kick ourselves for being complete morons the night before, we opted to start barhopping early Sunday, around 11:30 or so to chase the blues away. I had several beers and two pina coladas and started to feel a bit hung over before having dinner with Sean’s dad and dad’s girlfriend, Karen. Thankfully, there was a time for napping before we headed out again, for a night of drinking. Mark and Roxc picked us up around nine or so for pitchers of beers at Olivius (Mark’s place of employment), where I was told I was a “nice piece of ass” by one of Mark’s friends. Always something I enjoy hearing. Particularly from drunks who can’t quite keep their hands to themselves. Sean was warned about him [Why I wasn’t in the loop until after, I do not know], so he didn’t punch his lights out, something that would have been protocol otherwise.
Monday, I can quite remember it. We ate at Plakos, a Greek restaurant in the “square” and, crud, I simply can’t remember. Oh yes, we went to the award-winning Bubble Room for dinner, which received two thumbs up from us. The drive through Sanibel to Captiva was lovely, as I expected, considering it required a six-dollar toll! I'll write more about the restaurant later.
The remainder of our stay at Ft. Myers Beach was a combination of playing in the surf, drinking every day, and applying sunblock in record amounts.
Thursday, we headed for Key West, which was hot and full of chickens. I probably would have had more fun if I had been five or six years younger, or fifteen years older. And tan. And about twenty pounds lighter. The first night was spent at the lovely Cypress Inn, which, in addition to providing a gorgeous room, had a generous happy hour, the best continental breakfast I've ever had, and two beautiful dogs and fat cat--all ready and willing to be petted and doted upon with affection. The staff was delightful and the grounds were breathtaking.
The second and third nights were spent in a scary roach-motel-type place. That, I will not go into. At least the room had a/c and HBO, for Sean and I spent our third day on the island indoors. We were beat from all the boozing and sun (I almost turned into a puddle at one point).
The stay at the Cypress Inn was nice, but if we had to do it all over again, we probably would have stayed in Ft. Myers for the rest of the vacation, or ventured somewhere else. The twenty-hour drive home from the southernmost part of the U.S. was tedious and enforced that fact that it wasn't all that. I can do without tourist traps, overpriced beer, and bad service (By the way, don't ever eat at the Magnolia Cafe on Duval. Just a tip.).
And, in other news Deadwood season two has come to a close. Did anyone catch the final episode? My God!
And, just to forwarn y'all, I've adopted "cocksucker" as my favorite bad-word-o'-choice thanks to the likes of Mr. Al Swearengen. He's so kickass. |
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