Tuesday, January 12, 2010
So I made it to the gym. A hotel gym no less. Am on small business trip. Promised myself would get 30 minutes in because have not been so disciplined with the nasty cold. Here is the thing: it's so difficult to run when your thighs are slapping together. Yes, I said my inner thighs are giving each other the "high five" and no one told me this would happen. I am scared that while running I could start a forrest fire. So, I did the elyptical which is much like walking when drunk, but your arms are moving in a more controlled motion. I had come to the conclusion that I hate working out when my own tiddy flew up and hit me in the eye and then bounced off my shoulder.
Now, am off to fancy work dinner. This is great in theory, except work dinner followed by work breakfast and full day of work meeting before driving home with co-workers. So, your mama is saying she can't show her ass at fancy Italian restaurant. Enough Pinot Grigio, thank you.
Best part ever: aforementioned cold brought about lovely cold sore. Looks like evil twin is hatching from my own lip to take over my face and foil my plan for world peace. Nothing says I am a skank like: cold sore. I should wear a sash: MISS INDESCRETION : I make bad decisions.
Off to put on my sequined moo-moo and bedazzled orthopedic shoes. It's show time kids.
Monday, January 11, 2010
I have my best thoughts at night, late at night. I can't tell you how many funny things I have thought but only if I could remember. Sometimes when I am in the shower I make up songs, and they are damn good, but I don't remember them between the shampoo and the toweling off.
My memory isn't as good as it quite was. I suspect it is because I am torn working at home, traveling, writing and trying to be a blogger and being a general pain in the ass. So I write myself notes to remember things.
Sometimes it is a note to remember a particular point on a contract.
Sometimes it is an item at the grocery store I neglected to get.
Sometimes it is to feed the cat, even though she does need to eat every day.
Sometimes, it is to add correct punctuation.
Sometimes it's an idea. This is the trickiest. I find now that I scribble it down and one of three things happens:
1) cannot read own handwriting (Does this happen to you or am I a slob?)
2) does not reconnect to original thought of brilliance and is lost forever in sea of intelligent no-where-ness
3) Cannot make sense of what the hell I wrote in the first place. What does this even mean? Why did I write down that? Why did I write down juxtapoz? That's my whole life.
So now I must write narrative. I am writing little letters to myself. No, don't get the wrong Idea I don't write love letters to myself. "Dear lovehandles, you're a person, too." " Dear self, you're smart and people respect your opinion" No- I write, this is for this thing and don't forget to do that with it.
One can imagine that this is great loss and waste of time, again typically late at night and it makes perfect sense that when I get up tomorrow I will remember that I had a great idea for a scene in a screen play... alas it's never as good as it was just before I went to bed. And, I can't write the song in the shower because the paper gets wet and I lost the lyrics.
So, you see, I am a one person paper recycling machine. If only my brain could be recycled for something useful I could control the world.