If I were a blogger then maybe I would wear retro-cool Converse and smoke cigarettes and be able to pull off ironic pigtails and funky t-shirts, but alas I am much more given to the long-form journaling, which sometimes makes me feel like Granny McOld-and-Lame. The blogster-hipster thing just isnít working for me.
Iíve been reading a lot of journals and blogs lately (actually that is a bald-faced lie: Iíve been reading some blogs and journals Ė less than I used to Ė and barely being able to muster the time/energy/interest/words to post on any of the sites Iíve frequented), and Iíve come to a conclusion. Namely, that I need to find myself a nice office job that will put my ass in front of a computer every day, so that I can keep up with all you goddam Jones who have hip little blogs and funny anecdotes and inside jokes. I want to beeeloooonngg!!! Include me!!! Slow down, Internet, and wait for me. I know Iím usually a little slow on the pick-up (hey? Have you guys heard of this group Outkast!? And omigod, The Apprentice is sooooo good!), but I just cannot keep up Ė I canít even read daily updates, much less post them. But I have this lingering suspicion that given the medium, my life might Ė just might Ė sound like a damn good time. Because crazy Ė craaazzzzy Ė shit happens all the time. And I do stuff! I have adventures and hijinks. I am unfortunately a lazy git who never sits down and actually writes anything. And in case you were wondering, I also havenít been writing that book I outlined, or that short story I started. Or the other one, or the other one. And that freelance thing I toyed with? Nope, havenít written a word.
So what have I been doing? UmÖmostly working and walking the dog. Seriously, it feels like that is all I ever do. Get up, walk dog, go to work, come home, walk dog, read blogs and covet lives of other online journallers, take dog out again because apparently, yes she does need to shit four itmes a day. Go to bed, vaguely aware of person next to me, wondering what it must be like to have a spouse around in the evenings. Wake up the next day and start over.
Seriously, things arenít that bleak. But I do feel like itís been ages since Kent and I have had a real conversation, or more than an hour together, awake, for that matter. If I were a cool blogger-type, I bet Kent and I would go to music clubs in Williamsburg and drink beer on our roof and have sex every day. But Iím a dowdy journaller who absolutely does not want to have sex after cleaning up the kitchen and barely has any free time, let alone any that coincides with her husbandís. We are both off work on Sundays, but it always ends up being a Day of A Thousand Errands, which stretches into an Evening of Sloth, Laundry and HBO. We really have no time together, none for just hanging out, and I donít know how to fix it. Kent will start school in the fall, and when his schedule changes things will improve, I hope. His current job has turned him into a Finance Pod Person and I miss him.
On Sunday I had wanted to hang out with him, maybe walk over the Brooklyn Bridge and shop in NoLita, but I got home from work on Saturday night to a slight change in plans; our upstairs neighbors were having a stoop sale and wanted to know if we would join in the purging. Yes, yes, a thousand times YES, I did want to purge our apartment of all the crap that was everywhere, so Saturday night turned into a frantic sweep-through of the apartment, looking for anything sellable, and tossing the really, really bad crap. This, of course, led to a) extreme cleaning, b) some very un-sexy nagging and bossing-around on my part, and c) very little sleep. On Sunday we (and by ďweĒ I mean me) dragged our stuff outside and set up a table of our belongings, and we hocked our wares (and by ďweĒ I mean me, while Kent watched TV inside, emerging every now and then to see if anyone bought his stupid cross-cut paper shredder). Still, even though the day turned cold and RAINY, we managed to make $320 (and by ďweĒ I mean, hell YES I am spending that money on shoes!) and have fun. Sort of. We did meet a woman who bought some old Pyrex pie plates to use as feeding dishes for animals, which at first sounded really nice and good-deedish. Until I found out the animals were all turtles and the animal shelter was actually a loft in Tribeca, and that there were 1,200 Ďspecimensí being rehabilitated there. 1,200 turtles in an apartment. In Tribeca. People are fucking weird.
So Sunday was a bust as far as days-off are concerned. Yesterday was my other day off, but I ended up running all over the place with a bunch of errands Ė some fun, some less so. I had a hair appointment (Iím trying hard to get the color back in shape: nice, normal brown Ė oh, how I miss you, baby), and also had my eyebrows done. The eyebrow shaping was a revelation; itís been a while since Iíve had my brows done professionally, and this was the first time Iíd had them done by Christina, My New Favorite Person Ever Because She Made Me Pretty. She was awesome! So now, my clothes may be out-of-date and my shoes may be slightly dog-chewed, but my brows look fabulous! I then took my fab brows back onto the F train, heading home so I could meet with a dog trainer because we want to make Tuesday into a good little dog. She is currently Mostly Good, with occasional lapses into Evil She-Beast from Hellís Darkest Corner. The best part of the training was at the end, when my phone rang and it was friend Amy asking me to meet her at a cheese and beer tasting in Park Slope. I never turn down cheese, so I walked briskly to meet her, careful not to damage the lovely salon blow-out en route. (I hate my curly hair, and love love love when I have it salon-straight. I donít plan on washing it for days. Really. Itís too pretty to ruin!) Amy and I spent the next few hours eating cheese and drinking beer and talking about cheese and boys and how much we love cheese and how much we donít love dealing with boys. Then we bought more cheese. Which I brought home and ate.
Thatís all I got, people. Oldie McBorningEntry strikes again! I swear Iím funny in real life. Really.
Oh, and my hands have reached a point of chronic dryness. Please, seriously -pleaseÖsomehow tell me how to cure them! Make me pretty!