It occurred to me this morning as I drove to work and decided that the driver of an obstinate SUV was an idiot and then did a habitual check of their bumper to see if they had a sticker indicating their voting preference, that a lot of what I say on this page can be pretty inflammatory against Republicans. In fact, some of what I’ve written can be downright insulting and that I tend to over-generalize when taken out of context, and when I mentioned this to Jake, he replied ‘The stuff you write doesn’t require context.’ Um, ok.
Sometimes, I’m truly appalled by what comes out of my mouth (and apparently, fingertips). I certainly don’t think all Republicans are stupid or bad drivers, but rather that when I see a bad driver sporting a Vote for Bush sticker, it seems to confirm my assumptions about them. Which is sort of like saying ‘Some of my best friends are black.’
This wasn’t prompted by anything, just that I’m embarrassed for being an ass, at least in my own head. I really do respect the political views of others, especially when they are well formed and fully thought out (something I suspect most aren’t) and don’t dislike people because they choose to vote Republican and in fact, socialize with some hard-core Conservatives.
And there are also idiotic Volvo drivers sporting Kerry in 04 stickers too. But I would be lying if I didn’t also mention that they break my heart.
I’ve been doing a lot of shopping recently. I have ordered jeans (all of my jeans got together and declared a suicide pact last week. If two pair hadn’t backed out at the last minute, I would be wearing skirts every day, like some SUV-Driving Bush-voter) and shoes off the internet, purchased book shelves and lamps and a custom lighting fixture and an entire little universe for my office, and bought a ton of post-holiday clearance stuff. (Note to self: do not buy holiday cards until 2010. You are totally covered.)
I got completely exasperated by my shoe mound at the bottom of my pitifully small half of our matchbox of a closet, so I bought two shoe organizers. The first was for the shoes in my regular rotation, so I can now fit an amazing fourteen pairs of shoes in an orderly fashion at the bottom of my closet (nine pairs on the shoe rack, the tall boots and the very flat shoes off to the side, and then my regularly worn (orange Pumas, ox blood Docs, pink and black All Stars) lined up on an angle in front of the rack.) This method also assumes that my black Docs and my new Operation Hottie shoes will pretty much always live on the rug in the kitchen, where I kick them off. And then another fifteen pair are hidden in a hanging organizer in the cleaning closet outside of my bedroom door. I’m thinking of annexing this closet completely, but just don’t have the time right now to figure out where to put the rarely used mops and vacuum cleaner (thanks to the cleaning service, who brings their own stuff, or apparently come equipped with magic wands) and concoct a story to explain to Esteban why there are now purses where the light bulbs used to be. The man already believes that I have a shopping problem. Of course, it’s only a problem if you don’t have space for the stuff you buy. More closets, no problem.
As mentioned above, yes, I am half-heartedly engaging in Operation Hottie-type movements. Or perhaps interpreting them through dance and scarves. Athletic scarves. So far, my leanings have involved black bean burritos for dinner, using organic beans and stashing away my unwrapped gift box of Esteban’s cousin Debbie’s Christmas Cookies into the back of the pantry where hopefully I will forget them until they have crumbled and look too grody to eat. And yes, it is a bit 1981 in here, thanks for noticing.
I refuse to give up the morning mocha that is undoubtedly applying untold millions of fat cells directly to my ass, so instead of eating food, I’m opting for cans of vaguely foodlike slurry that the evil diet industry has labeled a ‘shake’. This isn’t because I don’t believe one can lose weight on actual food that involves chewing, but rather because I am goddamned lazy and just want to open my yawp and be fed like a baby bird (sans the regurgitation please). It would be better with, say, fruit and Special K, but at the moment, the planning for that is requiring too much effort, so yeah, shake it is. I needn’t even mention that shakes are frothy cold delicious things made with ice cream and fresh strawberries and all the fat in the world and that I have known shakes before and you sir, are no shake. But that joke is as old as New Year’s revolutions.
Which this is not, by the way. I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions. I think they are stupid, because if there is something you want to change about yourself, you should just start at the moment you realize it has to happen, and not wait for the clock to strike twelve or your resolve will turn into a pumpkin. In this case, I steeled my determination right after we all got sick from mysterious circumstances and I divested myself of several pounds in the most efficient way possible, mostly because I felt very nervous eating anything for several days. Too bad they don’t put a non-cramping version of e.coli in one of those shakes, because damn.
Right now, I’m torn between buying a treadmill and joining a gym. I hate to be lumped in with the Resolvers and also sort of hate sweating in front of other people but there are oh so many choices of things to play with at gyms and I sort of love lifting weights and seeing muscles emerge from where there were none. However a treadmill would give me absolutely no excuse to avoid exercising and then I could do it in the mornings when I’m half-awake and unable to formulate any good excuses.
I am poised to make a decision, however. At least until I get a cramp from standing in this position too long, and then get bored and go check my e-mail.
