Mmmm’. It’s spring.
You can almost see summer, almost touch it even. It’s just right there, inches away, and you can almost brush it with your fingers if you reach out far enough.
This morning, I woke early, dressed WAY cute (Hottie Jeans, even though it’s a Thursday, sneaks, and retro 70’s athletic shirt, with a big 55 and the stripes on the sleeves, tousled hair, shiny pink lip gloss and Smart Girl glasses. I’ve gotten four compliments already and it’s not even noon. Go me!) and proceeded to jam out to one of my new Punk Girl mix CDs. You know, any day that starts with The Cure’s ‘Just Like Heaven’ and Jane’s Addiction ‘Been Caught Stealing’ just has got to be a really good day, non?
Although, I am completely disgusting with my level of physical non-fitness. In all, despite my appearance, I am surprisingly flexible and strong. I never NEVER really pull muscles. I suspect that if I were to ever engage in yoga or some other form of non-exercise exercise that I would blow everyone’s mind. In fact, during the President’s Fitness Challenge tests in high school (god, did you not absolutely HATE those?) I scored highest in my entire class for flexibility. Because I was the first person to take that particular test, my gym teacher thought I hadn’t done something right because all of the jocks and jockettes that followed were only able to get half or three quarters of my score. So after everyone had finished, he made me come up and take the test again and when I exceeded my first score (since I wasn’t performing cold), he just raised an eyebrow and said ‘Humph.’
Dante certainly missed a level of hell for gym teachers. Some of them are far more evil than tax attorneys. I’m just saying.
However, somehow, through some rather spectacular bout of morning gymnastics, I managed to pull a muscle in my leg. I’m not certain, but I suspect it was when I preformed the rather death-defying maneuver of putting on my left shoe. Yes. There is shame. Much shame. And then poetic justice when I tried to walk really quickly toward an office potluck so that I could secure a brownie sans nuts and found myself limping rather pathetically, arms outstretched to the buffet line. Sometimes I suspect that my life happens for the sole purpose of God’s entertainment.
On next week’s episode of Holier Than Thou: Heaven’s Funniest Moments, we have this hysterical clip of Our Favorite Fat Girl scratching her arm pit. Hold onto your halos! What WILL she do next?
Speaking of that, I had a strange half hour yesterday where my lips were numb. No reason. No dentist. No accidental punchings. Nothing. Just the corners of my mouth suddenly got numb. And felt like they were huge.
It went away, but not before I was talking with my boss and felt drool escaping the corners.
Prime comedy. Seriously. It’s best to leave a memorable impression for the next performance appraisal. And now for this commercial break.
Speaking of commercials, I logged onto Amazon.com this morning, in my bleary-eyed haze, as I usually browse the internet in the morning while I wake up, and the first thing that assaults me?
You set up a wishlist thinking that maybe it would be handy to send your clueless relatives to or if your husband is feeling unexplainably generous or, in my case, to keep track of the stuff you want to buy, and what does Amazon do? Use it against you. You know, at first, it’s like this honeymoon period. Everything’s wonderful, they put out with the free shipping on a regular basis. They convince you to write a review by admiring those people who write reviews on everything, including their morning bowl of cereal. But then one day, they catch you moseying over to BN.Com because they have Naked for only $3.99, and then right away, the silent treatment. You ask them what’s wrong and they say ‘As if you didn’t know’. And then the tearful accusations and they’re throwing your hopes and dreams in your face, using the soulful puppydog eyes of Rhett Miller as their pawn. That hurts, Amazon.com. That really does.
It’s official.
If you want to hang out with the Weet, come to the Web Writer’s Weekend in Austin this October. Or, as we old schoolers call it, JournalCon. Not because it’s a better name, but rather because we’re old and forgetful and opposed to change. Actually, I like the name Web Writer’s Weekend quite a bit because it makes what I’m doing here sound more important. Instead of just saying ‘Oh, I have a little page where I talk about boobs and farts’, I can say ‘I’m a freelance web writer.’ It’s all about the PR. I mean, that’s the only difference between sharks and killer whales, you know. PR. The killer whales hired an up-and-coming PR firm where everyone dresses in black and wears sunglasses and walks around with tiny little earphones that they will suddenly comment into at random moments, whereas sharks hired a 78-year-old man named Walter who has one phone line and a manual typewriter and makes all of his copies on a mimeograph machine. If he can find the ink for it… it was around here somewhere. PR. Never underestimate the importance of PR. Just think if it had been reversed? Instead of Free Willy, it would be the tender story of an orphaned boy who battles corporate greed to release a great white from becoming cat food. And we would have been spared sequels because all of the characters would have passed away from loss of blood. I’m certain that Free Bitey would have been a smash, baby, a smash!
Anyway, I expect to see some of you in Austin this October. It’s a cheap vacation. Really. They’ve scored some incredible prices for the hotel rooms and the price of registration is just $55 right now (but it will be going up the longer you wait). And I cannot even begin to tell you how cool it is to hang around with a bunch of like-minded people all weekend, people who you feel like you know, even though you’ve never met them. And there are Diary Rock Stars all over the place. And let me tell you, I had better be seeing you and you and you there too. And my arch nemesis. None of you have any excuses. None. Now go sign up.
(PS. I’d also like you and and you to come so that we can hang out and giggle and drink vodka in one of our rooms and sing Madonna songs into our hairbrushes and then the next morning, look all tired and have undereye circles and demand that no one take pictures of us because ‘Y’all would just not believe it if we told you. Now where’s the coffee’. Because that would just be cool.)
What are you still doing here? Go sign up already!
