I have become that girl. The one who is obsessed with her weight and food and exercise and calories. The one who used to be interesting and funny and talked about sex a little too much but is now boring and looks at your cheeseburger as if she's counting how many calories it is and how many grams of saturated fat it contains and is thinking of how much she'd like to eat it RIGHT NOW.
I am so, so sorry. For my friends, for anyone who reads this blog, for anyone who works near me or sits near me in a restaurant. So, so sorry. Because now I just babble about what I'm eating or my latest grocery delivery or how many calories lawn mowing and weeding burn and how I'm healthy but won't be in a few years and how I really need to be careful about saturated fats and sodium and OH MY GOD SHUT ME UP!!!!!!
I want to talk about books and things I've done recently and travel and stuff like that. I haven't read a whole magazine in months and haven't touched From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler in days. I'm too obsessed with planning menus and weeding and planning walking schedules. But, it's not like it's a hard book that takes weeks to finish or sucks up huge amounts of time. I actually love it and have read it a million times. Whenever I read it I start talking about how cool it would be to live in the Met and what I would do. And then I start wondering if there are other museums I'd like living in more and ponder if they'd really have sheets on a bed in a museum. Though when I do that, it takes very little time before people call me a dork and run away. So maybe it's better that I talk about calories than that? I don't know. I just worry about me.
I just met up with Charlotte for coffee and chatting. Haven't seen her in ages and she's going to be working in my 'hood now. And the first thing I started talking about when she asked how I was... Yup, you guessed it. My doctor's visit and my weight and how I've lost 11 pounds and am eating healthier and walking more and sitting on my ass less and OH MY GOD SHUT ME UP!!!!! Though, after I got that out of my system and she nodded politely and said the right things we moved on to other topics like work and gossip and sex and wedding stuff and fall plans. So that's something. Still, I worry about me. Becoming so damn boring.
Don't even THINK about writing to tell me I was boring before.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Crazy lady (with cats!)
I was pondering last night, with Muffy & Steph, what my upstairs neighbor must think of me.
I sing in the shower. Loudly. Usually 50's pop tunes. "CUUUUUUUUU-pid, draw back your bo-ow, and let, your arrow flo-ow, straight to, my lover's heart, fo-orr meeeeeeeeeee."
Whenever I walk by the fly paper with the flies all stuck to it I yell "Die, motherfucker," because I really hate the flies. And I love me some Janice Dickinson. Last night, while doing my fave fun time activity of scooping the catbox, I discovered these flies had been trying to lay eggs in my kitties's poo. Well, some choice words yelled at the fly paper. Worse than "die, motherfucker". Yelled at flypaper. Full of fly carcasses. While holding a pooper scooper and a plastic grocery bag (double-bagged, of course) of poo. Picture it.
The stuff I yell at the cats when they fight each other, scratch the screen, scratch me, pee outside the box or throw up on my Playboys? It's not pretty and rarely makes sense. Growling "think inside the box, bitch" probably sounds a little off. Though if she could just see Nani standing in her litter box, happily peeing off the side and onto the floor she would totally understand. Cooing, "Did you kill something, baby? Good job, you kill that toy, Peanut," at 3 in the morning when DKE has woken me up to announce that she's killed her catnip mouse toy for the three millionth time has to sound kinda weird too yeah? Hopefully the upstairs neighbor sleeps through that.
But I KNOW she's seen me out in the back with the weeds when I see a bug, and then squeal like a four year old girl and do the bug dance with flailing arms and head shaking for about a minute. She's gotta think that's odd. Oh, shit. What if Hot Cop next door has seen me do that? Ooooh, so not good. But then again he's probably also seen me take out the trash in my house dress.
Ah, another thing. Yesterday, rather than taking 30 seconds to throw on shorts and a t-shirt to take out the trash, I just threw a short sleeved hoodie over my sarong (wrapped around me like a towel) and went out in my koala slippers.
I am so totally the crazy lady in the 'hood with the two cats and the slippers and the housedress (nightshirt, same thing) and the garden. Never getting married. Living to 102 and spending the last 50 years of that alone and inside while the neighborhood children make up scary stories about me. And when I die, my cats will eat me.
I sing in the shower. Loudly. Usually 50's pop tunes. "CUUUUUUUUU-pid, draw back your bo-ow, and let, your arrow flo-ow, straight to, my lover's heart, fo-orr meeeeeeeeeee."
Whenever I walk by the fly paper with the flies all stuck to it I yell "Die, motherfucker," because I really hate the flies. And I love me some Janice Dickinson. Last night, while doing my fave fun time activity of scooping the catbox, I discovered these flies had been trying to lay eggs in my kitties's poo. Well, some choice words yelled at the fly paper. Worse than "die, motherfucker". Yelled at flypaper. Full of fly carcasses. While holding a pooper scooper and a plastic grocery bag (double-bagged, of course) of poo. Picture it.
The stuff I yell at the cats when they fight each other, scratch the screen, scratch me, pee outside the box or throw up on my Playboys? It's not pretty and rarely makes sense. Growling "think inside the box, bitch" probably sounds a little off. Though if she could just see Nani standing in her litter box, happily peeing off the side and onto the floor she would totally understand. Cooing, "Did you kill something, baby? Good job, you kill that toy, Peanut," at 3 in the morning when DKE has woken me up to announce that she's killed her catnip mouse toy for the three millionth time has to sound kinda weird too yeah? Hopefully the upstairs neighbor sleeps through that.
But I KNOW she's seen me out in the back with the weeds when I see a bug, and then squeal like a four year old girl and do the bug dance with flailing arms and head shaking for about a minute. She's gotta think that's odd. Oh, shit. What if Hot Cop next door has seen me do that? Ooooh, so not good. But then again he's probably also seen me take out the trash in my house dress.
Ah, another thing. Yesterday, rather than taking 30 seconds to throw on shorts and a t-shirt to take out the trash, I just threw a short sleeved hoodie over my sarong (wrapped around me like a towel) and went out in my koala slippers.
I am so totally the crazy lady in the 'hood with the two cats and the slippers and the housedress (nightshirt, same thing) and the garden. Never getting married. Living to 102 and spending the last 50 years of that alone and inside while the neighborhood children make up scary stories about me. And when I die, my cats will eat me.
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