Not much to say or report as a good deal of this weekend is filed under "Blackmail" and cross-referenced under "What Happens in LIC Stays in LIC," but this at least made me laugh this morning.
In unrelated news, the sun streaming in through my office window feels so good on my arms.
I haven't had much time for blogging, as my mom just left this morning after a very nice week's visit. I ran her [delightfully] ragged -- from saucy new haircuts, to lunch at Gramercy Tavern, an evening at the Philharmonic, Sunday brunch in the LIC, a visit to the Frick, several seasons of Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Abigail's Party at the Acorn Theater -- and she seemed quite pleased. Now I'm settling back into a quiet apartment, a little Dickens, and lots to watch from my Netflix queue. Inhale. Exhale.
Wish you were here.
OK, that 50 Cent song "Just a Lil Bit" is *kinda* hot.
One of the best perks of being married to Harry is getting to live with my best friend. While he's away for an extended period (in ALASKA, for example), of course I miss him and feel slightly as if I've lost my equilibrium. However, in the spirit of making the best of my temporary bachelorette status, I've come up with a short list of things that are pleasant about being alone (of course, these don't hold a candle to naked partner hijinks, movie marathons, or long walks to exotic Queens locales, but I'm striving to look on the bright side here). So, without further ado, I offer you the list of:
Things That Are OK about Being Harryless for a Couple of Weeks
1. More pillows.
2. Uncontested dominion over the remote control.
3. Bellydance Fest of 2006, performer: 1, audience: 0.
4. Gym attendance in the winter a.m. somewhat facilitated by absence of snuggly, warm male (presence of snuggly, warm, snoring kitty still significant obstacle).
5. Decrease in dirty clothes pile-up.
6. Apartment flatulence reduction of at least 75%.
7. Complete control of Netflix queue.
8. Increased hot water for leisurely shower.
9. Leftover spaghetti for lunch.
10. Notable absence of protest to Smiths/Morrissey playlists.
Has saying, "Hey, Mommy" to passing women on the street actually gotten anyone laid?
So creepy. I'm not your mother, and if I were, I *really* wouldn't want to sleep with you.
I can't believe I forgot to post about Harry's and my joint New Year's Resolution: to find a way to make this man famous:
Anthony may just be the funniest person I know, because he -- as our friend Matt said -- has somehow managed to make his whole physical presence funny. At our Thanksgiving party, he walked into the room once and everyone just spontaneously started laughing. The boy knows how to make an entrance.
He speaks in a booming baritone (perfect for voiceover work!), casually sports the refined good looks of Daniel Day-Lewis, and boasts a singing voice that rivals even that of Brad Roberts. Casting directors, contact me. Anthony doesn't disappoint.
I have said it before, and I will no doubt say it again: I am a very bad blogger. I don't take the time to come up with witticisms anymore for an audience of two (sorry, Dan!), and I don't have a niche like music or film around which I can neatly organize a daily post. Most of all, I just despise writing about myself.
I used to love to keep a diary. I have a Rubbermaid box full of journals I kept from the age of 8 (The awesomeness of Michael Jackson! The cuteness of myriad teenage boys named Chad/Brad! The high drama of sisterly spats!) until I graduated from college. Somewhere along the line, though, my entries became less frequent and sparser because I never could escape the sense of their having an audience beyond just me.
So fast forward to now, when I have this vechicle to post journal entries where everyone can see them, and I don't like that either. You just can't please some people. Anyway, all of this is leading up to the fact that I just feel like posting something personal today, so judge if you must.
This has been a strange but really great couple of years for me. Aside from tiny comments here or there, I have never really wanted to talk about my weight loss on my blog. This is notable and possibly pathological because it's been the most completely transformative experience of my life. I am feeling better inside and out than I have, well, ever. Honestly, though, the biggest benefit has been learning that I have this enormous store of inner strength that I can harness to do something I set my mind to. Who knew?
I realize that I'm never going to be a beauty. Sometimes I regret that I'll never be able to relive my youth as this more confident, and let's face it, people -- much sexier -- person that I am now. (Oh, the adventures I could have had!) I am still insecure and worry too much about what other people are thinking and feeling. On top of all that, imagine my horror that even after losing over 100 pounds, I still cannot do math in my head!
But wow, I am one strong-ass motherfucker.
I never really talk about my job on here except in very broad terms (with very good reason: it would be mind-numbingly dull to most people), but this article in the Times comes as close to describing the major problem with health care in the U.S. as any I've seen recently.
Key quote: "It's almost as though the system enocourages people to get sick and then people get paid to treat them."
I'm preparing myself with this for H.J.'s likely trip to Alaska.
Turn up your speakers and get ready for my Aunt Mildred to change the game of hip-hop forever.
I just woke up with the weirdest song running through my head over and over:
"I am the phony guitar rabbit
with the phony guitar rabbit blu-uuuues."
It has a tune and everything, and "guitar" is pronounced "gee-tar."
What does this mean?!
...until our anniversary trip to Italy.
Every year at this time, I find myself dreaming of escape and fighting off a brief but major depression. This year is no exception.
If 2006 is half as good as 2005 was, though, it'll be a good year.
Happy New Year.
