My Weekend

I wrote this last night. Had some time on my hands.

• All this time I thought I hated Ben Stiller movies. I don't hate Ben Stiller movies. I hate Ben Stiller!
• How you know that you don't eat right: you realize that you're picking food out of the tray beneath the burner on the stove for the fourth time this week. 'Cause it dropped there while you were eating standing over the stove. Cereal. Carrots from a frozen dinner. Cereal. And today, pasta. Damn it.
• Life's too short. Buy your own damned flowers. Ergo...
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• Of course, there's also this:
  "What if you slept, and what if in your sleep you dreamed, and what if in your dreams you went to heaven and there you plucked a strange and beautiful flower, and what if when you awoke you had the flower in your hand? Ah, what then?"
  (Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in Biographia Literaria)Or this:
  "The fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose."
  (Hada Béjar)
• I was eating a nutritious breakfast (or not, as the case may be--that depends on your perspective, and prehaps your opinion about refined sugars and high-fructose corn syrup) this morning, and in my sugary stupor fell to contemplating the front of the box of the particular cereal that I was eating. "Life," I thought. "This cereal is good, but is it actually life? And if it is, what the fuck is wrong with us, as a literally goddamned species? So I took some photographs....
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• Is it really what it's all about?
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  An idea whose time had come. Every food should have 75% less sugar.
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  An idea whose author should be shot, drawn and quartered, drowned, strangled, mangled, and shunned. All at once. Blegh!
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  "Red berries," my white ass. They're strawberries, people. STRAWberries.
• At last count: 3666 cell minutes for the month, which ends 2/24.
• I've turned into a complete imbecile. (I even spelled that word incorrectly on the first attempt.) While doing one of the eight loads of laundry with which I tortured my neighbors this weekend, I managed to include something...that was not laundry. I'll not actually reveal the exact nature of the item pending The Cat receiving something in the PALS box this week, but once she does, then I shall tell all. Suffice it to say, I'm a fucking idiot. "I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed," to quote Smash Mouth. And why not, when one has the opportunity, quote Smash Mouth?!
• Speaking of neighbors, my next-door neighbor--who shall, if there is a God in heaven, roast in the fiery pits of hell with my compliments--has returned from her far-too-short two-week vacation. How do I know this? Because I have been listening to non-stop cheesy-Mexican-restaurant music for the past two days. As always. Always, when she is home, we both listen to cheesy Mexican restaurant music. It's enough to make me want to throw enchiladas [think Jimmy Smits on Saturday Night Live] at the wall. Or, perhaps, even better, to throw frozen enchiladas through the wall, whereupon they could hit her in the head, rendering her unconscious (eventually to...er...expire), and at the same time, careen off of her irritating, empty noggin and onto the television, striking the "Off" button, taking care of MTV Ocho at the same time.
• I forgot to mention, when writing earlier about the bimonthly cataloging meeting and lunch thereafter with The Cat, the menu item that we chose not to order: the "Willie Burger." They also had a "Willie Chicken." Not sure what it entailed (I was either gagging or laughing; I don't recall now) except that yes, it was topped with bacon.
• Household stuff, the remembering of which ('the remembering to do which'?) I suck: taking out garbage [how is that possible, when it's located between the kitchen and the bedroom?!]; watering plants [I only have two!]; folding laundry [I can wash & dry with the best of 'em, but after that I can't seem to do much beyond tossing it on the bed. I sometimes even sleep beneath it. BWA-ha-ha-ha-ha!]; writing staff evaluations at work [I only have one of those!]; reading review journals [I'm so far behind, it's not even funny]; writing out birthday and other cards & miscellaneous correspondence [although I'm doing better now that I've embraced the idea of postcards--eh, T.O.?]; and mailing birthday boxes [ahem].
• Here's the quote: "What a disappointment when someone you have always wanted turns out to have appallingly bad taste." Not to mention an inability to appreciate when enough is enough.
• On that note, overdue thanks to just a couple of my true friends:
  ~ T.O., for dinner and conversation and cards and advice, and all the things that no one would understand anyway, so there's no point in trying to write it. You know.
  ~ The Cat, for email and lunch[es] and conversation and sage, sage advice, and a shoulder upon which..., and protection....
  ~ J.R., for a box of fabulous Christmas stuff, which came on the right day in February to make all the difference. I love the Martian necklace! And the CDs, with which I'm driving the office-mate nuts--I told her that I don't have the playlists, so I’m making her guess the songs. Tee hee. The magnet is utter perfection, in a place of honor on the fridge. And the orange glass, and the candles, and...I love it all.
  And for your continued, unexpected friendship and the commiseration. When I'm questioning, you seem to be there in ways that no one else can quite capture.

'S all for now.