tobermory's Diaryland Diary


Drrrty car

I had my car washed yesterday and I opted for the extra $4 to have the men vacuum and clean the inside because when you eat dry cereal on the go almost every morning eventually there will be enough fallout to make up a whole new baggie and I think I was awfully close to that point. Also, since I bring the dog to work every week or so, and since she is a rude little brachiocephalic (fancy word for smooshed-in nose) dog she has deposited much snortage around the passenger seat and in the bright winter-ish sunlight the interior of the car was beginning to look a little gross. Ok, very gross. But the men – they worked miracles and yes, I did tip them handsomely.

My co-worker listens to some radio station that has taken to playing 1,2,3,4 by Feist hourly and it is ruining the song for me just like it ruined Young Folks by Peter, Bjorn and John. Fie on office radios.

I think I mentioned awhile back that I switched to some sort of three-month cycle birth control pills because I am all about staving off the Princess Time as much as I possibly can. In fact, I tried to get my doc to prescribe the new pill that called NeverAgain or
F-YouTampax or something like that wherin you NEVER get your period but she was all, “mmmm how long has it been approved by the FDA?” and she was not buoyed by confidence when I answered that it had been approved for something like 15 minutes. But she did cough up a script for the generic form of, Seasonale?, I think that’s it – catchy because you only have to deal with your girly bits once a season. Of course if you live in Chicago that’s not really true because we have only MotherF-ingBitterColdWinter and 100-100 summers (that would be 100% humidity and 100+ deg. temperatures – yes I know 100% humidity means rain – give me some dramatic license here). Anyway I spent the first 2 ½ month feeling all smug because I hadn’t had any problems (don’t read if girly stuff grosses you out) like spotting. I did have concerns that maybe my body was just stockpiling all the uterine goo and waiting for one giant expulsion – like I was miscarrying Satan’s baby or something – but Tam! swears that’s not how it works. Which I kinda knew, but after years and years of the monthly visit who can blame me for thinking that it was all just building up in there? Anyway, I started to have some very minor spotting and I feel a wee bit crampy – very wee. Truly, I shouldn’t even be complaining but, I didn’t have anything else to write about so there you go.

Dinner last night: Ready for this list? I had a slice of bread with butter, some fried calamari (not a lot because it kind of grosses me out), and about 20 cold blue crab fingers (these are the tiny crab thumbs with a blob of claw meat still attached) with cocktail sauce. As an entrée I had a broiled grouper filet and undercooked broccoli. The grouper tasted like absolutely nothing because I guess that’s what you get when you take a flakey white fish and broil it without any seasoning. I had a glass of sauvignon blanc wine and for dessert the four of us split a slice of pecan pie with vanilla ice cream and whipped cream blobs – I had about 3 bites.
Breakfast: fruit/yogurt smoothie, frosted flakes
Lunch: sliced tomato, apple, WW Smart Ones three-cheese ziti marinara, one Reece’s pb cup.
Dinner: Not sure yet – I’m eating at Aria with my animal shelter cohorts. I am pretty sure that this is going to cost an arm and a leg and I’ll imbibe a gallon of adult beverages that will necessitate a costly cab ride home at the close of the evening. Of course, the restaurant is in a hotel so I could always book a room and pass out there – except for the fact that I don’t have an emergency pack that contains: toothbrush/paste, change of underwear (no, turning the pair I have on currently inside-out would not constitute a ‘change’), and some basic make-up so I wouldn’t look like a hag when I checked out.
Exercise: Boot Camp – ran ramps and stairs in the parking garage, and then came inside for ab work. Today I signed up for Intensive Boot Camp which runs in December for three weeks and you go to class FIVE TIMES A WEEK. I must be crazy because it only occurred to me AFTER I had shelled out the $150 that sometimes (OK, often) on the off days I wind up walking around like I’ve been crippled. So, I guess after three weeks with no recovery days I should be in a wheelchair. Good times.

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3:31 p.m. - 2007-11-02


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