Tra La La, La Dee Da
Today was pretty pleasant, much to my surprise. I wasn't expecting much, but it turned out okay. After my car blinked a "something's wrong with your car, so fix it, asshole" signal at me last night, my mom and I decided it would be best for her to drive me to work this morning. It was nice to have a few extra minutes with her this morning, even though I was grumpy and pessimistic and my tummy hurt.
Work was continually busy from 9:30 A.M. to noon and then suddenly died. I enjoy the occasional rush, keeps me on my toes, but it was also nice to have a chance to check e-mail and Facebook and LiveJournal and such after that. And then solitaire. And once I grew tired of that, I went outside to the front of the store and sat on the curb (it's not an actual curb, but that step up from the parking lot, so whatever one would call that cement slab thing) in the sun and read. I am currently reading a work called Bright Lights, Big Ass, a memoir by a woman who lives in Chicago with her husband. She is quite...unique, in a very funny, ditzy sort of way. But she is bright and writes well, and I like that.
Oh! And I received a prompt reply to an e-mail I sent to a guy I kinda like. It was brief, of course, but most guys are really, and so it goes. It made me smile, though, and I hope I wasn't too chatty in my reply to his reply. But I know myself well enough to know that I probably was a bit too chatty and that he will not be equally as chatty in return. Certainly that would make things too easy. Or maybe hard? I don't know. It's a freakin' e-mail and my stupid speculation, but it kind of entertains me in a sorry sort of way.
But I'm still smiling about it.
Labor Day will be spent bicycling with my dad and brother to my cousins' house outside Henderson. My dad hasn't ridden it before, but estimates it to be a four-hour ride. I was not initially enlisted to make the journey, but I volunteered to because--shock, horror, and sudden death to the masses--I want to. I mean, it's not a desire coming from entirely out of no where, but I used to be the girl who loathed exercise, loathed moving an inch off the couch because that meant abandoning the TV and the sweet abandon it induced. Granted, I still suction-cup my ass to some reclining device of sorts and enjoy hours upon hours of televised goodness (or rather trash, but it just feels so good), but I also make sure to insert something physical into my day. More often than not, more than one something.
And yes, I exercise at the gym regularly, but that sort of doesn't count anyway because there are TVs there. Or I read. There's still some medium before me, demanding my attention and gladly receiving it.
Four hours bicycling on a holiday, most likely riding behind my brother, my eyes glancing downward to guard from the sun, but ending up staring at my bro's butt for a good portion of the ride. From time to time I will admire the scenery, but I can't do that too much, or I'll swerve, and that is certainly not something I want to do on the highway. Not a bit.
I am making jam tonight. First, I shall make blueberry jam. And then the strawberry jam. And then I shall be master of the jams and enjoy them both swirled in my beloved goat's milk yogurt. I hear the angels singing now, even as the berries sit defrosting on the counter. Ah, I believe they are mushy enough now for me to thoroughly mash them into paste. Pop, blueberries, pop! Squawsh, strawberries, squawsh! And away with me, away!
(P.S. I discovered while text messaging some friends earlier that if I type in "my" and wait a couple seconds, my phone is programmed to assume that the word I am most likely thinking of is "myopic." But I don't even know what that word means. Weird ass Cingular before they became whores to the AT&T pimp.)
Work was continually busy from 9:30 A.M. to noon and then suddenly died. I enjoy the occasional rush, keeps me on my toes, but it was also nice to have a chance to check e-mail and Facebook and LiveJournal and such after that. And then solitaire. And once I grew tired of that, I went outside to the front of the store and sat on the curb (it's not an actual curb, but that step up from the parking lot, so whatever one would call that cement slab thing) in the sun and read. I am currently reading a work called Bright Lights, Big Ass, a memoir by a woman who lives in Chicago with her husband. She is quite...unique, in a very funny, ditzy sort of way. But she is bright and writes well, and I like that.
Oh! And I received a prompt reply to an e-mail I sent to a guy I kinda like. It was brief, of course, but most guys are really, and so it goes. It made me smile, though, and I hope I wasn't too chatty in my reply to his reply. But I know myself well enough to know that I probably was a bit too chatty and that he will not be equally as chatty in return. Certainly that would make things too easy. Or maybe hard? I don't know. It's a freakin' e-mail and my stupid speculation, but it kind of entertains me in a sorry sort of way.
But I'm still smiling about it.
Labor Day will be spent bicycling with my dad and brother to my cousins' house outside Henderson. My dad hasn't ridden it before, but estimates it to be a four-hour ride. I was not initially enlisted to make the journey, but I volunteered to because--shock, horror, and sudden death to the masses--I want to. I mean, it's not a desire coming from entirely out of no where, but I used to be the girl who loathed exercise, loathed moving an inch off the couch because that meant abandoning the TV and the sweet abandon it induced. Granted, I still suction-cup my ass to some reclining device of sorts and enjoy hours upon hours of televised goodness (or rather trash, but it just feels so good), but I also make sure to insert something physical into my day. More often than not, more than one something.
And yes, I exercise at the gym regularly, but that sort of doesn't count anyway because there are TVs there. Or I read. There's still some medium before me, demanding my attention and gladly receiving it.
Four hours bicycling on a holiday, most likely riding behind my brother, my eyes glancing downward to guard from the sun, but ending up staring at my bro's butt for a good portion of the ride. From time to time I will admire the scenery, but I can't do that too much, or I'll swerve, and that is certainly not something I want to do on the highway. Not a bit.
I am making jam tonight. First, I shall make blueberry jam. And then the strawberry jam. And then I shall be master of the jams and enjoy them both swirled in my beloved goat's milk yogurt. I hear the angels singing now, even as the berries sit defrosting on the counter. Ah, I believe they are mushy enough now for me to thoroughly mash them into paste. Pop, blueberries, pop! Squawsh, strawberries, squawsh! And away with me, away!
(P.S. I discovered while text messaging some friends earlier that if I type in "my" and wait a couple seconds, my phone is programmed to assume that the word I am most likely thinking of is "myopic." But I don't even know what that word means. Weird ass Cingular before they became whores to the AT&T pimp.)