It's my leftovers and I'll get fat if I want to
Recent developments this week:
For breakfast and lunch on Friday, I had leftover dressing, cranberry relish, and green bean casserole.
I saw my sister's mother-in-law and my sister's sister-in-law. Isn't it weird that the latter is my sister-in-law, but the former can never be my mother-in-law? It makes me feel like Ludwig Wittgenstein obsessing over the sentence "Green is green" because the first word is a noun and the second is an adjective.
Trust me, Virgos and copyeditors like this kind of shit. And when you're both, well...let's just say, you'll never be any good at cocktail parties.
Todd did sound on two short films, one until 3 o'clock Wednesday. The fact that we had a fight that morning had nothing to do with his lack of sleep or my period coming on.
It's getting so fucking sneaky these days! After I had my tubes tied, I could tell it was coming because I started fantasizing about movie stars two days beforehand and inevitably felt that my life was a piece of crap. Now either I fantasize about movie stars and hate my life all the time, or my hormones are descending slowly toward menopause.
No! Say it isn't so! I love my period.
I made chocolate mousse tonight, and even though I used 85% dark chocolate and halved the amount of whipped cream that went into it, it still wasn't chocolaty enough. Maybe I need to use milk chocolate. Maybe I need to double the amount of chocolate. Maybe I should try sour cream instead of whipped cream. I just don't know.
Why doesn't restaurant chocolate mousse always taste better than the ones you make yourself? What is their secret?
Rufus wants you to know
that he'll bite you on the butt if you eat his food the way the stray orange tabby does. Rufus doesn't bite me, of course, even though I cheat on him with other cats.
Been going to the Denver Film Festival this week. Am writing this way because going to see Annie Proulx on Saturday. Shipping News, anyone?
Best movie: To the Other Side, three stories about the children of migrant worker fathers. A lovely fairy tale. See it if you can.
Worst movie so far: Buried Forest, part of the Salute to Japanese film. Perhaps wanted to salute this movie as the slowest movie EVER.
Most annoying rejection this year: the one just received from Other Voices in which the reader sensed a sexual attraction between Natalie and her newly dead uncle. Necrophilia, anyone? What an idiot. Must have taken 5 minutes to skim every other page. Is some sex in the story, mind you, but only between Natalie and her boyfriend. Ken doll mentioned twice in story does NOT participate in any sex acts.
Best thing that happened this week: I went to EcoCycle's volunteer love event (naked people recycling together, woohoo!) and won an organic cotton bathrobe. (To put on after the volunteer love. Came with pack of Camel lights in the pocket.) I believe it's the first raffle I've ever won.
My therapist has a low sperm count
Sex left a comment on my last post about our similar shoulder afflictions. It reminded me of one of the physical therapists I went to about it.
One of the things I had done to me to solve my pain-down-the shoulder-blade-and-all-down-the-right-arm was neck stretches. So here I was on my back, my head in the hands of this big blond guy, and he's moving my head back and forth and telling me about him and his wife's attempts to conceive.
"The doctor told me I have a lot of the little guys," he said, "but they're not very fast."
Now, usually, when people say weird things to me, I can't think of a reply for 5 hours. It's why I never became a lawyer like my father. I'd have to call a recess before I'd be able to respond to a smartass remark from the other side.
But not this time. Oh no: the thoughts were coming thick and fast, and "Thanks for sharing" delivered in the ultimate sarcastic tone was the least of them.
So big blond fella pushes my head over to the right. Gently, of course. He's trying to stretch my brachial plexus (a complex of nerves and muscles in the neck), not break my neck.
For once in my life, I held my tongue when I should.
There was another therapist who once said to me, as he was stretching my arm into a completely unnatural position, "Tell me if I go too far."
It's like going on a date in the 1970s, except that boys then generally didn't tell me to stop them if they went too far. They WANTED to go too far.
Oh, and what the therapist was doing FELT GOOD. And I knew it was good for me too. But I was still glad when I didn't have to see him anymore. He looked like the man who'd just broken my heart. So badly that when I went on my first date with the man I married, I hugged the car door the entire night. I was afraid he might want to kiss me or some such shit.
But I guess I must have missed all the excitement, because in 2004 I started a course of rolfing. In rolfing you wear a bra/bikini top and shorts and walk around in front of the rolfer so he can see if you're "balanced." I know, I know, it's a cheap way to get a man to look at me.
And I was paying for it, no less.
