2.23.2012

weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless

January 23: troglodyte
(Some of these are just too easy.)
The other morning, I was driving behind what I was certain would turn out to be a troglodyte in a minivan. I was, therefore, surprised - but not too - to discover that it was, instead, a coworker. Apparently that person cannot read lips in the rear-view mirror....
February 23: encomium
My most closely-held encomiums are not awards and official pronouncements, but kind words and sincere appreciation of those who really know what I do, and why.

    Sleepy. It's winter again, however temporarily. Half day tomorrow, followed by a massage and new hair. Time to start thinking of what to wear to my brother's wedding, and how to wear my hair (i.e. whether to grow it out), and what the hell to do about a date. I'm pretty much constrained to someone from the Midwest, because no one with any sense would travel to the home state in late July. If it's not 100 degrees, I'll be amazed.
     Weekend plans, too. Heading to the suburbs with the Mumbler to look at beds (frames) at Crate and Barrel, wander American Science & Surplus, check out furniture at World Market, have lunch (and then some) at the Irish place, and whatever else suits our mood[s]. I was going to drive, since I've spent much more time in the area than he has and it was my idea in the first place, but considering the weather, we're more likely to want his Jeep than my slippery compact car.
     And so, to bed.

[the title quotation is by Bill Watterson]

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